#when you have a horrible day and you just color some old line art you did

[dapper-nahrwhale]

Home is the first grave

(a leverage/the librarians crossover where Eliot and Jake are twins)

Chapter 2

[read it here]

When their Mama managed to herd them all in the old car to Sunday church services, the two of them would hide in the back pews together. And only then would Jake light up and talk Eliot’s ear off about whatever century stain glass or old creepy statues or fancy architecture or something else.

Hiding down in those church pews, it was like magic was real and nothing could hurt them.

The morning light glistened through the stained glass, a kaleidoscope of colors bursting on the brick white walls, all telling stories fragile as glass and paper ever could. The columns and pillars are taller than giants towering over them, the high and hallowed architecture singing loud and silent. Statues older than God line the halls, all praying for some kind of saving.

There were stories to be told behind everything.

But any time someone looked at Jake or passed by them, he'd bite his tongue, get all quiet, and look down at his dirty shoes. It was shame or guilt, something ugly and terrible that ate him up from the outside in. The bright smile and life in his eyes shriveled up and died.

It really was one of the most horrible things Eliot ever saw.

He'd never hated their father more in those moments.

Eliot would glare daggers at anyone who did look at Jake, but the damage was done. It was too late already. They'd got him thinking he couldn't, shouldn't, be smart and enjoy his little art things.

Sure, Eliot didn't get the appeal, but he could see clear as day how happy it made Jake. He just wishes Jake could see it.

But the worst thing is, he got it. Why he hid his talents. Why he didn't tell anybody just how smart he was, why he did all this. He understood, it's a small town and you gotta play your part in your own little boxes, if you stepped out of line bad things could come your way if you weren't careful.

Small towns could be your home or your grave, but it had to be something you carry with you. It just depends how close to the chest you play your cards. Community or cruelty. The rumors fly fast and hit hard, and you don't wanna get kicked out of the only place you've known. It's hard to love something so dearly, something that will kick you to the curb the second you don't stick to how it should be. It's hard to leave and it's harder to stay.

Jake saw value and beauty just about everywhere in the world. Eliot just wished he could see it all in himself.

Eliot knew all he was good for was taking a punch, but Jake was so much smarter than all that. He knew all this stuff about art movements, and about different architecture styles, and could recite poetry on the spot. He'd read books about different languages, research history about all sorts of things Eliot didn't have a clue about. It was so impressive and incredible and Jake didn't really think so.

He'd taught himself all kinds of stuff in secret, skipping out on football practice to stay in at the library. Reading all these old books. He could be something so much bigger than this little town if he'd just let himself.

If he'd just let himself take the more advanced classes, he could do some really impressive stuff and get a scholarship into some fancy college and get out of this two pony town.

Eliot knew he didn't have a chance in hell to get out of this town on his own. He knew that.

But Jake wasn't him, he was better than him. He could do what Eliot couldn't. He had a real shot at leaving. And the fact he refused to even think about it, pissed Eliot off more than anything else.

He said he had an obligation to his family, he couldn't just leave them.

An obligation to their dad. He couldn't just leave.

The company's been better. Eliot had heard Pop yelling on the landline downstairs about something or other going wrong. Pop ain't in charge of it yet, but with the way Grandpa's health has been going, it won't be too long now before he is in charge.

And that could only ever spell disaster.

-

He'd always blamed Jake when something went wrong. Never himself.

Said Jake was too weak and cowardly, that Eliot wouldn't always be around to cover for his screw ups. All he was good for was brick dumb muscle.

All he ever did was hide behind Eliot.

It was true, but only because Eliot refused to let them be seen.

Eliot would protect them as much as he physically could, but he couldn't protect them in the other ways.

Jake never took to fighting the way Eliot did. As a release, as a refuge, as a requirement. He was far from bad at it, but he lacked the sort of drive and insight that Eliot had. He didn't want to fight. He didn't need to.

He did it to survive, but he didn't enjoy it. Not to say Eliot did, but he always took pride in a job well done.

Boxing and football and wrestling were some of the sports they'd had their hands in. They were good at them, not great, but good. Jake had always been better at team sports and Eliot had shined solo. How it's always been.

But no matter what they did, it was never good enough for him.

It would never make up for the fact they were disappointments deciding to be different than he wanted them to be.

It was hard not to taste his resentment of them. Especially Jake. As much as he tried, he hadn't yet gotten thick enough skin to ignore all the slights and digs at him.

He'd ignore Hannah, blame Jake for every little thing, and push for Eliot to be just like him.

Living there was suffocating. It would kill them in the end, he knew it would.

-

Jake can smell his mom's chili recipe. The mix of sweet and spicy chili peppers, fresh tomatoes, an absolute insane amount of garlic, and simmering beef.

He hadn't had her chili in years. He can't even remember the last time he'd had it. The memory the smell conjures, chokes him all up.

He misses her more than he ever had. It's a cutting feeling, the yearning for days long past. When life was simple and love was easy. When the worst pain he'd felt was a scraped knee, when summer stretched on forever.

Then he remembered. It's summer. They're staying over at their grandparents house. It's morning. And he can smell his mom's chili.

He stumbles sleepily down the stairs to the kitchen.

The sun is melting down the curtains, the world glows in celebration, in mourning.

It's mourning.

The chatter and clunks from the kitchen as his Grandma and Hannah are crowded around the stove. Hannah's tall enough now that she doesn't need the dusty stool in the corner to see over the counter. And when did that happen, he looked away for a second and she grew up tall. He wonders what else happened to her when he wasn't looking.

The chili has to simmer and cook all day before it's ready. Really it should take a couple days to get the flavors just right, but he can't stand smelling it for that long he thinks.

It smells like longing.

It smells like home.

It's the morning of their Grandpa's funeral.

They don't talk about Eliot’s black eye or how Hannah won't meet their eyes or Jake staring blank at his book under the table.

They never do say things in such words. It's just not what they do, not who they are to bring such things up into the light. Those are reserved for quiet conversations in the dead of night.

They all know what's going on, they know they can't stop it, they know it's bad. They deal by not dealing with it. By pretending it isn't happening. By pretending everything is fine. They're very good at it now, they've had lots of practice over the years.

It festers like an old wound, unchecked and infected.

It always does.

-

It's really a beautiful ceremony. In the church they all grew up in, the one they hadn't been in since their mom died. It hasn't changed much at all. Same fire and brimstone pastor, same tittering old ladies gossiping, same everything.

Well, there's been a few changes in statues and other little things. But the bones of the building always stay the same. It was built like this, all the same.

He doesn't show up. They had been staying with their grandparents since they found the diagnosis earlier in the year. Only so much time was left. And he never showed up at all during it.

It was a strange adjustment. Took some getting used to, but now Eliot dreads going back to live with him.

It was nice to not have to fight so much all the time. To rest, to cook, to laugh.

He's going to miss it like a limb cut off.

It makes him feel like a piece of shit, that he is more torn up about what the aftermath of Pappy's death will be than him actually dying. Anyone seeing him cry would assume such, they wouldn't think he's grieving the wrong thing.

But they won't see him cry. He stands stoic and jaw clenched tight enough to crack, he can't afford to break. Not right now. He's holding Hannah as she's holding back tears and holding Jake's hand as he's holding the pew in front of them and staring at the ceiling.

The potluck afterwards is mostly somber, with a touch of revelry. There's food of all kinds, including the chili from this morning. They eat and tell stories and laugh and cry.

They decide to spend the final night there with their grandma. She had wanted them to come back to help sort through his things in the following week, but said she needed the house to herself for a bit. She sends them off with bread, and vegetables, and tupperwares of chili and soup and everything else.

The other two are fast asleep in the car as Eliot drives them back. It's a 45 minute drive, but he takes it slower than normal, appreciating the cool breeze of the night. The quiet and the winding road back home.

Eliot sees what he had been hoping to avoid. Their father, drunk as a skunk on the front porch. Waiting impatiently.

His cheeks are sunken and his eyes are hollow. And Eliot feels guilty deep down. He shouldn't have left. Look what happened. What he did.

It was his grandad, but it was his dad's dad first.

He shouldn't have left him alone.

“It's your fault you know.” Pop spits out at him as he comes up the porch.

“I know. Come on, go and get some sleep, Pop.” Eliot steps forward to try and get him inside. It's late and he's tired and stuffed too full of feelings and he doesn't want to do this right now.

“Don't tell me what to do, boy.” He shakily points the barrel of the shotgun next to him in Eliot's general direction.

Eliot stops moving. Staring down the gun, his heart thumps fast in his ears.

Eliot gulps down his fear because he wouldn't, “Pop, just. Just come on, let's go inside an-”

He can barely hear the click as he arms it.

Eliot choked on his heart leaping through his throat. He can't move.

“Whater you gonna do about it now?” He laughs. He pointed a loaded gun at him and laughed.

And Eliot is frozen. In fear and terror and confusion and everything.

“You should see the look on your face! You really think I'd waste a bullet on you? Ha.” But the gun is still there.

Well, he hadn't been sure if he'd really shoot or not. He had been praying on not, but he just couldn't be sure.

He had always been an angry drunk man. Eliot wasn't sure how far Pop would go if pushed. He wasn't sure how far he would go if pushed.

And the gun is still there.

Eliot can't move. His father is holding a gun up to his head and he can't do a single damn thing about it.

He doesn't know if he'd really pull the trigger. He might.

He might not.

But he might.

“Quit it Pop.” Eliot whispers, terrified to say anything louder. He can feel tears prickle and jump at his eyes. He can't cry now. He really can't.

“You don' tell me what to do.” He sneers.

“Okay, okay.” He placates, hands turned up, eyes down. He shoved his anger at this deep down. He can't be angry right now.

“From now on, it's gonna be different around here.” He says, like a smug sheriff.

“Okay.” It's getting hard to breathe. It's getting hard to move, to keep still, to live.

“You're gonna give me the respect I deserve, I'm the one that puts a roof over your heads, feeds you, clothes ya keeps you off the damn streets.” He brandishes the gun a bit more wildly at that.

“Okay.” It's all he can say with all his focus on the gun swaying in front of him, appeasing the angry drunk man has never been so difficult.

“Okay, okay, is that all you can say? You're so stupid, you can't come up with anything more clever in that dumb brick of yours, Jakey.” He taunts, stumbling around.

“M’ Eliot, not Jake.” He'd take a gun in the face any day over slander of his brother's name.

“Same fuckin’ difference. Pair of idiots the both of ya. Good for nothin’s.” And finally the gun goes down enough for him to take a swig from a bottle.

Then he goes down, the gun clatters to the floor and the bottle thuds.

Thank God.

Eliot clumsily fumbles with the shotgun in the dim light to disarm it without blowing his head off, eventually getting it.

He takes the bottle and throws it as far as he can in the distance.

Staring down at him, he feels his anger dissipate. He looks so small.

He still fucking held him at gunpoint.

His dad just died.

But he still just held him at gunpoint.

He sighs, and does what he always knew he was going to do.

He picks him up and drags him to bed.

He throws him in the cover and slams the door.

Gathering Hannah and Jake is easier by a long shot. Just shaking them awake in the car and gently telling them to get to bed, and off they go back to sleep.

Later on he's collapsed on his bed and covers his mouth tightly so he doesn't scream.

If it had been Jake or Hannah in front of that gun, he wouldn't even have hesitated to get in front of them and diffused the situation as quickly as possible. But since it was himself, he hesitated.

He hesitated.

He could have died. His dad could have just killed him if he'd said the wrong thing. He almost got himself killed. He's very lucky to be alive right now.

He doesn't know how much longer his luck will hold out for.

It can't be forever.

[brynnamonroll]

I am bothering you with questions and statements.

Do you also sketch what you paint?

How often do you paint?

Are there any pieces you've done lately (or in the past) that you're super proud of?

Is it just a hobby, or do you want to make it more than that? (Nothing wrong with either, just curious)

I swear, I'm not actually the Leanansidhe, and I'm not angling to trade your life forces for inspiration.

Any other artistic impetus besides the need to breathe life into pigment?

Oh! Many questions! Yay!

1. These days I do most of my painting in sketchbooks full of watercolor paper. I sketch in colored pencil (sometimes wax-based where you can see the lines through the paint like Marcille, sometimes watercolor pencil where the lines will blend into the painting like Chappell Roan) and ink and paint right on top of the drawing! If I have a big composition I want to treat with care I’ll draw it on a different piece of paper first and then trace it onto a fresh sheet of watercolor paper with a lightbox.

2. Not as often as I’d like! I did a ton of little paintings during the pandemic but I hit a bit of creative block after I quit grad school and my Horrible Job earlier this year. I got through that by taking up crochet, but the Marcille and Chappell Roan paintings I did recently have help unblock the painting dam a bit. I should paint something this week when I have a bit of free time. I’m ordering some books of stock photos so I can copy the poses since Pinterest (where I used to keep all my drawing references) is nigh unusable these days, between the AI and the ads.

3. As an adult, I’ve really mellowed out about my art being perfectly presentable (and as such the quality has improved a lot.) I’m proud of basically anything that escapes my brain and gets to paper, but I’m especially proud of anything I’ve composed with a background. Riding Home (can’t believe that painting is five years old!) is still one of my favorites and I love the response it’s gotten. On here, my piece with the most notes is this Doropetra piece, which… I think that was my first time drawing something queer? Either way I’m quite proud of it and I know it’s made a lot of people happy.

4. It’s strictly a hobby. I’m addicted to being a W-2 employee and knowing where my next paycheck is coming from. If I drew more high-concept things than fandom stuff, I might try entering into local art shows. My friend is involved in the local poetry scene and I can’t imagine my paintings would be poorly received.

5. >:)

6. I have a big binder full of trading card-sized swatches of all my watercolors and notes on their pigment properties. I am incredibly intense about the pigments, fret not. I like to think that my art is a reflection of my education in art history. When I’m not feeling super inspired, I will go to my local museums and see what bits and pieces I can take for my own work. I think I learned more about how to paint from studying art history than from most of my actual art classes over the years. In practice though, I’ve been drawing and painting seriously since I was about 12 because I couldn’t find a better way to express how much I loved Pokémon, and honestly most of my art since then has been fandom related. It helps get some of the inspiration out of me.

And anyone who knows me from my days of cranking out Fire Emblem art knows I love to draw a Pretty Lady in a Nice Dress. (I love being a Pretty Lady in a Nice Dress too, frankly.) I love making new dress designs and incorporating my knowledge of historical fashion into them.

I have a lot of drawings I want to get too soon (I want to draw a full body piece of Marcille and of Chappell Roan’s VMAs look, for one… Maybe Susato Mikotoba Great Ace Attorney too… and I just started playing Baldur’s Gate 3 in earnest and I need to draw those ladies too. And maybe Wyll for fun. I like him.)

[natsadkid2]

27 March 2022 for latest update from this blog and now I’m back!

Re-draw project: Teenage magazine ft. Irwin and Barry💅🏻

This is original pic I drew ~3 years ago👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻, You can see some little details of their clothes that changed a little bit especially Irwin’s suspender belt for more fit to his jacket

If you winder why I put too much watermarks on new one lol, actually it’s a little joke that I wanted to do something different from my previous work that the watermark has only one, in the bottom right of the image. I just hope it can protect me from someone who will steal or re-upload my FanArt (actually this way can’t solve this problem that much but “at least” many ppl gonna know where is this pic from/ who’s real art owner when my arts were re-uploaded by another ppl)

Actually I don’t think before that one day I must post about this point, bc I think my arts aren’t famous or good that much to touch someone’s heart(?) until use it as a stuff for sending to wrestlers. Plus, there have many many artist whose has more opportunity to take more risks than me because I think they’re all better artist than me. But at last it still happened to little blog like mine💀look at this👇🏻👇🏻

I'm a wrestling fan from Thailand. Getting an autograph from each wrestler is very difficult and never happened to me(Whether it's a problem with currency units, banks, transportation costs that far away like on different side of the world, etc.) So, each wrestling Fanart I draw I don’t expect anything about money or even expect that they(wrestlers) will see my FanArt(bc they’re all old and not use any social media) . I’m drawing bc of self-relaxation/ make you enjoy my arts/ make you know that I like these wrestlers too. But there has someone expect money by using my art (that owner doesn’t expect anything) to be the way to earn little money, I just think it’s not fair Plus, if I got an autograph from my favorite wrestler on my Fanarts for real, I would definitely not sell it. Because it’s something that has sentimental value, cannot be measured in monetary terms. Meanwhile, some people can easily get a wrestler's autograph BUT didn't see its value, sold it for someone else , That’s horrible/ not cute/ not ✨FABULEUX✨ at all 🗣️🗣️

Until this day I still can’t describe my feeling about this, funny? Irritable? Or???😂. Bc at the same way, finally FanArt from Thai girl can reach the hands of uncle Mike and uncle Barry, they have seen my FanArt already. I can’t believe it happened to me

(⭐️Important point) You choose my ugly fanart lol I mean.. not many people understand that it’s WWF Highschool AU!!🤦🏻‍♀️can’t imagine how uncle Barry and uncle Mike gonna feel when reading wtf sentence on this art by don’t understand anything. They can’t access the imagination of young girl😂

And yes, this is my face when I scroll down the phone screen and see many old FanArt with weird lines and coloring lol. Too baddddd😵‍💫But I won’t delete them lol. Keep it as memories how far of my drawing development.

[fearfylsymmetry]

less of an ask and more of a compliment i love the way your tags are organized…”decay as a commodity” “bodies shifting in narrow spaces” etc is it your own original work or quoting from a song/poem/or something?

helloo angel and welcomee to the show, its always such a joy when people appreciate my silly little tagging system. they're all just random sentences i thought up ages ago, , just to make sense of the mess in front of you etc y'know how it gets love. i couldn't really get behind tagging things as "art" "people, faces places things" etc. i needed to inject a bit of flavour to the whole thing (let this not be read as a subtle jab towards any new york based tumblrinas , we're above that c'mon now). i wouldn't say these little phrases are "personal" by any means but they have been motifs i wanted to actively explore in the art i make so no harm putting them up here i guess haha

for posterity's sake i thought i'd just copy an explanation of my tags from an old ask

decay as a commodity : okay so i envisioned this as a way to just summarize modern living? i think of a whole blueish neon color scheme with this one. my line of thinking was,, with the world slowly rotting away and living becoming so expensive and exhausting, whats the one commodity we all share? wouldn't it be decay? aren't we all slowly fading together etc etc. i use this for images with cooler muted tones and anything with a futuristic vibe,, along with some grimey, monochrome photography

the setting dawn: this is the polar opposite of decay, i think of it as "hope beyond hope" a la Prior Walter's line in Angels in America. i know "the setting sun " might sound more natural but i think of it as,, dawn , when the sun breaks through - in this short period the world starts to wake. qs the dawn sets the day kicks in, with all its routine misery. Dawn i think, is the only time the sun is kind to you, because its still hidden away at least slightly. But the day truly starts and itbeats down on you. And yet we continue to live, past the boredom and the pain, we live past hope, past the quiet comfort of dawn. I use this for pictures with earthy tones and things on the more uplifting side

bodies shifting in narrow spaces: this has some overlap with the decay tag, im not as organized as i need 2 be. i use this for figures & portraits ill want to draw or just really any photography i like that features a human presence. think of it as people so dependent on an outside gaze they constantly try to reinvent themselves, or just, everyday people, getting less and less time to live, having to work and forcing themselves into relationships with any real connection

original sin and other contingencies: im trying to fit this in for more risque photography and maybe things on the more gory side. how do i explain this.. okay so... when there's nothing left to do you'll always have sin to turn to just yo keep yourself occupied, along with other methods/contingencies u get the jist

linen that lingers: my fashion tag nothing more 2 it

the canvas as testimony: for art that is made for the gallery or art that is held in higher regard i guess, more high culture. it includes painting, sculptures,along with architecture,, but maybe i should make an architecture tag. i think of the things here as more personal efforts

motion on a still surface: for art that is energetic and really pops off the page. includes comics, manga, fanart, animation. stuff here may be more low culture but really its not. i just differentiate these art tags as ,,one is stuck to the canvas whatever that canvas may be, while the other leaps off the page

word on a wing let me soar: books, poetry, articles, journals , all words that i adore

a conversation with the self: i wanted this to be for things that are very personal to me but i just use my other tags

angels in descent: my little funny haha tag for yknow ,,, funny haha. yknow the "devil's rejects" the movie? like its a way of saying people so horrible no even the devil would take them. okay so i thought " god's rejects " but that's lame. so i landed on this, like idk...imagine angels falling from grace

arcade shuffle: for my little viddy games lol. sorry for being a #gamergirl but yes it happens sadly ,,moving on

jet jump jive: for songs

at the pictures: for movies,, like imagine im going "cant talk im at the pictures wheee ^_^"

there is such a great distance between now and later: to track my art and writing progress but i barely use it cause it barely draw or write these days i blame the wave of despair that washeth over me

proof of concept: photos i took but there's like almost nothing here

misc that are just funny 2 me like i do it 4 a little chuckle i deserve it:

screw it posting hole - for hole the band

bowies in spaaace - for bowie, after the flight of the concords song cmon its a little funny at least cmon now

twink speaks- for twin peaks lol

[asteralis-01]

I am horribly bad at self belittling, so I can’t say anything on that. But I can say that complimenting people also works, really well. I used to do it a lot as a kid, then my abuser scared me out of it, but about halfway through i realized‘ I’ll just compliment people when they are not around’ so I started doing it again and I literally cannot stop. It’s like an impulse, you get to a point where you *have* to go tell that person that they are pretty bc what if they haven’t been told how cool their dress is and also if you tell them then you can learn where it came from and you can get your own. It’s so rewarding to see people react- and it’s funny to see bitchy people who don’t reciprocate or get mad about it. It opens people up- I can’t tell you how many time a boring wait in a grocery line turned into a great conversation where you learned new things just because I found interest in someone’s appearance. You don’t even have to be specific with it- “I like your *article of clothing/accesory/hair or nails*” gets people going every time !! Really specific ones though make people kind of step back and think- “*insert color of clothing* looks really good on you” “*length/style* of hair really suits you” or just being more verbose, saying things like stunning or elegant. Not to mention, it gives people the power to compliment you back- or give you the compliment in the first place. So many times people respond with “oh thank you! I actually really wanted to tell you *insert compliment of their own that typically devolves into a really cool conversation with people where I learn something*” People want to compliment people, we want to engage when we see other people expressing a similar interest or who just are beautiful even if it’s not romantic, but we’re just too scared of a species.

I have made many mistakes while complimenting- for example, I view the golden girls as women of empowerment. So one day when I saw this absolutely fabulous old woman in kings I complimented her outfit and makeup, and said she had the energy of a golden girl. My mom Immediately turned around and apologized and the woman laughed and said ‘it’s alright’ so I just flat out asked ‘what did I do’ and they told me that calling someone a golden girl was an insult about their age. I immediately apologized and explained how I saw it- and whether they thought I was being serious or just ‘using an excuse to justify what I said’ or whatever, she can’t deny that I said that I thought she seemed like a strong and confident woman. And i think she was pleased with it.

Do it!! Compliment the people!! Do it scared!! And do it for men/masculine presenting people too (although, for safety avoid words that describe them and lean more towards ‘I like’ ‘that’s cool’ or ‘that looks good’ statements. I find that a lot of the words to describe how pretty something is- including pretty- are associated to femininity and can end up having the opposite effect especially for men, trans or otherwise, who are struggling with not feeling masculine enough.). Do it for everyone, of every group. I one complimented a row of Hijabi girls at an amusement parks bc they were all wearing matching outfits and hijabs and they asked me to take a picture with them because they were so happy. Every elderly person I’ve complimented on their outfit or item of clothing gave me a very unique and interesting tale about their past and experience, most of which helped me to gain my current outlook on life.

Update I forgot to mention: don’t do it for this reason but a bonus to doing this is you get free shit literally all the time. I have gotten free food bc I complimented my server/person taking my order/someone working who caught my eye. I complimented a lady at a thrift store once on her shades and she gave me them and they were my favorite pair of glasses before they broke. I have complimented people on their art and some either give me the piece I complimented or make me a whole new one. It is rewarding in so many ways and hardly ever negative. Honestly, as long as you are with someone who can help protect you in the *extremely* rare chance they attack you for it (being with people makes it not happen in the first place, and I’ve only ever seen it once and it wasn’t my experience) there are absolutely no downside to complimenting people. Go compliment people. Btw you are also people so don’t forget to compliment yourself bc you will have the same reaction.

a fools guide to not wanting to die anymore

by me, a fool who doesnt wanna die anymore 

never make a suicide joke again. yes this includes “i wanna die” as a figure of speech. swear off of it. actually make an effort to change how you think about things.

find something to compliment someone for at least 4 times a day. notice the little things about the world that make you happy, and use that to make other people happy.

talk to people. initiate conversation as often as you possibly can. keep your mind busy and you wont have to worry anymore

picture the bad intrusive thoughts in youe head as an edgy 13 year old and tell them to go be emo somewhere else

if someone makes you feel bad most of the time, stop talking to them. making yourself hang out with people who drain you is self harm. stop it.

[fuckupguitarist1039]

Man, I love Summer

"You made it. You’re done.” She smiled proudly. It felt like only last Monday me and my best friend were sat on his bed doing our first ever set of notes. We’d walked to get pizza in the blistering summer sun that burnt us both before we had made it through to cool air conditioned doors. The Quick Check a few doors down scolded our volume as we wandered in in search of drinks full of artificial colors, flavors, and sugars. I only drank regular Coke with you. And on the days I missed you and needed some sense of proximity, found in the taste of summertime adventures through the woods and long days at the beach. We’d infiltrate the Starbucks drive through before the gym and go again for a second round after a horribly shitty work out. We’d rinse off in the ocean and let the comforting waves heal our sore muscles. Sunscreen was unheard of as we rode skateboards down the side streets behind your house. Debating using the hot tub, deciding it was too hot. Laying on the deck and spending time with your sisters. Still walking to the convenience store in the rain, no umbrellas accompanied. Making beaded bracelets at four in the morning, we were so tired we kept dropping our almost completed star shapes off the side of the bed. Gossiping about who we saw on their bikes while out and about ourselves, hardly acknowledging they were most likely speaking similarly about us in their own bedroom. 

Spending hours on Facebook Marketplace, looking for cheap cars to fix and free plywood to fix the roof of our fort that had caved in through hurricane season. On the super stormy nights we piled all the blankets on the couch and took shots while watching scary movies, letting the thunder add to the suspense. We baked Christmas cookies in August, except we ate all of the batter raw before the oven was done preheating. Sneaking out of your sliding glass door at exactly 2:03, treading lightly across the wet deck without shoes on to avoid making any noise, the wet socks were worth your parents continued sleep. Speeding down the highway with the top down, hitting 120 MPH for the first time in my own car. We were late to a concert. I drove an hour in 35 minutes. The sun made your light hair even lighter and you helped me re-dye the back of my hair to the natural looking black I struggled to keep it in my never ending war against the heat waves and salt water. Getting lost on the way to dinner, your sister laughed at me while I made a U-turn in front of a sign inscripted “no u-turns”. 

Purple Monster Energy and amusement park lines. We only bothered spending the money when there wasn’t a town fair within 5o miles. Taking day trips and following road maps. Blowing up excessive amounts of balloons and putting dish soap on our slip and slide. Driving past our friends’ houses when we couldn’t find anything better to do, hoping to pick up some other accomplices with fresh ideas. Cramming 9 people into the back of my convertible on the way to Applebees. The top stayed up ICOC, in case of cops. Avoiding our Summer work and pretending I won’t be committed to college the same time next year. Dinners at bars, hoping someone would accidentally serve us a drink. Mostly we drank Coke and ate soft pretzels, but there was a valiant attempt. Doodling on each other whenever we came across markers in the art supply store. Mcdonalds runs and Target trips. Wandering around Food Town and sitting on top of the old Shoprite. K Street and Exxon, B and P as a back up. Air fresheners in my car just in case anyone got nosy. Ice cream and long walks from Main Street to the boardwalk. Complaining about kids at Jenkinsons, still waiting in the long lines. He listened for hours while I reminisced about a 5 minute conversation with my hopeless situationship. Walking through the mall on days too rainy to walk down the road. 

I got to be a teenager. Something many don’t have the pleasure of. I wasn’t ready to give it up. No, I still don’t think I am. I’ll lie about my age and stay forever 15, hell, I could pass for 12 if I tried. But today, our psychology teacher said,  “That's it! Those are the last notes you’ll ever have to take in high school!” with a bitter sweet smile on her face. My heart sank, and I looked over to you. One more summer, I pleaded with God. One more to make me feel alive. So for the love of all summer days and the late night heat wave haze, let me be a teenager, just a little longer. A little longer, just with him.

[herstrayskies]

Is Heaven right or wrong?

Hagusa knows the answer.

They're wrong.

They just don't realize it yet.

Norgami Chapter 91 - To Do The Right Thing

[lycheepocketwitch]

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐚 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 - 𝐬𝐢𝐱

pairing: cheerleader!wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: homecoming doesn't go the way it was supposed. or does it?

warnings: allusions to sex

word count: 5.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | also on ao3

Homecoming night was not something you were looking forward to anymore. The whole week leading up to the dance, you kept being reminded of the fact that despite having planned the perfect homecoming proposal for Wanda, it meant nothing now that your arrangement was over. There was nothing special about this night anymore. You would just go to the stupid dance with Yelena and then go home when you eventually got bored.

“That suit looks good on you,” Pietro commented with a half-smile.

Right, this was a new thing now.

The last thing you expected coming to school on Monday was to have Pietro approach you to talk. You hadn’t spoken in years, so why would that change? Originally, you thought your sleep deprivation had gotten so bad that you had started hallucinating hearing Pietro call your name. But he jogged through the crowd to get to you in time. There was a small part of you that thought maybe Wanda had told him everything after all, but that was silly.

The last thing you expected coming to school on Monday was to have Pietro approach you to talk. You hadn’t spoken in years, so why would that change? Originally, you thought your sleep deprivation had gotten so bad that you had started hallucinating hearing Pietro call your name. But he jogged through the crowd to get to you in time. There was a small part of you that thought maybe Wanda had told him everything after all, but that was silly.

When he started apologizing for all the shit he’d put you through, then you became certain you were hallucinating. It took a few tries for him to convince you that this wasn’t some sort of sick joke and he was genuinely sorry for badly he’d treated you.

“I understand if I’m saying all of this too late and that you don’t want to be friends anymore. I was a horrible friend and I let unimportant things get in the way of our friendship. I do hope though that you can find a way to forgive me, and that we can be friends again though… Not necessarily now, but somewhere down the line?” he had said, nervously scratching her back of his neck before getting interrupted by his phone ringing.

During his hushed phone call, you got to think over his apology. You definitely weren’t ready to resume your friendship at the same place it was when you were freshmen, and you weren’t sure you would get back to that place any time soon. However, you also didn’t see a reason to completely shut him out of your life after his apology. It would take some time for him to regain your trust and even more time to rebuild your friendship, but if the older Maximoff twin meant what he said and put in some effort into making it up to you, then who were you to stop him?

That didn’t mean it was an easy thing to do.

It had only been a few days since you “became friends” again. He’d greeted you at school every morning since then, which was weird even though you knew it was good progress. He even offered you a ride home after school Wednesday, but you declined since you had an art club meeting.

You went back on your suspicion that this was all Wanda’s doing, but Pietro had yet to mention his sister and you knew he would’ve by now if she was behind this; Pietro wasn’t one for subtlety.

“Did you choose this color on purpose?” he suddenly asked after eyeing your suit for a moment.

“I, uh, yeah? I thought it looked nice at the store,” you replied, unsure what exactly he meant by that.

“I meant…” he started, but then shook his head. “Never mind. Anyways, you look good, T.” From the surprised look on his face, you could tell the use of your old nickname was a complete accident, but you didn’t mind.

“Thanks, Pietro. You look good as well,” you said, nodding towards his light blue suit.

“Thank you, oh, this is my date, Monica by the way,” he said, gesturing to the girl who gave you a warm familiar smile and a small wave.

“I know, we have a few classes together,” you explained with a chuckle. You two didn’t really count as friends, but she was one of the few people who was actually friendly with you. Whenever you had team assignments to do in history class, she would often pair up with you and you’d both get the job done pretty quickly.

“Are you two…” Pietro trailed off, gesturing to you and Natasha sitting to your left.

“Oh, no.” You shook your head. Yelena had been the one to drag you to homecoming again even though you didn’t really feel like after what had happened last week. She said it would help lift your spirits or whatever, but the moment she spotted a dark-haired sophomore in a dark purple jumpsuit, she had left your side. You were glad Natasha decided to stick by your side. Though you were pretty sure that had Maria not gone to her model UN conference, the pair would’ve spent the night at Natasha’s or Maria’s place.

“Are you and Carol together then?” he asked. He must’ve seen Carol approaching you a few minutes earlier, asking you for a dance. You had accepted mainly because you were waiting for Yelena to come back to your table, but she was still talking to Kate and Natasha hadn’t arrived yet. You only stayed with her for one dance during which she kept telling you how beautiful you looked and how she would love to take you home later. You politely declined her offer, she acquiesed and wished you a good night, then went to on to her next conquest.

“Definitely not,” you replied with a chuckle. 

Pietro hummed. “M’baku is hosting a party after homecoming. If you’d like, you could come?” he offered.

“They’re much less stuffy than the ones the football team throws,” Monica added as if to convince you.

“I appreciate the invite, but I think I’ll pass. Not really a party person. Nat can attest to that,” you replied, smiling at the senior who just nodded in agreement. Monica and Pietro voiced their understanding and left you two soon after.

“He definitely asked that to let his sister know,” Natasha said as soon as the pair was gone. At your quizzical stare, she nodded to your right and when you turned to look, you found Wanda sitting at a table with some cheerleaders and their boyfriends, looking downright miserable. Pepper was sat to her left, chatting away with Tony, and to her right was an empty chair. You wondered if it was saved for Bucky or maybe it was for Vision.

You’d heard some people talking about Bucky asking Wanda to homecoming a few days ago only for Vision to barge in and ruin the proposal and start fighting him… or was it that he fought Sam? You don’t quite remember. To be honest, there were various versions of the story, you didn’t know which one was the real one.

“Why would he tell her?” you asked, suddenly panicking a little. It didn’t matter that you and Wanda were now on bad terms, you wouldn’t risk having others know about your… “relationship.”

“Relax,” Natasha said, sensing your nervousness, and placed her hand on your thigh before removing it. “Oops, wrong move. I don’t think Red liked that.” You frowned and when you turned back to Wanda, her lips formed a thin line and even from where you sat, you could see her chest rising and falling as she tried to take calming breaths.

“We’re not together,” you quickly said, regretting it as soon as those words left your mouth. Way to not sound suspicious.

“Again, relax,” Natasha chuckled. “I’m not trying to expose you. Or her. I was just saying because she’s been staring at you the whole night… Also, my room is right next to Yelena and our walls aren’t soundproof. Do you… want to talk about it?”

“There’s not much to talk about.” You looked around and noted all of your peers were relatively far enough from you to the point that no one could really eavesdrop on your conversation, especially not with the thumping music. “I like her and I think she likes me too, but she likes popularity more.”

“She told you that?”

“I don’t need her to tell me that. It’s pretty obvious.”

Natasha nodded and looked over your shoulder, eyes landing on Wanda again. “Assuming things rarely ever get you where you want, especially when it involves feelings.”

“Well, I’m not sure what exactly I’m supposed to do if every time I’ve given her a chance to explain herself, she hasn’t given me anything back… I’m tired of being the only one trying.”

At your confession, Natasha’s face softened. She placed her hand on your forearm and gave you a sympathetic smile. “I’m not saying you need to go talk to her again or be the one making all the effort to save whatever is between you two. However, as someone who used to be part of Pepper’s group, don’t give up on her. The girl you used to know is still in there somewhere. She just needs some time and confidence to come back out.”

“You’re making Pepper seem like she’s some sort of evil genius that has control over Wanda’s being.”

“I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t mean it that way, but you can’t deny that Pepper is influential, especially in her group. When you’re accepted into a group, it’s easier to follow and do what others expect from you than deviate from the norm. And with the cheerleaders, those norms are established by Pepper.”

“What? You telling me you used to just do whatever to please Pepper?” you snorted, but dropped your smile the moment you realized you weren’t far from the truth based on the lack of amusement on Natasha’s face.

“Pepper and I used to be friends, not as close as you and Wanda, but she was one of my first friends at SHIELD. When she became captain, I was so happy for her, I didn’t notice the small changes that started to happen. She slowly started to become more demanding of everyone, she expected things to be done her way or the highway, she started caring more about how people perceived her in the sense that she had curated this image of her and the team in her head. And if there was even a bit of discrepancy between that and reality… well, she would flip.”

“Is that why you left?” You had always assumed that the rumors about Natasha leaving because she clashed with Pepper were true. You had no reason to believe otherwise. Just like how Thena was rumored to be leaving the team a while back due to her and Pepper butting heads, Natasha was equally as stubborn as the other girls and there was no place for co-captaincy.

“Partly. Pepper was no longer the friend I knew in freshman year, but she wasn’t the only one who had changed. I was only on the team a couple months, counting from when tryouts happened my freshman year and then the few months up until Christmas of my sophomore year. But during that time, I became someone I didn’t recognize. Honestly, looking back, I acted like such a bitch. I was an asshole to people for no reason… I fought so much more with my parents, and they called me out on it, but I refused to listen.”

“What made you realize that you’d change then?”

“Yelena,” she responded with a short laugh, but bit her lip as a sorrowful look washed over her face. “We were fighting about something. I don’t even remember what it was about, but our mom told us to stop fighting because we’re sisters, and I yelled back that she isn’t really my sister.”

“Oh…”

It was no secret that Natasha and Yelena weren’t blood-related, but that never mattered. They were sisters and everyone knew that. Even though neither ever really showed it, they both prided themselves on being the other girl’s sister. Yelena would deny it until the day she died, but she looked up to Natasha. Hearing the older girl tell her she wasn’t her real sister… you couldn’t begin to imagine how much that must’ve hurt Yelena.

“Yeah, look, I don’t think you should be the one who should be the only one trying. It’s just, as someone who has messed up just because I felt accepted in that same group, I was grateful I had people from my old life who were willing me to take me back despite everything I’d done,” Natasha sighed. “With that being said, don’t forget you also have your own limits. If you think you need a break from her, then that’s fine too.”

“Thanks for the big sister talk,” you said, nudging the older girl’s elbow with your own. You’d never really gotten the chance to truly talk to Natasha despite how many times you’d been at her house. Most of your conversations were pretty surface level, but you were glad to have gottent to know a bit more about your best friend’s older sister.

“If you ever tell people I was soft with you, I’ll have your head,” she threatened, but you had a hard time taking seriously with the playful smirk that tugged at her lips.

You didn’t get the chance to get another word in as you winced hearing the feedback from the microphone. Principal Fury briefly apologized for disruption before going into a small speech about how he hoped everyone was having a good time. He ended his speech by announcing that it was time to reveal this year’s homecoming king and queen. Coach Fontaine accepted the mic from Principal Fury and opened the golden envelope.

“Can I get a drumroll, please?” she asked the crowd. Those sitting down rapping against the table they sat at as they patiently waited for the big reveal of the night.

“Stark Harkness Institute for the Exceptional, Lettered & Distinguished, please welcoming this year’s homecoming king, Jarvis Stark.”

The crowd went wild, cheering for the younger Stark brother who made his way to the makeshift stage where Coach Fontaine stood. Some people patted his shoulder as he walked towards the stage with an arrogant smile. Honestly, you didn’t remember seeing any posters of him campaigning to become homecoming king, but it wasn’t like you really cared about these kinds of things anyways.

What really took you by surprise was when Coach Fontaine announced, “And please give an equally warm welcome for your homecoming queen, Wanda Maximoff.”

Vision’s face, you wouldn’t have noticed unless you were specifically looking for him, but Wanda? Even when you tried to avoid her, you saw her. There was no way you would’ve missed a poster with her face campaigning for homecoming queen. Surely, she would’ve also told you about it, no? You’d only just stopped seeing each other last week, and campaigning for this sort of thing would’ve overlapped with the time you were seeing each other.

From the way Wanda’s hand kept tucking her hair behind her ear as she walked towards Coach and Vision, you could tell she wasn’t exactly planning this either. After all this time, she still had the same nervous tic. You watched her attempt to keep her arms still beside her body, but they eventually drifted back to the front. After having the tiara placed on her head and the sache draped across her torso, her fingers subtly reached for her rings and started twisting them.

“And now, it’s time for the homecoming king and queen’s first dance!”

Vision, in his unoriginal black suit, took a step down the stage and held out his hand for Wanda to help her down. She bunched up the bottom of her long dress and reluctantly took Vision’s hand as she stepped down. Although she seemed beyond nervous, Wanda still looked stunning in her light yellow gown. The slit of her dress was borderline inappropriate inappropriate for the school’s dress code, but it started a few inches above her knee and it was only visible when she took long strides. Add onto that her half-up, half-down hairdo, she could pass off as a real-life Belle.

Unconsciously, you had tightened your jaw at the sight of Wanda approaching Vision’s open arms. She slowly placed one hand on his shoulder while the other grabbed his hand that wasn’t on the small of her waist. A slow song that you couldn’t bother to recognize started playing and you were nearly ready to call it a night. You went to turn to Natasha and tell her that you were going to the bathroom before leaving until she placed one hand up and nodded her head towards Wanda and Vision.

When you turned to look back, the couple was no longer dancing. No, Vision was standing in the middle of the dancefloor, looking absolutely confused, but you could barely see him behind Wanda as she walked towards… you? She had this determined look in her eyes that you didn’t think you had ever seen as she took confident steps towards your table.

Once in front of you, Wanda held her hand out and asked, “May I have this dance?”

You could feel all of your peers’ stare on you and Wanda. Even the damn lighting people had decided to have a spotlight follow Wanda all the way to you, assuring that everyone’s attention would be on you two. It felt like a scene from a movie, but you weren’t sure it was one you wanted to be part of. Your eyes searched for Yelena, whom you found in a record time on the other side of the room with Kate Bishop, as if asking for guidance. She gave you an unsure smile, brows slightly knitted together. Just a few tables away, Pietro had a hopeful smile that matched the one Wanda was giving you. Finally, your eyes drifted back to Natasha next to you, who just shrugged, as if saying “this is your call.”

You were so focused on trying to get any sort of guidance for what you should do next, the only thing that pulled you out of your head was Wanda’s whispered “Please?”

With a thumping heart in your chest, you stood up and stared your old best friend in the eye. Although Wanda wore heels, the platform from your oxfords allowed you to be at about the same height as her. “This won’t change anything,” you said.

“I understand,” she said with a nod, smiling when you accepted her hand that guided you to the dancefloor.

Wanda ignored a baffled Vision who was pulled aside by someone in the crowd so you could take your place in the middle of the dancefloor. She placed her arms loosely around your neck while your hands found purchase on her waist. The whole time, Wanda kept her eyes on you, completely ignoring the prodding stares burning into your dancing bodies.

“Relax,” she commanded gently, which was funny really because you could feel the nervousness radiating off her.

“Easier said than done,” you mumbled. At that, Wanda frowned, her eyes leaving you for the first time. She pulled you closer, giving you no choice but to wrap your arms a little tighter around her waist to not look awkward.

She buried her face in the crook of your neck and signed. “Relax,” she repeated. “Just focus on me.” So, you did, or at least you tried.

You focused on her now steady breathing, the warm air softly hitting your neck, which did nothing to help your racing heart. You focused on the smell of her strawberry and mint shampoo and… the lack of her overpowering perfume. You focused on the warmth eminating from her body that was now nearly melded into yours. You could stay like this forever…

The sound of clapping brought you back to reality. The song was over and you tried to push yourself away from Wanda, but she kept a tight grip on you.

“Stay?” she asked, only letting go slightly so she could look you in the eye.

“I’m a little tired,” you said, trying to make yourself believe your lie so that Wanda wouldn’t see right through you. The air inside the gym was suffocating you and you needed to leave. Sure, you were somewhat used to a few people giving you dirty looks as you walked past them in the hallway, but having all those eyes on you now was unsettling to say the least.

Her shoulders slumped as she nodded. She let you detangle yourself from her this time and you gave her one last glance over your shoulder, not missing everyone else watching you leave her in the middle of the dancefloor. You quickly texted Yelena that you were leaving and that she didn’t have to tell Natasha because you’d be taking the bus home.

You made it exactly four steps down the stairs at the main entrance of the school when you heard the metal doors behind you open and someone yell, “Wait!”

You turned back around and saw Wanda slightly out of breath. “What are you doing?”

“Can I come with you?”

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” you said, a bit amused.

“I don’t care. I want to go where you go.”

─── ᗢ ───── 💔 ───── ᗢ ───

Taking the bus from Manhattan to Westview all dressed up on a random Friday night would also probably classify as a scene from a coming of age movie. This, however, was much nicer than the situation you were in earlier.

Wanda must’ve been seriously sleep deprived because she had fallen asleep on your shoulder barely 10 minutes after you got on the bus. One stop before yours, you nudged the girl awake. Wanda sleepily groaned and tried to bury her face in the crook of your neck again, but you gently pushed her up as you whispered, “Wanda, wake up. We’re almost at the diner.”

That did the job and she slowly sat back up. You helped her off the bus since she was wearing heels and you started to make your way to the diner in comfortable silence. When you noticed Wanda attempt to hide her shivers, you shrugged off your blazer to drape it over her shoulders.

“It’s fine,” she said, but didn’t try to give your blazer back.

“I don’t mind,” you replied, helping her slip her arms through the sleeves to wear it more comfortably.

Inside the diner, you got your vanilla milkshake to go while Wanda ordered her strawberry one. You also ordered fries and carefully placed the container filled with fries in one of the front pockets of your pants so you could pick up your fries to dip them in your milkshake while walking down the quiet streets of Westview. By your side, Wanda just sipped on her milkshake as she occasionally tugged your blazer closer to her body.

“I need to tell you something,” Wanda said, after walking for nearly 5 minutes in complete silence. Seeing you nod your head as a sign to continue, she took a deep breath, “I think I owe you an explanation… a lot of explanations actually.”

“You think?” you refrained yourself from scoffing. Even though you shared a nice moment back in the gymnasium, you were still upset about everything that had happened between you two. Being with her now just reminded you of all the times she’d betrayed you.

Empathizing with your frustration, Wanda tried her best not to let your tone affect her. You had every reason to be mad at her. She wasn’t even sure why you agreed to have her follow you or even listen to you, but she was glad you hadn’t completely pushed her away.

“Where should I start?” she asked, more to herself than anything.

“How about summer of freshman year? You know, when you just went AWOL,” you suggested with a bit of a bite.

She nodded, taking a deep breath before starting.

It took her nearly an hour to go through everything. It took her another hour to answer all the questions you had for her, like why she never told you any of this before, if you’d ever made her feel like she couldn’t open up to you like that. By the end of your conversation, you had walked around your block maybe a dozen times and you’d ended up sitting on your porch. Although her fears might’ve seem a bit irrational, at the end of the day, Wanda was just a teenager who wanted to fit in, like most of teenagers.

You still couldn’t completely forgive her for hurting you the way she did, but you understood her a bit better.

“I’m not sure what you want from me now,” you admitted.

“I know this is a long shot, but I just–I miss you… as a friend,” she said, and if you were anyone else, maybe you’d buy it. But you were you and you could tell her words weren’t totally truthful. “I mean I also miss you in other ways,” she admitted after a beat of silence, “but we were friends first. I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me, but I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t at least try to get you back as my friend.”

“I still don’t really trust you, Wanda. You have a lot to making up to do, and I won’t go easy on you,” you warned, but she simply nodded her head vigrously.

“I know. I’ll do whatever it takes to gain your trust back.”

You thought back about the beginning of the week when Pietro asked for your forgiveness and how you’d given him a chance. Wanda was asking for the same thing, except you had already technically given her a second chance at the start of your junior year. Yet, she messed up again. Perhaps it was because you jumped into a relationship too quickly instead of working through your issues to rebuild a solid foundation. You took a deep breath to think about whether you could potentially go through all this heartbreak again.

You wanted to believe Wanda, you really did. You liked to see the good in people and after what she did tonight, maybe Natasha was right. There was still a piece of the Wanda you knew and loved.

“You’ll do anything?” you asked after a while.

“Anything,” she confirmed, and if she regretted saying that so quickly, she didn’t let it show.

You hummed and pondered for a bit. “Then, I want you to run barefoot through the Proctors’ lawn,” you said. Your other neighbors, Sarah and Harol Proctor were notorious for being especially careful with all things related to their property. They (mostly Mrs. Proctor) loved to maintain this picture-perfect image of the Proctor family and their home. Running through their lawn was surely going to get you in trouble.

You thought it was pretty obvious you were just messing with Wanda, but the other girl just took off her heels, letting them fall by your side before she sprinted across your neighbors’ lawn. “Wanda! Oh my god, get back here!” you whisper-yelled as to not disturb the neighborhood and ran towards her with her heels hooked to your index finger.

The sound of Wanda’s giggles filled your ears as you finally caught her, picking up in your arms so you could bring her back to your side of the driveway. “Why would you do that?” you asked.

“I told you I’d do anything,” she shrugged, a shy grin on her face. “I meant what I said. I’ll never stop trying to do anything to have you back in my life in any possible.”

“In that case, I don’t want anymore secrecy,” you demanded. “I’m not asking to be best–”

“You got it,” she said.

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Well, whatever you say, I’ll do it.”

“Okay, Wanda, see that’s not gonna work,” you sighed. “We rushed things the first time and it blew up in our faces. I don’t want that to happen again if I’m giving you another chance. I need you to thinking about this more seriously this time around. This isn’t just something you’ll be able to change overnight.”

“I get that,” she asserted, slightly frustrated. “I know I’m coming off as impulsive, but I’ve thought about this. All week, I’ve thought about how I could make it up to you, how I could make you believe that I want this to work.”

“Alright, well, I have one more request. What are you doing next Tuesday after school?”

“Not sure, but probably homework.”

“How about you drive me to my internship interview then?”

“I could do that,” Wanda responded with a grin.

You weren’t sure how things would work out at school with the stunt she pulled tonight, but as she sipped on her milkshake, walking down the street with one hand holding yours, she didn’t seem to care. All that mattered to her was that you had given her a chance to redeem herself.

You, however, were apprehensive about how much Wanda would try.

─── ᗢ ───── 💔 ───── ᗢ ───

When Monday came around, you were certain that whatever bubble she had created for you two over the weekend would burst. You had mentally prepared yourself for the same silent treatment you’d received for the past year and a half.

“Casanova!” you heard the forsaken voice of Tony Stark call from the other somewhere in the hallway.

“Fuck me,” you muttered into your locker while Yelena who was leaning againt the locker next to yours looked up to the intruders. As you closed your locker door shut, you were met with both Stark brothers, Pepper and their posse.

“Do you not have a voice? Or do you only speak when it’s to steal other people’s girlfriends?”

“I didn’t steal anyone’s girlfriend. Wanda is her own person,” you said, rolling your eyes. God, how did Wanda ever tolerate them? How did Pepper still tolerate them?

“You don’t have to defend her now. She’s not here, it won’t give you brownie points to get into her panties,” Tony sneered.

“I’m not trying to get into her panties. Unlike you, I have something called basic human decency.”

“You sure you’re not just trying to add her to your list of girls you’ve tongued?” Vision was the one to talk this time.

“At least she knows how to make a girl feel good,” Yelena retorted, which made you pinch your nose in frustration. You loved your best friend, you really did. She was your number one defender, always, but sometimes, you wished she would cool it a little. This was one of those times. You really didn’t think it was necessary to bring up a silly rumor about Vision not knowing the female anatomy despite having one of the highest marks in biology.

Right as you pulled Yelena back from lunging forward, you felt someone brush against your arm and step forward. “Leave them alone,” Wanda said firmly.

“Wanda,” Pepper started with a warning voice, “you better watch it.”

“I don’t care what you have to say. I don’t care if you kick me off the team. I’m sick of how you treat people, especially when they haven’t done anything wrong. So, like I said, leave her alone.”

Pepper and Wanda stared at each other, neither speaking a word until Pepper stiffly nodded and turned on her heels. Tony followed her, albeit reluctantly, which led to everyone else following them away. The only one left was Vision.

“Don’t come crawling back when you finally realize–”

“Please, as if I would go back to someone who was never able to get me off,” she scoffed, rendering him speechless.

Beside you, you heard Yelena mutter, “Guess the rumors were true,” which earned her a nudge to the arm from you.

After Vision stormed away, a visible blush on his face, you turned to Wanda. “You didn’t have to do that,” you said, painfully aware of the obvious whispers that had started around you.

“I wanted to,” she asserted with a shaky voice, but put on a smile masking her nerves. “They have no right to be harassing you like that. I’m sorry I just stood by before, but I swear I’ll–”

You cut her off with a hug, arms tightening around her body. “I really missed you,” you mumbled.

“I missed you too,” she said, her arms wrapping you as she relaxed against your grasp.

“Do I also get a hug or what?” Yelena asked. You giggled and pulled her into you, holding both girls close to you.

When Tuesday came and you heard her honk her horn in her and Pietro’s cherry red car, you were a little less surprised to see that she’d kept her promise. You were a little taken aback to see that Pietro was in the passenger seat, but you welcomed the unexpected guest.

“A little birdy told me you got a fancy internship. I had to tag along,” he explained as you buckled you and Yelena got in the backseat.

“I didn’t get the internship,” you said.

“Yet!” Wanda retorted. “You’re gonna kill that interview. There’s no way Frigga won’t take you.”

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave you the position on the spot.”

You shook your head in amusement, but appreciated them hyping you up to ease your nerves. It took a bit of convincing for Yelena to not be so defensive around the twins. You assured her that the moment they even thought of hurting you… well, let’s just say, they wouldn’t get the chance to hurt you with Yelena by your side. After that, she easily got along with the twins. You could tell she was still a bit on the fence about them, but it was hard to deny that the four of you had chemistry. Sitting in the back of the twins’ cherry red car, you watched the three of them sing along to Adele.

You could get used to this.

Wanda still had a lot of making up to do. There was a long road ahead to fix your friendship. Things would never be the same as they were before, but Wanda looked forward to rebuilding her friendship with you. Admittedly, you were also excited for this new chapter of your life with familiar characters returning, albeit with a hint of change.

<< prev

a/n: and that was the final part of ma&thp! thank you to everyone who stuck around! this was my first ever reader-insert as well as my first wanda fic so it will always hold a special place in my heart. with that in mind, i have to admit, this isn't really the ending i originally had in mind. the original ending was going to take place about a decade later, but i felt like the time jump was a bit too much since there was nothing in between. so, for now i will leave it at a hopeful ending and honestly still pretty happy considering everything that happened. if however, there are people interested in the original ending, i already have a bit written so i might release it a little later as a bonus? or i might even write more for sunshine and wanda during their college days if i see y'all want more lol. anyways, for now, this is goodbye to miss americana & the heartbreak princess.

edit: i also noticed this blog reached 300 followers recently omg tysm for following along my shenanigans lmao. i wanted to do some sort of 300 writing celebration, but i've got so much on my plate rn i don't think i'd be able to manage:( still, i'm super grateful for y'all! and i will definitely plan something like that in the future

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I’m not sure if you have something planned for this already but wouldn’t it be the height of irony if Tooley got monched on by a starved Chris when he forgot to drug him? Just opens the door and whoops! He eaten!

CW: Whumper death, drunkenness, some dehumanization, blood drinking, bit of gore, vampirism, some very light catholicism

-

New York City, 1936

KING EDWARD VIII ABDICATES THRONE British Monarch to Wed American Socialite Wallis Simpson

Tooley kicks at the sodden, half-frozen newspaper stuck to his shoe, grunting with the effort it takes to dislodge it. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his thick woolen coat, and he ignores the envious stares of others whose threadbare outfits are patched, whose gloves are little more than rags wrapped around their not-quite-frostbitten fingers.

Instead, he pulls his scarf up higher, tucks his chin beneath its knitted warmth, and finally manages to send the scrap of paper with its water-stained black-and-white image of a stern-faced soon-to-be ex-king and his Baltimore lover into the street, where it sticks in a puddle and soaks clean through.

The old-timers say a heavy rain is coming, citing their aching joints and bones. It's been a wet winter already, and the absolute last thing New York needs is more rain.

Tooley plans to be holed up in his nice warm little house for the whole of it. He's sold three paintings in a month, and he can spend the next few weeks on the next one until his hands want to drop right off his wrists without having to distract himself with petty concerns like money.

The liquor bubbles warm inside him, and even with the frigid air he's broken a sweat along his back, trickling to his waistband, almost a tickle. He stumbles a little, catches himself, coughs out a laugh as the cold air burns deep into his lungs. It can't penetrate the hazy heat of the drink, though.

Mel's always has the best whiskey, and Tooley has the green these days to pay for the very best indeed. He's spent what might be a whole month's pay - if he weren't the luckiest artist in New York - in a single night.

You might say he's made a deal with the devil.

He pulls the brim of his fedora down, shielding his brow from the bit of freezing moisture speckling his cheeks. He struggles not to giggle like a child.

"Got a bit to spare for a hungry man?" A rasping voice calls out from an alley as he passes. "Help me feed my family, sir? I'm out of work, sir! Got three little ones with hungry bellies!"

Tooley ignores him.

There are crowds like that everywhere these days, always pressing for help, for a little something more and more and more. Men out of work, men in bread lines, women with tired faces and sad children. He's had just about enough of it.

They're calling it a depression, and he finds the term apt enough, considering it seems the whole country's been tumbled into a hole and can't find its way out.

He'd take his muse to Europe and paint there if it weren't for the echoing tension that bleeds over across the sea. Every nation he's idolized for their arts is trying to posture at each other. Rattling sabers while the people sigh heavily and keep washing their laundry, like always.

Tooley was a child when the Great War tore his own family apart - losing an older half-brother to the pointless trenches, a father to the mustard gas that ate his lungs to pieces, a mother to her desperate, sharp grief at her husband and stepson's loss.

The War had rendered him alone in the world before he was even twenty, though he'd been too young to hardly understand it and it had had nothing to do with him.

Wars were for rich men to send poor men to fight in, and Tooley is hoping to have enough wealth to maybe just float right past a new one, if the rumors beginning to swirl came true and Europe is going to erupt. Surely, though, no one would let a second war as horrible as the last happen.

Surely not.

Still, even so, he can simply disappear if they try to call him up to fight. He has no one left to lose, after all. No one to fight for, no one to care for. No one but his pretty little model, all locked away, his to keep.

Tooley takes a sharp left and the streets begin to change from the harsher gray of the city proper into neighborhoods, houses crammed tightly together. It's not the best part of town - Tooley's parents weren't the wealthiest, and he doesn't live like a gentleman, he's got no need to, it's not how he thinks a proper artist should live anyway. Have to keep up the image of the nearly-starving creative genius, after all.

There are still lights in some windows, despite the late hour. Tooley isn't the only one drunk at midnight and still moving.

It's a mile or so from the start of his street to where his house is nestled between two others, close enough he could reach out his kitchen window and touch the brick of the home next door. He smiles a little. His nose aches with the cold at the tip of it, but that's nothing to worry himself over.

He's home.

It takes him four tries to unlock his front door, the key jabbing into wood and brass too far to one side or the other. He laughs, breath puffing white clouds into the air, his ears burning with the cold where his hat doesn't quite cover them.

Good thing he's not with a woman, tonight, if his aim's so bad with just his hands.

The thought makes him laugh harder, nearly a guffaw, loud enough that he's sure he's woken a neighbor or two. It's not the first time.

Finally, the key slides home and the lock clicks and Tooley moves inside. The house is chilled in the entryroom, but as he slides his coat and fedora off to leave them on the coat rack and moves into the kitchen, towards the back, he can feel the warmth slowly trickling from the ticking radiators along the walls.

He's due for a coal delivery in the next couple of days, and boy, he's going to need it with the weather the way it's been.

Tooley heads for his perfect little secret, the vampire held in the backroom, once a sort of servant's bedroom for some family that had owned the home even before his own parents did. It's his studio, now, and the place where the little vampire boy is kept.

He unlocks that door, too. A key, a deadbolt, a little sliding lock at the top for added safety.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty," He slurs, and laughs again, delighted at his own little joke.

There's a scrape and a rustle, and Tooley steps back to let the vampire boy move forward, out of the freezing unheated room - Tooley only turns the radiator on in there when he himself is working, it's not like dead things care about being warm after all - and into the kitchen proper, with its little two-person table.

The boy is looking dirty - he's due for a bath, long overdue honestly. Good things he doesn't sweat enough to stink.

His hair hangs lank in his eyes, closer to dark copper than the new-penny shine Tooley prefers. There are smudges along his cheeks, marring his perfect freckles. He's draped in a sweater patched badly where his elbows have worn holes right through, pants that are tied with a rope since Tooley sure isn't going to waste money on a belt for a corpse.

"Is, did, did you, um, did you bring me food?" The vampire boy looks up at him, eyes glinting a little in the dimness, that unsettling cat-like glow-in-the-dark effect. His little fangs flash, too. "I'm... I'm, I'm hungry, Tooley."

"I know you are, bloodsucker."

"It's, it's been, um, it's been weeks, Tooley-"

"I know, I know. Shut your trap." Tooley ruffles his hair, then pulls his hand back with a grimace as he remembers how dirty and greasy it's gotten, walking away to go to the sink and wash his hands. "We'll get t'that. I met with someone very important at th' bar tonight, and first things first, you and I are going to celebrate."

The boy moves slowly, staying half-crouched - he's been hit before, when Tooley didn't want him to stand all the way up. He settles himself against the wall, head tilted to the side. His cheekbones cut sharp angles in his face, edging down to his narrow chin.

Those big green eyes follow Tooley everywhere he goes.

"Celebrate what?" He asks, and Tooley wonders just how old the ridiculous little thing is. He'd said early aughts, hadn't he, on when he was turned? So he'd be, what, in his forties really?

Funny.

Was he locked up during the Great War?

He's still a pretty teenager, but he's probably closing in on fifty. Tooley's twenty-some years younger and looks infinitely older, in his own estimation.

Tooley should look into vampirism, seems an excellent way to hold onto your looks, doesn't it? He wonders if the boy knows how to turn him. They could make beautiful work forever...

Hm.

Something to ruminate over when he's hungover in the morning.

"New commission. I'm taking a few weeks off, give us both a break, but I've got the basic details. I'll pick up a broad, get her all set up for modeling, we'll make us a mint, sweetheart." He moves to the counter, picking up the half-full bottle of gin he keeps there, taking a swig and grimacing, coughing. There's a rattle in his lungs these days he doesn't like much.

"You'll, you'll kill her?" The vampire watches him. He looks hungry, with all those sharp lines emphasized, as though he were a painting himself still in progress, with the outline still written in graphite showing through the colors. He's pale, painted in wash, not yet turned to vivid velvet intensity with oils.

"'Course. You think any of my models would stay alive anywhere near you?" He laughs at the very idea, missing the vampire's little flinch as he turns away. He pulls a loaf of bread from the breadbox, already starting to stale but that's all right, he's going to toast it over the stove anyway. The world swims around him from the liquor, and he catches the counter with one hand to keep himself upright.

The feeling brings another laugh out of him.

The little vampire smiles faintly in echo of it. He has to work to get the stove to gas, narrowing his eyes as it struggles, sputters, before finally a little flame flares up. Just enough to give off a little heat for the toast.

"Fuck. Drank too much. Or not enough." He laughs again, and pulls a knife from the knifeblock, the sharp serrated thin blade best for slicing through the heavy sourdough he buys from a woman down the block. Bit of toast, pat of salted butter, that'll get him through to morning when he can head down for eggs and bacon at Paulie's diner.

Maybe he'll even buy some extra for the hungry men who hound around the doors. He can be a philanthropist.

As he slices, the knife slips off the stale, hard crust and cuts right through the back of his hand, a long line immediately welling with bright red blood. He groans, irritated, and sets the knife down, turning to run cold water over it as the pain flares bright, but slightly muted from his drunkenness.

There's a rustle behind him, and Tooley's mind only belatedly begins to allow alarm to trickle through the warm fuzz of the gin and whiskey. He slowly turns around.

Where the vampire boy had been curled against the wall, a bundle of skinny bones and too-big clothes, there's... nothing.

Tooley glances to one side and sees the boy crouched on the floor by the edge of the lower cabinets, his hands pressed into the ground. He moved five feet in less than a second.

His eyes are flared, wide and with pupils burying the iris in black. He clicks, softly, tongue against teeth in an inhuman way.

Click-click-click-click.

click-click-click.

How'd he move so fast?

"Shit," Tooley whispers. "When's the last time I fed you?"

The vampire doesn't answer, only stares, unblinking, muscles tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. He clicks again.

His lips pull back from his teeth and those fangs that seem so cute and little on every other day suddenly look long, like daggers, dripping a shimmering venom to the ground.

Tooley tries not to blink, too, but his eyes dry and dry and dry and eventually he can't help it. His eyes close, a fraction of a second, and flare open right away.

Not fast enough.

The vampire leaps and Tooley grunts at the impact of the small bony body against his own, his lower back smacking into the line of the counter with a flash of pain. The bread and knife both clatter to the ground.

Panic comes, but it doesn't help. He's still groping to get at another knife when the vampire's fingernails dig into his scalp, grip into his hair and jerk his head to the side to bare his throat.

"Hungry," The vampire boy hisses. "Hungry, Tooley. Hungry."

"I-I know, just, just don't blow your wig, gimmee a minute, I can get you something, just hold on-" Tooley's voice is thin from the harsh angle his neck is being held at, and he swallows, seeing in a bleary haze the way the vampire's huge eyes are focused on the movement of his adam's apple, the bob of his throat.

Can he see the blood pulsing there?

He puts his hands up against the vampire's chest to try and push him off, but it's like pushing against rock. He thinks about painting the vampire as a kind of young Prometheus for a dandy from Boston, tied naked to a rock to be pecked at by eagles, and wonders if the mythological man ever tried to push the rock itself, and if it failed as miserably for him as it does for Tooley now.

"There's blood in the shed out back, just let me go and I'll grab it for you." He pitches his voice soothing and slightly patronizing, like speaking to a whining dog. "Okay, kitten? Just two minutes and you'll be fed, right as rain."

The vampire pauses, hesitates, and Tooley feels his hands working at Tooley's hair and one shoulder, like a cat kneading into your lap before they settle. His little stray. His breathing starts to ease, his heart to slow down, the first rush of panic subsiding.

The world still spins a little, but the rush of adrenaline is settling things into something more solid, wiping away the liquor.

"I'll put you back in your room and go get it for you, it's right outside, good and cold," Tooley coos, and realizes too late it isn't what he should have said.

"There's blood right here, and and and, and, and it's living," The vampire boy says, eyes wide and inhuman, and he's absolutely gorgeous. "Your, your, yours is hot."

Tooley would paint him like this, all feral instinct overwriting the living corpse of an anonymous Irish immigrant who died dozens of years ago. A metaphor, maybe, for the way some of the children who come here lose all their European culture and get boorishly American, and-

The vampire bites down, and all thoughts of art and culture flee from Tooley's mind.

The liquor holds off the pain so long the venom hits before he even feels the way those sharp teeth have breached his skin. He goes limp, dropping in a heap to the floor. He thinks he hits his head on the loaf of bread before it knocks into the floor.

They feel about the same level of hardness.

The knife is right next to his head, lying there, shining in the yellowed lamplight, with its carved wooden handle.

All he has to do is move his hand a few inches to reach it.

Just a few inches.

He tries, desperately, to tell his fingers where to go.

The vampire sucks hard at the wound in his neck, pulling blood from his veins like a man drinking an egg cream after a long hot day's work, and Tooley groans. He can feel the press and pull without the pain, and it's the strangest thing he's ever felt. Stranger than those he's gone to bed with.

The venom makes his limbs feel like stones, weighed down to motionless. He struggles even to swallow saliva, to take a deep breath. His heart never races again with panic. He isn't able to feel it any longer.

Those sharp little fingernails dig hard into his shoulders, the weight of the vampire settled on him, straddling him. A little flirty thought - at least buy me dinner first - makes its way across his mind, barely coherent, slow as molasses.

The vampire starts up his soft rumble, the vibration filtering in through into Tooley's body. It seems like it makes him feel even more frozen, heavy as the ocean and weightless at once.

His eyes are on the ceiling, and he realizes how long it's been since anyone cleaned the corners where cobwebs have grown and grown. They need swept away.

Funny how he never noticed before. Too busy with his art.

There's a moment where Tooley is surprised to look down at himself, as if he's floating somewhere near the ceiling staring down at his own open eyes. When he needed not to blink, he couldn't stop himself, but now the body he is looking at just stares and stares and stares, unseeing, unblinking, unbreathing-

Oh.

As soon as the realization hits, Tooley's awareness of himself as a body he can observe is gone.

There is darkness, and then a point of terrible final light. He feels the grasping of bloodied hands.

And he's gone.

The vampire drinks until the blood stops pumping, until the heart beneath his kneading hand is still. Then a rough tongue laps at the wounds, finding the last few droplets there that still sing with life.

The vampire pulls back, skin flush with life, no longer white as snow. His freckles stand out, scattered like constellations of stars over his skin. The dead man beneath him has all the paleness he had before, they are switched, swapped death for life.

He wipes the blood from around his mouth and looks slowly upwards, breathing in deep gulps he doesn't need but which feel so, so good.

He moves to the stove, to turn it off, but he doesn't quite turn it off all the way. An odd smell fills his nose and the vampire's nostrils wrinkle, but he doesn't know what the scent is, and he simply pulls Tooley's coat on before he leaves, door unlocked.

A few minutes later, a man with his hands over a barrel fire looks up to see a redheaded teenager in a woolen coat far too large for him move under a streetlamp, pausing to look up at it as if surprised by how bright its light is.

He blinks, and the man squints.

The young man's mouth is open, as if scenting the air by letting it roll over his tongue. Before the man can quite understand what he is looking at, the boy's mouth closes and he turns to look at the man. As his eyes shift from being lit by the lamp to draped in shadow, though...

They glow.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," The man whispers, crossing himself hurriedly. "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, b-be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil-"

The boy looks right at him, head tilted. The flames of the barrel flicker, hissing a little when raindrops start to fall. His lips pull back from his teeth and there are an animal's fangs there, plain as day.

The man feels pure horror at the sight of a demon walking free and unfettered in New York City. He grabs at the cross he wears around his neck and holds it out, his voice trembling. "May G-God... rebuke him, we humbly pray-"

"I, I, I hope that works for you," The boy says, and his voice is soft, and there's almost a lilt of the old country there that the man recognizes, not quite his own but not far off. "It never d-did for, um, for me. Don't worry. I'm... I'm full. You're, you're, you're in no danger from me. When, when, when, when... when did you come here? To this place?"

The man swallows around a lump in his throat, and yet he finds himself compelled to answer honestly. "Two years past, give or take. Came with m'wife and baby girl."

"From where?"

"... Kerry," He says, against his will. He can't seem to hold back the words. "And my wife grew up in County Cork."

The boy smiles, and his horrid teeth disappear when his lips press together. He looks for all the world like any other young man, a bit skinny perhaps and in need of a good meal or three, but no danger to anyone.

But the man has seen the demon that he is, and he finds himself grateful for the fire between them and the cross still in his hand, the shield of St. Michael and the cloak of Christ Himself.

"My, my, my, my parents were from County Cork," The demon boy says, lightly. His lilt is slightly stronger. "Wonder if we're cousins, your your wife and I. Maybe so. Stay home, um, after dark. Don't, don't, don't work when the sun is, um, is down."

The boy turns and walks away.

The man realizes with a start that in the midst of a chilly December night, the boy's feet are utterly bare. He steps over ice like he could walk on water.

There was blood smeared on the back of his coat.

The man flinches as he hears a sudden boom, close enough that he feels it in his chest as well as hearing the sound. A moment later a woman runs by shouting that a house has caught flame, to call for help.

The man looks back at the way the boy went.

He's gone.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[fruitsrotten-a]

❥ ABOUT

hello mr.angry pants! long time no speak! when i first created you and pulled you from my creative womb, i had to pull out my illegally obtained copy of the dsm-5. now look at you, being all…semi-mentally stable and….having more empathy than i intended to portray in you as a writer. anyways, let’s look at how you’ve developed thus far. your entire childhood is just one big rough patch. shitty dad syndrome. rest in peace to your ever so kind and loving mother who gave all of the good parts on this list to you. guess you had to do some horrible things with those hands of yours as a kid. it doesn’t seem like you really ever got the chance to be…normal. but what’s normal these days anyways? sure it’s definitely not being the only born son of an alcoholic druglord. but! who needs normalcy? that’s boring. you dropped out in high school even though you were a senior. that was….an interesting choice. and perhaps the most interesting choice that im seeing here is the one you made to take your father’s life. things just got …..weird. or whatever. im more concerned about the fact that his men were willing to carry out your plan than anything else. they must have been more protective of you than even you realized. god bless the late men of the old gray cross syndicate. and may they never have to push another bag of rock again. but anyways….i dont wanna talk too much about all of the traumatic things anymore. there’s so many of them. the bruises are gone but the scars are still there, i think you get reminded of it all enough. i get why you’re angry. but i’m seeing so much more of you now. 

i see the good in you when i look at my clipboard. the concerned and giving heart. its true that the only thing you ever learned was how to be a master of manipulation. but even behind your forceful administration there is an admirable effort to help kids, help people, that remind you of yourself. like when you found ren cowering in the back of a trafficking truck. phoenix in the midst of a shootout. jace on the park bench. you might have had the worst of things in mind for them down the line. but tell me the truth, you wanted to protect them didn’t you? the same way you wish that someone to protected you growing up. i happen to think that’s sweet of you. you softie. even if you are somewhat of an asshole. actually, a major asshole. looks like you’re also quite lonely. pet snakes don’t exactly keep mammals warm company at night. that probably explains all the one night stands with whoever comes your way. you can lowkey chill out on that. it’s like you don’t give anyone a chance? open up just a little, it would probably be really good for you. you also drink too much alcohol but im not worried because i know youd rather die than be like your dad. anyways, organized crime is definitely not your forever sir saros. i see such a future for you. each day you write in your freetime is a step towards that book about this crazy life you got, am i right? i can see you advocating for change once you uh…get over yourself and your current way of doing things. this has been a deeper conversation than expected. lets get into the questions and i’ll move forward.

what are you most proud of?

your sister? wow that’s….a…nicer answer than i expected coming from you. 

what are you grateful for?

the people around you, huh? you’re a classic found family trope motherfucker if i’ve ever seen one.

what are you afraid of?

a loss of control. i see that.

what do you love about yourself?

your adversity. agreed.

what are your non work related hobbies?

arts and crafts? that’s like super off brand but i can’t argue with it since the file says your mom taught you.

favorite color?

red like the color you rep. 

lastly, what are you passionate about?

evening the score in the world? uhm…i think you mean something like…equity or like…equality but like…i digress.

i ask every muse this. what animal would you be?

a snake. got it. will watch out.

[mi6-cafe]

WEEK 2 DRABBLES ARE HERE!

Now, let’s refresh your memory.

For the second week of LDWS, our true l- our writers were asked to write a drabble between 150 and 200 words, based on the word deck from the point of view of an outsider.

THEY DID SUCH A GREAT JOB!

(this is a purely illustrative gif of an outside observer of the goings on at Q’s flat, not a prompt)

READ THE DRABBLES AND VOTE!

hOW?

Read the drabbles & Pick three favourites!

Vote for them on this form!

Add some feedback for the writers!

That’s it! You have done your civic duty and voted!

Vote!

Read the drabbles below the line.

#1

Title: Eulogy for the Aston Martin Author: Misha / artsytarts Warnings: Canon Typical Violence (mainly directed at vehicles) Summary: Around 007, life and death go hand in hand.

The moment I leave solid ground and fly, pointed directly at the deck of the ship, I know my life is forfeit.

I realize now why the other machines pitied me after I was assigned to the man they call 007. I see his blue eyes blazing as he concentrates, gripping my steering wheel. They say he’s careless, but judging from the few days I’ve carried him, I know different. He’s not careless. His destruction is calculated. Only once I was obsolete, once he depleted my ammunition, blew my doors off, and pushed my motor to breaking point did he make his decision: To use me as his missile.

I count the milliseconds as the deck rushes towards me. Without a word, 007 pushes the ejector button and I fling him out into the open air, out into safety and freedom.

I am to be his sacrifice.

Before I hit the ship to perish in a blaze, I decide: I have no use for resentment. Like so many machines before me, I have granted him life.

That must count for something.

#2

Title: All In Author: sorion Warnings: none Summary: Bond is handy with cards, and Felix likes to watch.

There are few things as satisfying as watching James Bond clean a table in poker. Felix has learned that pretty much the moment he's met Bond, and the entertainment value hasn't changed in the years that have passed.  

On the contrary: Felix has learned some of Bond's tells. Not the kind of tells that would let him win against the insufferably unbeatable agent, but Felix recognises the spark that lights up in Bond's eyes, only seconds before he wipes the confident smirk off an opponent's face with a winning hand.  

Another thing he can see is whether Bond enjoys the game for its own sake or just really hates one of the other players. He knows it's the latter when the opponent asks for a rematch and offers the deed to a hotel in lieu of liquid funds, and Bond agrees, provided that they use a new, unopened deck of cards.  

The opponent blanches near imperceptibly, and Felix smirks into his drink. Oh, yes. Very satisfying.

#3

Title: Voyeuristic Displeasure Author: sunaddicted Warnings: none Summary: seeing everything is not so fun

Bond's hands were big and rough, stronger than they had any right to be.

He had been observing them with varying degrees of interest over the years, stuck behind his computers or out in the field - air straining in his lungs with the knowledge that the other's life depended on how fast and how smart he could be.

He watched Bond strut along the deck, hand poised low on someone's lower back, head tilted down in a way that suggested he was focusing on whatever he was being told, seemingly enraptured in them - Bond played the part well but he knew what signs to look for, to spot the seams of the almost perfect façade: he darted glances around, favoring his right side, trying to keep under the eye of the cameras that he knew to be in friendly hands.

The hand slipped lower, fingers teasingly dipping beneath the edge of the brightly colored bathing suit his companion was wearing - shameless.

Almost teasing.

He stood up with a weary sigh, empty mug held aloft: he was going to need a strongly brewed cup of tea, if he had to watch Bond flirt his way into another bed.

#4

Title: International Man Of Mystery Author: Merc / moon_of_mercury Warnings: none Summary: Some players never make it to places like Casino Royale. Others... acquire nice cars on the way.

She has encountered many interesting characters in her career, some more remarkable than others. Poker tends to attract extraordinary people. It isn’t always easily definable: something about this man arrests her attention the moment he walks up to the table, asking to join the game even though she’s already cutting the deck. 

He flashes a cocky smile at everyone, reads his opponents like a professional, and pleads with her to let the unlucky Mr. Dimitrios bet his car to win his money back. She complies, amused. Such self-sufficient arrogance would be offending if not for his friendly politeness. The way he eyes the man’s wife is not mere casual interest either. Those intense ice-blue eyes have already seen every opportunity. His body language may seem relaxed, but there’s an awareness in his movements that hints at explosive potential underneath the calm surface. 

For an exhilarating moment, she revels in being a part of this man’s story. It’s as clear as day that he’s used to playing for much higher stakes. She wonders what the real prize here is.

Dimitrios has lost again even before this stranger shows his cards. Men like him bend luck to their will. 

#5

Title: Crossroads Author: Hexiva Warnings: None Summary: James Bond visits a fortune teller.

The man’s cold blue eyes look past Serenity as he steps into her fortune-telling tent, and she shivers. His aura is like ice, a vast glacier with life frozen deep down inside it. He reminds her of a mobster from some old movie, wealthy but brutal. 

“What do you want to learn?” she asks.

“The future,” he says, distractedly. She follows his eyes to a bearded man standing at the high striker, speaking in Russian. 

She shuffles her deck. “There are two paths before everyone,” she says. “This choice is yours.” She draws two. “First path - The Lovers, the Star. Companionship and connection bringing hope. Choose the Lovers' path, and you will find a new beginning. A second chance.”

“And the other?” he asks. His tone is flat and apathetic. He doesn't believe in hope.

She draws again.  “The Emperor, the Hermit, both reversed. Rigidity and repression bringing isolation and misery. Choose the Emperor's path and you will end up alone.”

But the man is looking past her at the Russian, and he stands. “Thanks." A wry little smile. "But I think I already know what path I’m on.”

She watches him go. In his shadow, she sees the Emperor.

#6

Title: Observation Deck Author: Anyawen Warnings: none Summary: Mallory and Tanner contemplate employee relations.

Mallory surveyed the scene before him, sipping his scotch and trying, fruitlessly, to tune out the horrid rendition of 'Deck the Halls' playing overhead.

"We should do something about that," Tanner said, coming to stand beside him.

"About what?"

"That," Tanner replied, gesturing in the direction of Bond and Q. "Them."

The Quartermaster, decked out in a horrible Christmas jumper, looked exasperated. Bond, naturally, looked smug. They appeared to have entirely forgotten the holiday party happening around them as they argued. Flirted. Whatever.

"Trying to stop that from happening would be an exercise in rearranging deckchairs on the Titanic," Mallory said with a bemused smile. "Utterly futile."

"I don't want to discourage them," Tanner protested as Q cracked an unwilling smile at something Bond said.

"What, then?"

"A little push? Mistletoe? Lock them in a closet?" Tanner suggested hopefully.

"That might be construed as stacking the deck in your favor," Mallory observed mildly.

"You know about the bet?" Tanner spluttered as Q stole Bond's champagne glass and drained it to Bond's mock outrage.

"Spy," Mallory explained succinctly.

Tanner nodded wry acknowledgement.

They continued their silent observations a few minutes more, then Tanner asked, "What day did you pick?"

"April first."

#7

Title: Nighttime Invasion Author: SouffleGirl91 Warnings: vague references to blood, swearing Summary: Q’s cat is not impressed by 3am visitors

Thunk.

A crumpled heap hit the floor. She hissed, tail bushy, ready to pounce on the intruder.

“Oof!”

Gunpowder Man was invading her space.

Again.

“Q?” Gunpowder Man whisper-shouted. He sounded different. “Are you awake?”

Something dark dripped from his nose.

She sniffed cautiously. He stank of copper and salt. Still, it was better than the strong, sour reek of last time.

A light came on in Father’s bedroom.

Gunpowder Man lifted himself up and wobbled to the sofa. Walking on two legs seemed harder for him than usual.

“Bond?” Father came traipsing up behind him, making the room light up. “What the fuck? It’s 3 in the bloody morning. You couldn’t wait?”

“What, you’re not happy to see me?” Gunpowder Man used the false-happy tone Father used when he tricked her into The Basket.

Another dark drip.

“Don’t be stupid,” Father tsked, petting Gunpowder Man softly on the shoulder. That should help; Father gave the best pets. “Why don’t I put the - Christ, Bond! What happened to your nose?”

“It’s not broken. She hit me when I told her I was staying.”

“I thought psychologists were meant to keep their cool,” Father sighed. “Come on, let’s clean you up.”

#8

Title: A confession of a deck Author: scarytheory Warnings: none Summary: James Bond would be lost without me.

I'd like to think that James and I are not just colleagues, but friends.

You know, we’ve been through a lot together. Cottages in forgotten lands, first-class casinos, important fights – I’d always been with him and helped him along the way.

But this game is different.

“That’s not fair, James,” the opponent says, watching his stack of cards.

“I’m not cheating, Q.”

The opponent snorts. “You may be the best player the MI6’s ever had, but even you can’t be THAT good, 007. Aces again? That’s not very subtle.”

“You were the one who said poker is just basic math and all about the art of reading people. So stop whinging and take off your shirt.”

Beg your pardon?

There is something disturbing in the air. I don’t think I want to give the good cards to James anymore. “Happy?”

The shirt falls to the floor.

“Immensely.”

The next round, Q loses his pants. I’m starting to think that this isn’t even about poker!

“I won.”

Finally, it’s over and I can relax again. Even though I’m not sure what this young lad can have that James Bond would be interested in… oh.

#9

Title: Camouflage Author: IrishWitch58 Warnings: None Summary: A certain agent and their partner are in the field. The local perspective.

Grace's eyes were drawn to her first customers on the deck overlooking the harbor. They were as unlike as could be but Grace would have known they were together with just a glance. The subtle leaning in, the eye contact, the briefest brush of a hand. Not honeymooners but the established kind of connection that took time and patience. The younger man was dark and slender and had a tan that was honey gold. The older one was broader and blond and that one sent tingles up her spine. Her brother and his military buddies were like that, poised and watchful. She didn't see a weapon but suspected he was armed. They'd arrived three days ago in a beautifully restored vintage sailboat, walking the less traveled portions of the island.

Passing Grace, Mimi muttered “Spies posing as tourists.”

Gracie scoffed at Mimi's imagination. What were they spying on here, conch recipes? Then a new boat dropped anchor. The blond saw it first and the dark haired one checked the tablet he always seemed to have before nodding and finishing his chowder.

The pretty sailboat pulled up anchor the next dawn and the new boat was found derelict two days later.

#10

Title: Missing Him Author: Nana-chan Warnings: Summary: Austen the cat watches as her human pines for the Blond One

From her perch on the living room sofa, Austen looks disapprovingly at her bespectacled human. He is out on the deck again, smoking and no doubt pining for the Blond One. He is a relatively new addition to the household and has been gone for several days now, as is his habit. Keats—that dummy—misses him, too, as he meows and gazes forlornly at the front door.

She herself is unsure of the Blond One, but she doesn’t like it when her human is all sad and distracted, reeking of cigarette smoke and unresponsive to feline overtures of comfort. She feels powerless to help him. How did one man become so essential to her human’s happiness?

Then a key turns, the door opens, and there he is. The Blond One dumps his bag in the foyer and heads straight for the deck, pausing only to give her a brief head scritch. She watches as he folds her human into his arms and starts grooming him in that strange way humans have, with their mouths fused.

She hears her human laugh, gladness and relief evident in his tones, and finally, she makes up her mind about the Blond One.

#11

Title: Origin of a Voyeur Author: stormofsharpthings Warnings: none Summary: There was a legitimate reason to start going through all the Q Branch security footage, dammit!

After the small accidental volcano destroyed lab 7b, no one could recall who’d last checked the fire suppression system. Exasperated, R pulled up the security videos in hopes of spotting someone. The recording of Q and 007 was entirely unrelated, but she just couldn’t look away.

Q had been helping Bond dress for some formal event, tuxedo carefully tailored to conceal the equipment Q was arranging around his body. The scene resembled a squire helping his knight, except...

R bit her lip at the way Q stroked his fingertips down the front of Bond’s suit to check the drape of the fabric, evading Bond’s hungry gaze with a sly little quirk to his mouth. Then Q leaned close, reaching around to run his hands over the back of the jacket, lingering a little over Bond’s well-proportioned backside before he sank to one knee and brushed along the sides of the trousers.

“There, all decked out,” Q murmured.

Bond reached down to cradle Q’s chin in his hand and Q looked up with a provocative lick of his lips, the heat almost visibly simmering between them. Bond took a deep breath, his fingers tightening, and Q ‘s eyes widened and then slid shut as he turned to brush his lips against Bond’s thumb. When Bond made a low rough sound, both Q and Rani swallowed at the same time.

Then the outer office door slammed and she hurriedly shut her computer down, blushing. But she saved a private copy first.

#12

Title: The Bet Author: Venstar Warnings: none Summary: Bets are made, there will be blood.

Oh, yes. It was going to happen. The tension was palpable in the room, yes he said palpable in his interior monologue. Just fucking get closer. Do it already. He was going to win that bet today by fuck. He leaned forward in anticipation, eyes locked on target. Yes. Yes….Keep going...almost….

*AH-OOH-GA!! AH-OOH-GAH!! AH-OOH-GAH!!*

Fuck, goddammit. Not again! He narrowed his eyes. There was no way another attack by water was happening. Dammit. Fake or not they were going to have to clear the god damned building. He sighed heavily as he turned sad eyes back to where 007 and Q had been quietly eyeing each other. They were gone. “What the fuck?” Where? There! The orange of Q’s cardigan turned a corner.  He was not about to lose the 'THEY FINALLY MADE OUT DAY' be! He ignored the rest of Q’branch’s leads as they ordered the evacuation.

“Davis?”

Fuck. It was R.

“And just where are you going? Exit is that way.”

He turned with hunched shoulders to find R smiling at him. Her eyes flitted past him to where Q and 007 had disappeared to. “THAT bet will only be won when it’s officially my day.”

#13

Title: Specs and the Lady Author: solarmorrigan Warnings: None. Summary: Louis has been a bartender for a long time, but occasionally patrons can still surprise him.

The Friday night crowd seethes around the bar in waves, laughing and calling out their orders. Louis has been a bartender a long time, which means he can keep up with the steady roll of vodka-tonic-scotch-and-soda-bottle-bottle-pint and still keep an eye on the floor for trouble.

Trouble like the man in specs and a loud jumper bumping into an over-drunk man in a worn football jersey, spilling both their drinks.

Specs’ mouth forms the word ‘sorry,’ but Jersey isn’t having it. He grabs Specs’ jumper, but before Louis can even call for Paul—their unofficial bouncer-bartender—a lady slides in between them, curly hair and cunning eyes, and pulls Jersey’s hand away.

Jersey shoves the lady, and viper-quick, she decks him. Jersey goes down.

Louis lets out a surprised laugh. The lady looks quite pleased. Specs looks exasperated, though Louis doesn’t know why; if he had someone like that in his corner, all squared shoulders and terrifying heels, he’d be delighted. Then again, from Specs’ half-laughing attempt at chastisement that carries in the surprised lull in noise (“Really, Eve?”), this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

“Just take Jersey out,” Louis bids as Paul moves in, “Specs and the lady are fine.”

#14

Title: Eyes on You Author: oldestcharm Warnings: n/a Summary: The Quartermaster is enjoying his afternoon and Bond is far too concerned about his garden.

She's good at her job. So good, in fact, that she's currently hidden from sight with her scope right on MI6's Quartermaster himself. He's sitting on the deck of his house, enjoying the sunny weather with a girly drink in one hand and a laptop resting on his thighs. He's typing furiously, paying no attention to his surroundings. All she has to do is take one shot.  

Then, the sprinklers turn on.  

She does her best to not make a sound even as her phone buzzes.

4:27 pm:

There are over twenty cameras on the property.

4:28 pm:

I suggest you get out of my hydrangea bush. James worked rather hard on the garden and he won't be pleased to find you there.

A click behind her — probably a gun. "You've ruined my garden."

She turns around and finds herself face to face with the legendary agent. She cringes. "I'm... very sorry?"

Bond does not look amused. "You're fixing this before you leave."

"You're not going to kill me?" she asks, heart pounding.

"Q wants you for his team." Bond sighs, looking more annoyed than anything. "Either you accept or I'll shoot you."

Well, it's not exactly a choice.

#15

Title: Over It Author: MrKsan / starrboned Warnings: Canon-Typical language Summary: Tanner is nervous.

Ferrying through the maze of the Thames tunnels was often a nerve-wracking job. More so when his passengers were nervous. More so when it was the Chief of Staff who was sitting across from him, restless, tap-tap-tapping on his cardboard box.

Tanner gave Jack an awkward smile as they docked, climbing the narrow ladder just as the Quartermaster stormed into view.

“I’m going to skin the twat alive, Bill!“ he hissed, making Tanner stumble to a stop. “Didn’t even try to cover his tracks.”

Jack grinned. Only one man could piss Q off that much.

Tanner sighed, resigned. “I’ll inform M-”

“Already did,” Q huffed.

"Oh?"

"Not risking my career for him again, Bill."

Jack dared a peek at the couple; the conversation was taking an unexpected turn.

Tanner blinked, once, twice, before seeming to come to a decision. He shoved the cardboard box at Q.

“Thought we could share breakfast, since our dinner last night was interrupted? Bad timing, of course- ”

"Bill,” Q said, and Jack saw the silver of a smirk. "I would love to."

Pulling a crumpled cigarette from under his heavy coat, Jack couldn't help but grin to himself.

MI6 and their drama.

Go vote!

[makeup-manifestation]

Time for another tutorial! Continuing on with the ToT boys, our next inspiration comes from detective/secret agent/general ray of sunshine, Luke Pearce!

I’m going to admit that I went with Luke next just to get him out of the way, not because I don’t love him but because I know that I would have difficultly coming up with a proper design for him, especially because his color scheme is kind of difficult to translate into eyeshadow without it looking weird or muddy. I sort of agonized over it for a bit, and originally I was going to go with something that drew a bit more inspiration from Peanut and the yellows that he is often associated with in promo art. But then, I made a mistake that eventually turned into something better! I when I was putting on my makeup this morning (because I often do these looks and do outfits to match them and wear them to class) I had taken my brush and taken some of my yellow, but when I started putting it on I thought “huh, this is looking more orange than I remembered.” And then I realized what happened. I had been messing around and experimenting last night because I was trying to see if I could recreate the freckles that the main character’s virtual avatar has from the movie Belle, because I’m going to see it tomorrow (this experiment failed, if I were to do it I properly would probably need a smaller brush or red graphic eyeliner), and I had forgotten to wipe the red eyeshadow off of my brush. So, when I used it this morning, the leftover red mixed with the yellow to make this warm yellow-ish orange (my palette already has an orange but it’s a lot brighter and looks sort of like a traffic cone, it has its uses but not for this)! I then improvised with some other colors and came out with something that looked really nice when it was all blended. That’s enough blabber, sorry if this feels like one of those recipes in which the author tells their entire life story and prevents you from getting to that awesome soup recipe in a timely manner, on to the tutorial!

Products used/recommended! (If you don’t have these, use whatever alternatives you have that are close to the shades that I used! They don’t have to be expensive, tbh most of my makeup is drugstore, the only stuff that isn’t is like my foundation and concealer.)

Makeup Revolution Reloaded Euphoria Palette (in case you can’t tell this palette is probably going to be in most of my tutorials, I love it to death it’s so colorful and it’s super pigmented when you use primer, plus it’s normally under $10!)

Wet n Wild Comfort Zone Palette (horrible confession I bought this palette so long ago that the one I’m using is the old discontinued version. It still works though, plus I checked and the new version that is being sold now has all of the same shades plus a few more, so I say that it’s still worth a buy, especially if you want some softer earthy tones for more every day looks!)

I was finally able to make out the text on my eyeshadow primer and match it to the actual product! It’s the Wet n Wild photofocus eyeshadow primer!

Eyeshadow “C” Brush (e.l.f.)

Small Angled Brush (e.l.f.)

Here’s the diagram! Written instructions will be below!

1. Apply your eyeshadow primer to your eyelids and creases!

2. Alternate between using red and yellow (the shades labeled as “1” on the diagram) on your inner corners until they mix into a pleasant yellowish orange (make sure to wipe off your brush when you switch colors!)

3. Wipe off your brush and take some of the olive green (the shade labeled as “2” on the diagram) and apply it to the rest of your eyelid. Make sure to blend it properly with the orange!

4. Wipe off your brush and take some of the brown labeled as “3” on the diagram and apply it to your crease. Make sure to blend!

5. Typically I prefer to line my eyes with black, and I usually use a liquid liner, but this look was coming out looking a bit earthy so I decided to just line using the small angled brush in the brown labeled “4” on the diagram so it would come out softer!

And that’s the tutorial! Tbh I was trying to avoid being super long winded in my intro but I want to drop this story: so I’m really bad at small talk with strangers, so of course icebreakers make me want to throw myself out of a window. I was my first official stats class of the semester (and thankfully the last math class that I will have to take in my undergrad, woo!) and my professor said “okay so take like three minutes to introduce yourself to the people sitting near you”, and then everyone sitting around me turned to other people and started talking, and the one other person next to me was a TA, so I was too nervous to actually say anything to anyone or interrupt so I was just kind of sitting there like this:

My social ineptitude aside, I hope you guys enjoyed this tutorial, and happy pulling! Our next ToT boy will be Vyn!

If you want to make a request, check out my pinned post and then shoot me an ask!

Other ToT looks:

Marius: https://makeup-manifestation.tumblr.com/post/673614434674032640/okay-yall-its-time-for-the-first-official

[onlyforthebabes]

✨HL playlists by onlyforthebabes✨

(Edited to include 🎵when you know you know (HL6), 🎵close enough to touch (HL11), 🎵burnt romances (HL13), and 🎵too far gone (HL18))

This post is long overdue, but I've finally made a master list of all the HL playlists I've published here. They're listed in the order I created them, so there are some gaps in the numbers where I haven't posted (or maybe even finished) some, but I'll update if I ever publish more! I've put a lot of thought and time and love into these playlists, so I really hope y'all find something to enjoy here.

✨🎶

🎵a truth so loud

HL. The OG. A canon inspired playlist based on some of the most iconic H/L songs. (ft. 1D, Troye Sivan, Ed Sheeran, Lorde)

🎵honey (make this easy)

HL2. There’s no denying the chemistry between them from the moment they meet - so they don’t even try. While discretely hooking up with a fellow X Factor hopeful sounds like just another part of the fun, it’s hard to ignore that this thing between them is way more than physical, and “X Factor hopefuls” has become wholly inadequate to describe where they’re going. But in the midst of all the chaos, it’s hard to resist something this good. (ft. 1D, Hozier, Lizzo, Carly Rae Jepson)

🎵no matter how sweet, no matter how brave

HL3. New fame, new friends, new feelings. Jealousy gives way to mutual infatuation, which evolves into steadfast love. Growing up too fast doesn’t feel so scary when you’ve got someone to hold onto. (ft. 1D, Fleetwood Mac, Niall Horan, The Head and the Heart)

🎵Entirely

HLFOUR. Coming soon. (ft. 1D, Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson)

🎵when you know you know

HL6. It's all about that one person... (ft. 1D, Maria Mena, Yellowcard, Beyoncé)

🎵one foot in sea and one on shore

HL10. A traveling sailor whose sense of home is the familiar warmth of local bars, a charming bartender in a seaside village, and a brief affair that leaves them both longing for a life far from everything they know. (ft. Regina Spektor, Bright Eyes, Feist, The Format)

🎵close enough to touch

HL11. Love can be frightening, for sure. (girl!direction) (ft. 1D, Louis Tomlinson, Hozier, Jake Scott)

🎵sunset couldn't save me now

HL12. Part-time suburban youth, summertime neighbors growing up together and blurring the lines of love and friendship; chasing dreams, traveling the world, and figuring out that sometimes home is a person. (ft. Sufjan Stevens, Vampire Weekend, Regina Spektor, Neutral Milk Hotel)

🎵burnt romances

HL13. A canon-compliant au where everything goes wrong, but love finds a way. (ft. The Weepies, Lewis Capaldi, Bleachers, The Head and the Heart)

🎵fell in love with the fire

HL14. Harry's long since accepted that fame comes with a closet. But a chance encounter with a friend from a past life may change everything (or, an au about identity, fame, missed connections, and giving love a chance) (ft. Florence and the Machine, Maren Morris, St. Vincent, Sam Smith)

🎵trip and i fall in

HL15. Undeniable chemistry turns a spontaneous hookup into fast friendship (with some pretty nice benefits). They know from the start it’s not exclusive, but that doesn’t stop anyone from catching feelings. (ft. Zayn, Ariana Grande, Brockhampton, Selena Gomez)

🎵learning to breathe

HL16. Harry and Louis have always been best friends, even within their close-knit group. Closeted, small town kids with little experience, an innocent first kiss turns into an agreement: to experimentally "date" in secret until high school ends. When it’s time to move on, they do. But as the years pass, they can never quite figure out how to let go. (ft. Maisie Peters, Julia Michaels, Lana del Rey, Lauv)

🎵too far gone

HL18. Love, illness, religion, and fear. A kiss between friends on a quiet winter's day changes everything. (ft. Sufjan Stevens, Brand New, Haley Heynderickx, Phoebe Bridgers)

🎵if i'm butter...

HL19. Louis’ an art student who spends his days wandering the city in search of inspiration while his hot-but-elusive craigslist roommate works ungodly hours as a baker. When the pandemic hits and the two near strangers are suddenly quarantined together, they find themselves growing closer in more ways than one. (ft. Relient K, BENEE, Fiona Apple, Samsa)

🎵pretend it isn't strange

HL20. A hopeless wanderer, lost and disillusioned with life, finds himself taken in by a small mountainside community: a friendly local band, a safe place to rest his head, and a stranger who makes it feel like home. Together they learn to let love grow. (ft. Wild Rivers, Ben Howard, Town Meeting, Birdtalker )

🎵yesterday (when you were young)

HL21. Coming soon (ft. Jon Bellion, AJR, Raleigh Ritchie, fun.)

🎵coming up lavender

HL22. New friends who feel like old ones, long drives home up the coast, and finding love in every color. Or, a girl!direction college road trip au (ft. Gretta Ray, dodie, Ingrid Michaelson, Mitski)

🎵it is what it is (till it ain't anymore)

HL23. An impending marriage, a secret affair, and either fate or bad timing. Harry and Louis fall in love one summer in rural Georgia. Years later, they meet again. (ft. Shania Twain, Kacey Musgraves, Gregory Alan Isakov, Andrew Bird)

And lastly, the playlists I've made based on other peoples' stories:

nothing but you on my mind 🎶for Nothing But You On My Mind by @absoloutenonsense

Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again. (ft. dodie, Julia Michaels, Dermot Kennedy, Lewis Capaldi)

little by little 🎶for Little by Little by @absoloutenonsense

Harry Styles is an omega who works at the London Planetarium, has lived in the same flat for ages, and is happy enough on his own. When he gets home from his first (horrible) attempt at dating in years, a new pregnant neighbor knocks on his door after smelling his cooking. He and Louis quickly become close, but their friendship gets complicated when Harry begins questioning who he is and what he likes. Or Harry discovers figuring out who you are is more complicated than a potato metaphor. (ft. Jordy Searcy, Bruno Major, Lizzy McAlpine, Sleeping at Last)

love after the end of the world 🎶for Love After the End of the World by @mercurial-madhouse

When staying alive is already a constant battle, the deadliest weakness is to be in love. For Harry and Louis, finding each other sits on top of the endless list of What Else Could Go Wrong. (ft. Bastille, Hozier, Fall Out Boy, Lorde)

[dredshirtroberts]

Constellations

on AO3!

Rating: M / Lime Pair: Eskel/Geralt Summary: Eskel loves Geralt but their soulmarks don't match - he'd know. They're witchers, and scars are their business. As he joins Geralt in retirement, Eskel figures whatever he can get with the other witcher will be enough. He might get a little bit more than he thought he was bargaining for, but Eskel's never passed up a good deal.

My entry into the @eskelbigbang. Trying something new for posting fic so bear with me. Check out the awesome art by @dat-carovieh on their tumblr and twitter @ LupisLionstooth!

Eskel growled a little as he stumbled off the path, clutching the wound on his side. The scar on his face creased with his snarl as he collapsed into a tree. He hated being wounded. The blood loss was greater than normal and his vision swam as he tried to push forward. The horse beside him whickered softly at him as he tripped. A loose stone, probably—or at least he hoped. If there were nothing in the path that would be worse. That would mean he was worse off than he’d thought.

He needed to keep going. He had an appointment to make.

"You should meet me in Novigrad,” Geralt had said over cards last winter. They were several glasses of his horrible wine in (it wasn’t horrible, Eskel loved it, but he loved picking on Geralt more—loved making his nose wrinkle with irritation, and Eskel did prefer ale over wine but the wine made at Corvo Bianco was alright and, best of all, free) and having a quiet evening.

Most of their evenings together were quiet these days. How long had they lived now? How many of their friends were lost to the passage of time?

Lambert never stayed, preferring the road. They both dreaded his never returning but after the loss of his soulmate—the Cat Witcher that Geralt had helped avenge—he’d never been quite the same.

Ciri had grown up, grown into herself. She’d had a longer than average lifespan from her Elven blood, but she stayed with Yennefer more often than not, and had become a strong woman and mage in her own right. Yennefer, for her part, came and visited infrequently, lost often in her own research and pursuits.

Geralt’s bard, Dandelion, had retired from traveling, had owned a bar, had been a professor at Oxenfurt, and then, eventually, had passed in time from an old life lived long and lived well. Their other friends were either distant or dead.

So, things were quiet.

“Why would I meet you in Novigrad? I’m here?” Eskel had asked.

Geralt had rolled his eyes, “I mean when you’re not here. Back on the Path. We should meet in Novigrad. It’s a mid-point between here and your normal territory. And the biggest bookshop on the Continent.”

It was a tempting offer. And it wasn’t really like Eskel was going to refuse. They’d just never planned to meet before. Geralt had retired from the Path years ago, staying at his winery or traveling to meet his friends but never hunting monsters. Not that there were many monsters to find these days as it was. Eskel’s coin purse had been light for years, the only saving grace was Geralt’s hospitality during the winters, and his generosity with the funds that came in from the winery.

“Alright. Why?”

“Because I miss you when you’re out, dumbass,” Geralt groused with another eyeroll, the bite in his words sour and reminiscent of their younger brother-in-all-but-blood. The quick twitch of the corner of his mouth down and the tightness near his eyes belied the sincerity behind the words, however.

“Aww, I miss you too,” Eskel batted his eyes at Geralt sweetly, teasing, “Alright sure. I’ll meet you in Novigrad. When?”

Eskel was supposed to have been there days ago. But the contract he had been on was not only longer than anticipated but a larger beast as well. A more vicious one. And now he was injured and trying to make his way to Novigrad to meet Geralt.

He needed to meet Geralt there. He missed the man, his closest friend for the past century and a half, his only family. The closest thing Eskel would get to having his soulmate.

They didn’t talk about their marks. They used to. Before the Trials. Before everything had changed.

They were very young, the first time it had been brought up among their year group. Ten boys huddled around comparing the discolored skin that showed the closest their mate would ever come to death and recover from. They were in nothing but their smallclothes, sitting in a circle in one of the dorm rooms of Kaer Morhen and lit by only the fire in the hearth that kept the room warm in the cold nights.

Eskel’s mark was a series of dots on his arm, black-purple like bruises, peppered in regular intervals, dark lines running deep into his skin, touching the veins that brought blood to his hands, peppered in at the crook of his elbow. It was remarked by one that they were like stars—a description Eskel held onto for many years, even onto the Path itself, the constellations of Destiny drawing him to the match to his soul. Some boys had dark red patches on their chests, deep shadows of wounds-that-weren’t-yet slicing through their legs, their arms, their stomachs. One boy, Gweld, had a pale line running right across his throat.

Geralt’s was the biggest. A swath of pink skin from hips to shoulders, like he was flayed open and a new patch was sewn on in a slightly wrong color. Eskel’s heart hurt to see it. He liked Geralt best of the other boys, he wasn’t too loud when Eskel wanted to read, exchanged stories of knights and chivalry and wanting to be a hero with Eskel. And they of course got up to much mischief together, which Eskel always appreciated. To see him marked like that, to know that whoever Geralt’s soul was promised to would have to survive something that bad, was painful.

Eskel and the other boys knew Geralt’s soulmate was a Witcher. It was obvious. No one else would survive an injury that large, that deep.

Vesemir had caught them that night, scowling and barking to get back into their beds, that they’d all have kitchen duty in the morning and for the next week after for being out of bed so late. The boys had complained, whining as they got into their bunks.

The outline of Geralt’s soulmark was etched into Eskel’s mind for a long while after. Forever, really.

They’d discussed their respective marks privately at other times. Osbert had caught them out once, poking and prodding at one another, wondering what the cause of their marks would be, speculating on when they’d meet their soulmates. Would it be before they’d gotten the scars that would be representative of the marks on their bodies? Would it be after? What scars would they acquire and how would they show up on their soulmates?

Osbert had seen their marks. Saw Geralt’s and nodded, his eyes sad but knowing. Then he’d seen Eskel’s. The look on his face was one that Eskel wasn’t able to parse at the time, but as he looked back on the memory in later years, he realized it was devastated.

Eskel didn’t know what caused him to feel that way until he was strapped to the table during the Trials, mages and Witchers alike hovering over him. One of the mages had seen his arm, had nudged another beside him and said, “Look, this one already has where the needles go on his arm. Nearly labeled and everything.”

The laughter that had passed between the two mages frightened Eskel, but not more than the knowledge that his mate, the soul that matched his soul, the one that Destiny herself had picked for him, would go through the Trials, and that would be the worst thing they would survive. Would they die? On the table? He knew it was a possibility but…

Would he die before meeting his soulmate? That hurt worse, the thought of leaving his soulmate to the world without knowing what happened to Eskel. His brain raced through all the injuries he knew he’d acquired since coming to Kaer Morhen—which one was the worst one? Which one brought him closest to death? Which would be the mark on his mate’s body if he died on the table, chemicals and reagents and mutagens pouring into his bloodstream, changing his body?

For the first time in his life, he wondered if his soulmate would fear him after he became a Witcher, if he survived. And as the needles pierced his skin, their caustic, toxic mixtures seeping into him and altering him irrevocably, he cried.

Eskel, of course, had survived the Trials.

Geralt had, as well. Not easily, though. He’d been chosen for additional mutagens, extra tests, further Trials. Once-auburn hair that shone blood-red in the sunshine was snow-white. His skin was death-pale, and shadows seemed perpetually under his eyes. He had been unconscious when they’d brought him back up to the dorms, and Eskel had sat by his bed as often as he could, watching, waiting for his friend to wake up.

If he’d checked Geralt’s arms for the marks that still lay purple-bruised on his own, darker now with the pinpricks of the needles that had actually entered his arm, well… They weren’t there. His arms were as clear as the sky on a summer day. It was as if the Trials had not happened to him. Eskel knew that Witchers healed quickly, that the marks on his arm—the one’s he’d acquired, not the ones he’d been born with—would disappear shortly. But to see Geralt who had gone through more with nothing had…

Had…

Eskel hadn’t realized until that moment how much he desperately wanted Geralt to be his soulmate, until he had been so devastated by the undeniable truth that he wasn’t.

Eskel collapsed on the ground, the world shifting on its axis as he blinked foggy blurriness from his eyes. The horse behind him had stopped obediently. Geralt had trained him well, of course. Eskel didn’t expect otherwise from a man who had trained every single horse he had ever ridden—even if he did end up calling them all Roach.

He wasn’t going to make it to Novigrad.

It was the last coherent thought he had before he slumped to the ground, the world going dark around him.

Eskel had many wounds in his lifetime. Wounds that had brought him to the brink of death and he was saved only by the timeliest of Swallows, of magical healers, of mages. It was the fate of a Witcher. Their Destiny to be covered in marks from their profession. Some wore their scars proudly, some hid them away. Eskel didn’t really mind either which way. Not until Diedre.

The deep, horrible mark on his face certainly made him feel as though he were better off dead. It wrapped around the side of his face, tore part of his lip away leaving him with a constant snarl, reaching to his ear. He knew, in that moment, that whoever his soulmate was, had to hate him for giving them this…this…

This thing on their face.

It was also when he lost all hope that Geralt could still be his soulmate. That his best friend would ever become more. Geralt had always had a rather romantic idea of how soulmates worked. He would take his pleasure where he could get it in the meantime—as most Witchers did, but he would wait to have a romance with someone until their marks matched scars.

And Eskel, the fool, loved him for that. Loved him for his hopeless, idealistic view on soulmates, when in reality a soulmate was just a person, as flawed and horrible as every other person on the Continent. There were soulmate couples who hated one another. Those who never met. Those who hurt their mates, were the ones to give them their scars.

As soon as Eskel knew he was not Geralt’s he worried. He worried for Geralt because the man, despite everything was still soft on the inside, was still the boy with bright eyes who waxed poetic about becoming a Knightly Witcher, who would save the world, not just from monsters but from everything he could. The man who had wanted to name himself Geralt Eric Roger du Haute-Bellegarde entirely earnestly. The man who loved every horse he ever met and named them each after the same kind of fish.

Eskel worried because he could not protect Geralt if his soulmate hurt him, because Eskel was not his soulmate.

Eskel traced the constellations on his arm, the little stars that marked where his soulmate went through the Trials. That marked where he went through the Trials. Absently, late at night he wondered if they were someone he had already met.

After the pogroms and the attack of Kaer Morhen he no longer needed to wonder. If he hadn’t met them yet, they had probably already died.

It was years before he let himself consider that they had died even earlier than that. Likely the first year on the Path. He tried not to think about if they were from the Wolf school or another.

Sometimes he would run his fingers over the shape of the scar on his face, wonder if his soulmate could feel it—could have felt it, he sometimes reminded himself, they weren’t alive anymore, likely. He would think about what it would be to run his fingers lovingly over the mark that tied them together, let them touch his mark—the memories of the Trials were painful, traumatic for all who went through them, but maybe with the fact that it connected them together in so many ways it would be… better.

Eventually he stopped letting himself think about it at all. It hurt too much. It wasn’t Geralt, it would never be Geralt, and he would never know his soulmate.

And maybe, if he were really and truly honest with himself, he didn’t want to know his soulmate.

Eskel woke in a bed.

This was mostly jarring because he had the distinct memory of passing out in the middle of the road, but he’d woken up in worse places than a bed before. At least this time there were no succubi.

That had been interesting.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Geralt’s voice was gravelly as always, and coming from Eskel’s left hand side.

Eskel grunted as he turned his head to look at the white-haired man beside him. The ever-present dark circles under his eyes seemed darker than usual, the pallor of his skin waxier and wanner than Eskel remembered from the last time they’d seen one another.

(Geralt had been looking healthier since he’d retired, well-fed, relaxed. This looked like Geralt on the Path—something Eskel hadn’t seen in years, decades even.)

“You look like shit,” Eskel said, pulling his face into a rough approximation of a smirk. His body felt heavy and he could feel the familiar tug of stitches in his side. At least he wasn’t actively bleeding out anymore.

“Yeah, well,” Geralt started like he was going to retort, but his voice fell flat as his expression did something Eskel wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on the man before, “You’re lucky I caught your scent while I was out hunting or you’d have died laying in the road.”

“Business as usual, then,” Eskel grunted, attempting to sit up a little. Geralt moved quickly, faster than Eskel was anticipating, and a hand was on his chest, pushing him back down into the bed. If Eskel really wanted to, he probably could have ignored the hand but…

Geralt’s long fingers were cold and felt nice on his heated skin and it had been so long since their last hug in Toussaint before Eskel had left on the Path again. Maybe this year he’d actually talk to Geralt about retiring with him, about setting up in the winery with Geralt, becoming even-older-old men together. It wasn’t like the monsters were getting any more populous. He could take up a trade, maybe, and pretend he wasn’t made into a monster himself by mutagens and actions and scars. Maybe he could pretend they were soulmates again, that this was enough.

He suddenly remembered why he hadn’t chosen to retire with Geralt yet. Why he might not ever.

“Stay down, idiot. You’ll pull your stitches.”

“Doubt I need them much longer,” Eskel grumbled.

“The fact that I could see your intestines before I got you fixed up begs to differ.” Geralt’s eyes were narrowed, the slits of his pupils dark in the wheat-gold of his eyes.

“Eh, they needed a bit of fresh air,” Eskel’s joking tone didn’t quite hit, and Geralt’s jaw clenched as he swallowed thickly. Eskel winced, turning away, “That was dumb of me to say, I’m sorry.”

“No you’re…you’re right. It’s part of the job,” Geralt was leaning back, taking his hand with him and Eskel gritted his teeth together to avoid begging him to keep touching Eskel, to never let go.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Eskel shrugged.

They sat in silence for a bit, Eskel’s eyes feeling heavy again.

“You give me something for it?” He asked, his brow creasing in confusion.

“What?”

“For the…” He gestured to his side, “Did you give me something?”

“Nah, why?”

“Tired,” Eskel mumbles, feeling his eyes drift shut again. Though, perhaps the exhaustion is more from having pushed himself on the Path for days on end before his last contract, and then further while injured, from having little to no food because he couldn’t afford it and the hunting was scarce close to the griffin.

Perhaps it was being in a bed for the first time since he’d left Geralt’s side in early spring, or maybe just the safety and comfort of having Geralt by his side again, listening to the man’s steady, Witcher-slow heartbeat and the soft sound of his breathing.

“So sleep,” Geralt’s voice is fond in Eskel’s ears and he thinks it’s probably just his mind making things up as it slows from waking to meditation to sleep, drifting from consciousness to dreams with little to no effort.

Eskel thinks he could get used to it, and fears what that means.

Eskel wakes again and it’s morning. Sun is shining through the window in the corner and birds are chirping outside.

Geralt is asleep, leaned forward on the bed, head resting on Eskel’s lap, and hands clasped around Eskel’s own. Previously cold fingers are warmed by the heat of Eskel’s palms and something in Eskel’s chest clenches in a way he is all too familiar with.

Geralt’s hair is loose, unbound and a tangled mess around his shoulders. Several strands have fallen across his face, a lock of it draped over his eyes, closed in sleep with pale lashes fanned out over dark circles. Soft breaths huff between parted lips that move slightly with the dreams that he sees behind his eyelids—Eskel can see the shape of his eyes darting back and forth beneath the thin skin.

He brings his other hand up, the one unclaimed by Geralt’s grasping fingers, and gently pushes the hair out of the other man’s face.

Geralt is beautiful. And Eskel loves him. He loves him so much.

Golden eyes drift open slowly, pupils sliding from wide circles to rounded slits with the light as Geralt blinks, taking a moment to wake up.

“Hey,” Eskel murmurs, a smile sliding over his face—easy, this time, and he is sure his emotions are plastered all over his face but he can’t really find it in himself to care. Geralt is here. Geralt was worried for him. Geralt slept at his bed rather than in one of his own, holding his hand.

“Hey,” Geralt’s already rough voice is moreso from the sleep as Eskel brings his hand away from the white hair that slides through his fingers like water made semi-solid. “You actually awake this time?”

“Probably,” Eskel chuckles, resting back against the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “Been a tough season so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He wants to explain, but also he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Geralt to worry about him more. He didn’t really want Geralt to worry about him injured, either, but that wasn’t his fault.

(Their trainers might have disagreed, might have said of course it was Eskel’s fault he had been injured on the Path, but they weren’t there now, were they?)

“What got you?” Fingers trace the line of the wound, healed already, the stitches already out, having been removed while Eskel slept. Eskel shivers.

“Griffin. Villagers weren’t exaggerating the size, after all.” Eskel pulls himself up to sitting, his muscles protesting after so long relaxed in sleep. “Got here in the end, though.”

Geralt snorts, “Barely.”

“Eh, I knew either you’d come find me or it was my time to go,” Eskel half-jokes. A mirror of their earlier conversation. A conversation they’d had about various wounds and injuries accrued over their extra long lifespans. Geralt’s face is impassive, neutral and shows nothing. Which means he’s very upset by this comment.

“Come back to Toussaint with me,” Geralt says, and his voice is soft enough that if Eskel wanted to he could pretend he didn’t hear it.

Eskel isn’t sure what he wants.

“Why?”

Geralt’s jaw works as his mouth stays shut. There are words, Eskel knows, caught behind teeth and tongue and throat that will not come out because Geralt’s mind won’t let them. Ever since Blaviken, he’d been like this. Their hands are still tangled together and Eskel squeezes Geralt’s fingers to his palm gently.

“Why do you want me to come to Toussaint with you in the middle of the season, Geralt?” He asks again. Sometimes saying it again, saying *more* helps. Sometimes it makes it worse. He desperately hopes this makes it better.

“I don’t want…” Geralt starts. Stops. Squeezes Eskel’s fingers back. Then he pulls away. “You’re probably hungry. I’ll get food.”

Eskel drops it. Geralt will come to him in his own time. Eskel will decide what he wants to do in the meantime. A few days rest as planned here in Novigrad will be enough for now.

Geralt comes back with food for them both, and Eskel’s body remembers that it is starving. They don’t speak much during the meal, and when it’s over they talk about everything other than Geralt’s invitation.

Geralt doesn’t bring it back up that day, or the day after. Or the day after that.

They spend a week together in Novigrad. Eskel raids the bookstore—it was very impressive, filled with tomes on tomes of books with knowledge and poetry and stories and everything and anything. Geralt came with him, though he only picked at the plays and atlases, but he purchased several books that Eskel looked at longingly, tucking them in his bags to travel, saying they will be waiting in the library for Eskel when he comes back.

Eskel decided that meant they were not going to talk about the invitation to Toussaint again unless he brings it back up.

The thing is, Eskel doesn’t want to leave Novigrad. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt. He doesn’t want to go back on the Path where he will be lonely and cold, where there is little food and fewer friendly faces. Back to monsters and fighting and nursing himself back to health, to glares and fearful children, to long stretches of time with no contact with anyone other than the horse and his reflection in the water.

He doesn’t want to risk not being able to get back to Geralt.

That night, he begins the conversation.

“We’ve been here a week,” Eskel observed, taking a bite of a soft, buttery roll. He was not sure what kind of money Geralt was paying the innkeep here but they have eaten well since Eskel arrived.

Geralt freezes momentarily. Had Eskel not been watching, he would have missed it.

“Yep.”

“Been trying to think about where to go next. Not many monsters up north anymore,” Eskel keeps his commentary light, his tone gentle and observational only. Nothing to indicate that he’s leading the conversation anywhere.

“Eskel.”

“Geralt.”

Ah, he has been found out. Figures it wouldn’t work on the man who has known him the longest of anyone alive in the world right now.

“I- I can’t-…” Geralt pushes back from the table a little, tension clear in his body and shoulders, “I won’t-”

“I was thinking I could head south. Maybe travel with you. Head to Toussaint. I know they were having vampire problems decades back. You think there are still any hiding out? I bet there’s an infestation in your library. I should really check that out, you know. Since you’re all out of practice and all.”

Geralt glares at him but there is a relief etched in his bones that Eskel can feel as he grins unrepentantly, feeling his stiff scar tissue crinkle the skin on his cheek as he does.

“You’re an ass.”

“Hmm, but you’re friends with an ass so I think that says more about you than me.” Eskel teases and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Ass-kel.”

“Come now, Geralt. We’ve surely grown past the insults you thought up when we were twelve.”

“Not if you still act like you did back then.” Geralt points out and Eskel laughs. The tension breaks, and the two of them end up nearly giggling over their dinner.

It is good to hear Geralt laugh again. Eskel wonders when the last time he heard it was and realizes it’s been much longer than a season on the Path.

Travelling with Geralt is easy. It is also the hardest thing Eskel has ever done.

They camp on the road. It’s economical, and reminds them both of earlier times, times before the world changed and left them behind. It also leaves them with little to no privacy between them and Eskel has never wanted a wank more in his life than when he has to wake up and watch Geralt still asleep in his bedroll, or bathing in the stream. But trying to get off with another Witcher around is even more difficult than it had been to try and get off in a keep full of them—especially when he doesn’t want Geralt to know.

Because Eskel is sure Geralt would figure out exactly what was causing Eskel’s need as soon as he was caught.

Geralt’s back is nearly unmarred by scars, leaving his mark clear as the day Eskel first saw it. The mark Eskel has seen in his mind's eye for decades. Nearly a hundred years of thinking of that shape, the line of it. The pink is the same shade as it was before but seems so much darker, starker with the contrast to Geralt’s death-pale skin. The shock of color interrupted by fine scars from smaller wounds, and from the bright white hair trailing between Geralt’s shoulder blades. Eskel wants to run his hands over it, claim it, mark it up with bites and scratches and make it his because that mark ties Geralt’s soul to another and Eskel wants what he cannot have.

He turns away, usually, and does not watch as Geralt bathes. Does not imagine what he is doing, does not follow the sounds of the water moving as it is sloughed over skin, hands chafing at dirt to scrub it off, dripping, dribbling sounds as it is squeezed from the long locks of hair.

The trip to Toussaint from Novigrad is the longest it has ever been and Eskel is glad when they arrive at Corvo Bianco, greeted by the man Geralt has hired to run things in his stead. The rooms Eskel normally uses are clean and available for him and he realizes he has actually agreed to do this. He will be staying in Toussaint. He won’t be finishing the season on the Path. He will be with Geralt.

He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision.

Geralt is far more relaxed in Toussaint than he ever was anywhere else. He allows himself to be open with his affections—something he lost when he went off on the Path, and gained back in fits and spurts after rearing Ciri. Hugs to his brothers for no reason, gentle touches to shoulders and arms and hands, leaning on them when sitting together, especially when drinking.

Lambert always scoffs and complains, shoving the man off and griping about how he’s become sentimental in his dotage. Geralt always grins and laughs, making a joke of it, teasing the youngest of their remaining family and ramping up the gestures to absurdity for his benefit.

With Eskel it is quieter, softer. Eskel always returns the touch, reveling in the chance to hold the man he cannot have. Arms around Geralt for the hug, squeezing him tight. A returned pat to the shoulder or back (where his mark is, don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t–), a squeeze of fingers when their hands touch. His arm wrapping around Geralt’s shoulders when it’s late at night and they’re leaning on one another, deep into their cups and watching the stars and the lights of the town below the vineyards as the night drifts on around them.

If he adds a few touches of his own here and there, well, it’s just to show Geralt that it’s okay to share these moments. And a kiss to the top of the head during those late nights is entirely innocent enough.

(Wishing it was more, wanting desperately for more, more, more, is just something Eskel has gotten used to after all this time. Wanting and wishing is one thing, acting on those is another and he won’t do that to Geralt, he won’t.)

So it is that they find themselves late into the night, out on Geralt’s balcony, several bottles of wine in, and Geralt resting his head on Eskel’s shoulder, Eskel’s arm not around his shoulders but further down his back, settling on his ribs. His fingers are absently tracing patterns through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt—if he’s tracing the line of the mark on Geralt’s skin, well…It’s on his back, Geralt probably doesn’t put that together.

Geralt sighs softly, a happy, content sort of sound, and turns his head into Eskel’s shoulder, headbutting it gently with his forehead.

“You good?” Eskel asks, his voice barely above a whisper. For some reason talking louder feels like it might break some sort of spell between them. Something that would cause them to have to part.

“Yeah,” Geralt hums, a smile visible from what little of his face Eskel can spy looking down at him, “Yeah, I’m… I’m good.”

“Good,” Eskel pulls him in closer, abandoning his tracing of Geralt’s soulmark through his clothes to lay his hand steadily on Geralt’s side.

“You?”

“Yeah. Me.” Eskel teases laughing a little, “I’m good.”

“Good.”

And it is. Good, that is. They’re happy. It’s warm, the last of summer fading into autumn, a breeze blowing and rustling the leaves of the vines in the vineyard below. They can hear music from the town—probably none of the human inhabitants of the land Geralt owns can, but the two Witchers are able to. It’s faint, what with the distance, but it’s audible and sets a nice background tone for their evening. There are bugs making chirping noises and night birds calling in the trees and it’s peaceful and everything Eskel never knew he wanted alongside everything he always wanted.

“Esk?”

“Hm?” He glances down again at Geralt, having been staring out at the lamplight across the valley in a daze, feeling Geralt’s body heat against his own and his thumb absently stroking against the ribbones he can no longer feel so starkly under Geralt’s skin.

Geralt’s face is… much closer than Eskel thought it had been the last time he’d looked down at him and now it’s moving even closer and–

“Ger?” He whispers when Geralt stops, a hairsbreadth from their lips touching.

“I–” Geralt stops again, pulling back a little.

“I didn’t say stop,” Eskel breathes, leaning in and connecting them together in a way they haven’t before.

Geralt is on him like a starving man on a feast, hands gripping at Eskel’s shirt, pulling him in closer, closer, closer. And Eskel goes willingly, opening his mouth to Geralt’s assault, letting him do the leading, finding out where Geralt wants this to go because wherever it is, however far, Eskel will follow.

His hands bracket Geralt’s sides, palms resting above hip bones and thumbs pressing gently into the softer flesh under his ribs. Eskel slides them up and down slowly, just a fraction of an inch in either direction, and Geralt makes a noise that Eskel has never heard him make before and suddenly Eskel is the starving man and Geralt is the feast.

They break for air when even their lung capacity is at its limit. Gasping and panting, Geralt leans into Eskel’s neck, biting kisses into the flesh there, bared because this is home, he is safe and needs no armor, no barrier between his vulnerable parts and Geralt because he can trust this man like he trusts no other on this earth.

“Fuck, Geralt. Geralt, I–” Eskel groans, tilting his head to the side to give Geralt more room, “How long?”

“Forever,” Geralt breathes and Eskel’s hands grip his hips, yanking him closer, closer still, burying his face into Geralt’s neck for his own marks to be made on the pale, pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel’s teeth bite at Geralt’s jaw, “I wish I’d known.”

“Please,” Geralt asks, “Please come to bed with me. I– I can’t. I can’t wait for you anymore.”

Eskel answers by grabbing underneath Geralt’s ass and hauling him up. Geralt inhales sharply—whether in surprise or arousal is hard to tell—his legs wrapping around Eskel’s waist as his arms drape over his shoulders. And then there’s more kissing, which honestly Eskel doesn’t know how he’s gone so long without because it’s perfect.

Geralt doesn’t have a mark on his face, and doesn’t have scars on his arm, but Eskel thinks that this has to be better than kissing your soulmate.

He carries Geralt through the door between the balcony and Geralt’s bedroom, carefully making his way over dirtied clothes and stray shoes and half-read books to reach the bed. His knees bump the edge of the mattress and he grins wickedly into the kisses Geralt is plundering his mouth with before releasing his hold on Geralt suddenly.

Geralt clearly did not realize just how much of his weight Eskel was holding, falling to the mattress with a shocked yelp of surprise before Eskel was on him again, leaning over him, pressing him back into the bed.

“Still good?” Eskel asks between kisses to Geralt’s shoulders and neck.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Geralt is nodding and his breathy words are half-whined, “Still good, fuck Eskel. Eskel I’m– I’ve–”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.” The kisses he is giving to Geralt get gentler, softer, sweeter, “I’m sorry, me too.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt breathes, fondly, “The fuck did I do falling in love with a dumbass like you?”

Eskel’s heart is fit to burst at this and he looms over Geralt suddenly, “Say it again.”

Geralt is blinking with wide, dark pupils encompassing almost the whole of his golden irises, his hair is fanned out around his head like a snowy halo and Eskel wants more than he has wanted ever before and he didn’t even know that was possible but here he is. Geralt is with him, wants him, and he can have him and it’s so much more and so much better than he thought it would be.

Why the fuck did they wait so long?

“Fuck, Eskel. Eskel I love you,” Geralt’s hands rest on Eskel’s arms, but they’re sliding up to cup Eskel’s face, thumb tracing the scar from lip to cheek and back again, “I have always loved you, you stupid idiot. How the fuck have you not known?”

“When the fuck was I supposed to know?” Eskel asks, frowning, “You never said!”

“I thought you did! I thought you were waiting for your soulmate or whatever but maybe you’d settle for me eventually.” Geralt scoffs, “Seriously? You had no idea? I’ve been so obvious that Yen said something about it ages ago.”

Eskel wants to comment on the fact that Geralt thought Eskel was waiting for his soulmate when the whole time Eskel thought Geralt was waiting for his soulmate. He wants to say something about how low Geralt’s self esteem is that he thinks Eskel would have to settle for him, like Geralt isn’t the only thing in the world Eskel can’t put a price on if he absolutely had to. He wants to make mention of the fact that Geralt thought he was being obvious about it, that Yen somehow figured it out.

Instead he just grins down at Geralt.

“I love you too, you son of a bitch.”

It’s good, what they have. It’s pretty much the same as it was, but Geralt is even more physically affectionate and now Eskel can kiss him and hold him and Geralt kisses and holds him back. Geralt is very good at kissing and Eskel tries to be as appreciative of it as possible every time he is gifted with the opportunity.

They have not gone farther than rutting against one another through their clothes and Eskel can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

On the one hand, he very much wants to fuck Geralt. It’s something he’s been thinking of doing for nearly a hundred years, and now that he gets to be so close to it, it’s almost painful that he can’t. On the other hand, seeing Geralt’s soulmark while they’re intending on doing something intimate together, despite how many times Eskel has fantasized about marking it up, making it his, making Geralt his, he’s not sure he would actually be able to follow through with anything if he saw it in the moment.

Geralt, too, seems to be reluctant and that’s probably the main reason Eskel hasn’t made any motions to go further with it. They share a bed at night for sleeping, they wake tangled in one another, they eat together, they drink together, they hold and touch and kiss and say “I love you” to one another like it’ll be the last time they ever get to say it, like it’s the first time they’ve ever said it before, and it’s good. It’s so good. It’s more than Eskel ever thought he’d get, and it’s enough.

Eskel has taken to helping out in the fields for something to do during the day. It’s harvest season and they need all the hands they can get out there, so he joins in and assists. It’s warm in Toussaint, in the early autumn, and he is sweating and dirty when he comes in for the afternoon.

Geralt is sitting outside, drinking and reading his legs crossed as he reclines a little in the chair he’s sat in, reaching blindly for the glass of wine on the table beside him to avoid looking up from his book. Eskel smiles but does not interrupt, instead shucking his shirt off with a roll of his shoulders and taking the bucket of water beside the patio and upending it over his head.

The sluice of water is chilly enough despite the bucket’s position in the sun, and while bracing, it is also refreshing and feels good on his sweaty and overheated skin. He shakes his head out like a dog—or a wolf, he thinks to himself with a smile—his medallion clinking gently on his chest as he stretches out. Not quite as rigorous as a training session with Vesemir, but close enough. He might even be sore later if he’s lucky.

There’s a startled gasp from behind him and the clattering of a glass on wood, followed by a curse. Eskel turns around to see that Geralt has knocked his wine over and is desperately trying to clean it up while also not setting his book down in it. His movements are flustered and Eskel wonders what startled him so.

“Good book?” He asks, a laugh at the edge of his voice, amused by Geralt’s movements.

“What? Oh, uh. Yes. Yes very… very… um,” Geralt struggles to come up with a word. “When did you get that big scar on your back?”

“What?” Eskel blinks at the non sequitur.

“The big scar on your back. That’s– it’s– it looks old but I don’t think I’ve seen it before?” Geralt is affecting a tone that says he’s trying very hard to appear nonchalant, which means he’s failing miserably at it. Eskel crinkles his brow with a confused smile.

“I have lots of scars on my back, Geralt. You will have to be more specific.”

“It’s…” Geralt stands, still acting flustered, and turns Eskel around, laying a hand on the top of Eskel’s shoulder and dragging it down in a rough diagonal before tracing the edge of it—it spans the whole of Eskel’s back, and he thinks he remembers which one it was.

“Uh… Leshen, I think. About… twenty years on the Path? It’s been a while, Geralt, why?”

Geralt spins him around and takes his arm, pulling it forward and stretching his elbow flat. The network of dots on his elbow are visible to the sun for the first time in, gods, half a century at least—he’s tried to keep them covered as much as he can because looking at them was too much. A pale finger traces over them, slightly cool as usual. Eskel wants to take those fingers and chafe them between his palms to warm them up but he knows that would only work a little. Plus he kind of likes that Geralt’s hands are cool to the touch.

“Yeah, uh… that’s where they put the needles for the-”

“The Trials. Yeah. I remember.” Geralt whispers, his finger tracing a connecting line between the star-shaped marks, “Had it done twice.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eskel scowls, remembering the fierce terror at waking up and not knowing where Geralt was, learning that he was having more torture forced on him, then the recovery period where he had sat sentinel at Geralt’s bedside.

“Worst thing I ever lived through,” Geralt murmurs, glancing up at Eskel through white lashes and oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Eskel feels numb. And dumb. And like he’s been struck by lightning. Or a griffin. Or a Leshen.

Oh.

“So… we’re idiots, right?” Eskel asks after a moment.

Geralt laughs leaning forward to drop his head onto Eskel’s shoulder. Eskel’s arms come up automatically to hold him, threading fingers through his hair, loose and long and gorgeous. He finger-combs the locks as Geralt shakes, not answering him. Eskel doesn’t worry, it happens sometimes, that Geralt won’t have words.

He does worry a little when he catches the scent of tears, “Geralt?”

“Yeah,” He finally says, “Yeah, we’re idiots.”

“But you’re my idiot,” Eskel says and it’s the strangest, greatest feeling in the world that it’s unequivocally true.

“And you’re mine,” Geralt leans back, tilting his head to the side, and taking Eskel’s mouth with a fierce—but somehow sweeter than even their chastest—kiss.

They knock their foreheads together lightly, eyes closed for just a moment as Geralt’s hands reach up and cup Eskel’s neck and face.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[offda-rails-art]

Been a while since I’ve enjoyed art. I finally finished my story-no color becuase paint is expensive and I can expand more by doing what I love most-sketching. Slight gore warning, like typical horror movie gore⚠️

Thank you for anyone following me recently, even though I haven’t been very active. I hope this makes up for it. Peace and love. Lochlan’s story part one👇

The countryside of Hennessy had a horrible storm roll in. It poured endlessly all night and into morning. The seemingly endless pounding rain made everything a muddy slippery mess, and with that the tracks were overflowed with water. Travel for any engine was dangerous so it was decided that everyone would take the day off and wait out the storm inside. Old Red, Donner, and Cracker Jack had already been in the roundhouse that night and early in the morning they were told “no work for today. Too dangerous.”

Lochlan had still been on his job pulling a long train all night. Something that had been expected to be finished by early morning was delayed by the rain. Lochlan went along the tracks carefully and managed to deliver his train by late afternoon meanwhile the rest of the engines back at the roundhouse were confined to their berths all day. And with that the group of 3 were very bored.

Lochlan backed his way into his respective berth, he was soaked from being in the down pour all day. He was also visibly tired from his tedious journey of start stop all through the wet slippery tracks. Before the poor big engine could get a word out Cracker Jack piped up. “About time! Reds been going on and on about silly stories. We’ve traded back and forth on interesting ones of our own. Well, Donner and I at least. Reds giving the whole “Wild West romance, forbidden engine/human love” spiel again.” Cracker Jack groaned.

“My recounts of pistol packing cowgirls are not romance stories! I’m simply making it clear that women are just as dangerous as men! That’s all!” Red growled quick to defend himself. His face turning slightly pink.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that you old fart.” Cracker Jack smirked. Even Donner gave a slight chuckle in agreement.

Lochlan smiled and shook what water dripped down his face off. Cracker Jack grinned up at Lochlan expectantly. “Suppose you have anything of your own to share?” Cracker Jack asked, his grin widened hoping that Lochlan would have a story to tell. At least one that wouldn’t put him to sleep. Or any about his love interests.

“Me? What kind of story? I don’t do much that interesting.” Lochlan sighed and tried to think of anything worth telling.

“Lochlan. You’re huge. You see the world from a different point of view everyday. You do the more than any other engine on the railway. You’ve been everywhere, you must have something?” Cracker Jack retorted. Lochlan frowned and clicked his tongue in thought. A loud crack of thunder boomed in the background and shook the roundhouse. The 4 engines jumped at the sudden loud noise. The natural fearful reaction to the loud noise gave Lochlan an idea.

“What about a scary story?” He smiled and knew exactly what to share. The other three raised their brows in interest. Cracker Jack noticeably grew attentive.

“Yes! I think we can all agree that horror over a whole romance novel is sure to help pass the time!” Cracker Jack grinned. It took Red a second to process the slight dig made at him. He only grumbled and rolled his eyes.

“Good! I have just the one! It happened the very first week I arrived here.” Lochlan grinned and cleared his throat to begin.

When Lochlan first arrived at Hennessy he was immediately tasked with pulling long trains of heavy and important cargo for distances many other engines couldn’t travel. He traveled from late at night till very early morning so naturally his rest time in the afternoon was spent in any noisy bustling yard he could manage to get a break in. Most of the time Lochlan couldn’t sleep with all the noise. He didn’t mind not napping but peace and quiet was something he could definitely enjoy. It seemed that wouldn’t be an option for a while with his break schedule. So, Lochlan decided to eavesdrop on his human counterparts. They did after all have interesting things to share. While in a yard one afternoon the prefect opportunity to eavesdrop came in, a group of engineers decided to take their break not far away from him. They sat down on some old flatbeds and joked around for a while. The oldest man in the group began talking about his past colleague who was a Native American. He recounted all kinds of interesting things his colleague shared. From ancestral meanings to cultural symbols, but then he brought up something strange. Lochlan grew curious and listened in best he could. The engineer asked the others if they ever heard what a “wendigo” was. The two men shook their heads. Lochlan listened in as the man explained to them what it was, and the reason for bringing it up.

The engineer grew serious before beginning, “ a couple years back a rancher went missing out by his home just a good ten miles from the south side of Hennessy. No one knew how he could possibly go missing, he was in touch with the locals and was a very smart man. He knew the wildlife and his homeland well enough to where an animal attack was ruled out. He carried a gun on him all the time to stay safe and no one would want to harm a lonely rancher with not much of anything to give anyway. Robbery and murder was ruled out too, especially after his home was found kept well with nothing out of the ordinary or missing. He just seemed to have vanished along with his horse and dog. The sheriff decided he could’ve left unannounced for private reasons and perhaps he would turn up soon. It wasn’t until a week later a hunter stumbled across what was left of the poor rancher. He was so severely mangled that the only thing that showed proof it was him was his hat, horse and dog. Whatever creature that did that couldn’t possibly be a bear, or even a pack of wolves. Only the rancher looked like something had eaten parts of him. His horse and dog were for the most part untouched, the possibility a rabid bear attacked him was brought up due to the massive claw marks and slashes embedded in his horse and dog. And how badly the man was shredded. But what bear could be that big? A search for whatever rabid bear or sick pack of wolves was put out but nothing was recovered.

No one wanted to admit but they were scared. The scene was so brutal it seemed almost impossible another living thing could do that. It was swept under the rug and everyone tried to forget about it in hopes it would just go away. It seems there’s no answer for what happened right? Well your wrong, that’s were this “wendigo” comes in. Wendigos have an insatiable hunger for human flesh, they crave taunting people and torturing them until giving them a brutal horrible death only to feast on their scared poor souls. They tower above the tallest pine trees, make blood curdling screams, and can strip the flesh from your bones instantly. He wasn’t attacked by a rabid animal, he was murdered and eaten alive by one of those foul beasts. Only something that big and mercilessly brutal could’ve done such a thing. And why eat just the person? An animal would’ve taken all it could get. Dog and horse would’ve been part of the main course as well.”

The two other men who listened in shuddered upon the end of the tale. Lochlan was intrigued but was interrupted by his crew coming to fetch him from his break. He needed to get back to work and couldn’t listen in anymore. He sighed and set off to collect his train, he had plenty of time to ponder what he just heard on his long quiet journey.

Lochlan enjoyed the unexplainable, everything had an explanation. An answer. While the story of the wendigo was interesting to him he couldn’t help but believe it was simply a tall tale. Even with how big and goofy the engine could be, he wasn’t gullible. The only way he’d believe something is if he witnessed it first hand. And as far as he knew he never saw any forest animal that towered over pine trees or had a specific desire for human flesh. But for some reason something inside him wouldn’t let go of it. The story was kept in the back of his mind and not forgotten.

Lochlans first week on Hennessy’s railway was almost over. He already gotten familiar with the area and his routes in the short time he was there. His job went swillingly and it was something he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his days doing. Oh, and no strange gigantic monsters hungry for human flesh appeared. There was one route Lochlan hadn’t traveled yet, and the unkept longer line of tracks was only taken if necessary but no reason was ever really given as to why it wasn’t used. But with only almost a week of experience on the railway he had a lot more to learn and explore.

While Lochlan pulled a long train of cargo with the morning newspaper edition, important mail, and dairy that needed to get to its destination quickly in order to not spoil he came to a stop when he realized his normal route back into Hennessy was blocked. Someone had derailed and a big mess of tar trucks were scattered everywhere. Lochlans engineers grew frustrated and argued with the crewmen in charge of cleaning up the wreck. “Listen pal, it’s going to take all night to clean this mess up. You’ll just have to wait until morning to pass through or go through the south side.” The agitated worker groaned and pointed up ahead to a route Lochlan wasn’t familiar with.

“Well. We most certainly ain’t got time to wait. I’ve got the morning paper to deliver and dairy that will spoil! Come on big feller we’ll just have to go through the south side which will still delay our schedule because some incompetent idiot can’t operate an engine worth Jack shit.” Lochlans engineer growled and made his way back to his cab. Lochlan looked on curiously up ahead at this new route. The grass ahead was severely overgrown, and by the looks of the track no one seemed to have been down it for a decade. His cow plow would come in handy to shove away any overgrowth that littered the track up ahead. Lochlan puffed down the track without incident. He sliced through any overgrowth that littered his path, and was thankful for his bright headlamp because it seemed any lights that lit up the track before had been left not repaired. Lochlan had come upon something odd as he plunged further down the unused route. A herd of deer were stopped close by the tracks, what was odd to him was that the animals didn’t acknowledge his presence at all. It was normal for the forest animals to hurriedly clear the way when any loud engine chuffed close, to the animals an engine was another predator to run away from. But the large herd of deer stood stalk still, their backs turned towards him and their heads cocked up looking into the distance at something. They didn’t dare move and their fear was focused on something Lochlan couldn’t see. Lochlan raised a brow and chuffed by but the deer didn’t move. Even as steam whooshed out and his own massive frame rumbled on the rails shaking the ground. The deer seemed to care less about him. It was one of the most peculiar things he had seen, but he had no idea it was about to get worse.

Tumblr limits posts and I have to many illustrations to do one part. So I’ll have to skeet part two in another separate post. Stick around for the second part if you enjoy so far. Thanks so much for people who’ve stuck around my blog and actually wanted to read my stories. I really really appreciate it.

[dilly-oh]

Haircare no Jutsu

He’s wearing the red hair-tie today, Kakashi noted with satisfaction, walking down the hallway behind Iruka. An excellent choice. It perfectly accentuated the subtle reddish tones in his hair, highlighting them to perfection. His ponytail bounced with every step, the strands gleaming in the sun-rays cast through the nearby window.

Kakashi had been obsessed with Iruka’s hair for longer than he cared to admit. But hey, everyone had their quirks, especially Jounin. At least his didn’t involve green spandex and dazzling teeth. He was practically normal compared to the others.

He daydreamed about Iruka’s hair constantly, imagining running his fingers through the silken strands, pressing his face against them to smell their subtle scent. He imagined pulling Iruka's hair free from that cruel hair tie, brushing it till it gleamed, then separating it into three portions and twisting them into a thick braid. No, wait, a French one? He couldn’t decide. Still lost in internal debate, he walked closely behind Iruka, eyes glued to his hair.

Which is why he failed to see the loose tile jutting out of the floor in front of him.

Now, the Copy-nin of Konoha, feared by countless enemies and Missing-Nin alike, did not trip.

He merely attacked the loose tile with his toe, lurched forward for a better stance, wind-milled his arms about wildly to ward off any incoming attacks from enemies, and face-planted into the nearest object.

Which happened to be Iruka’s ponytail.

One time, while on an A-rank mission to Suna, Kakashi, half-dead from chakra exhaustion, had accidentally fallen into a patch of prickly cactuses.

This was worse than that.

Iruka’s ponytail was not soft and silky, fragrant and luxurious as he’d dared to dream. It was like a briar patch, bristly as hell, the strands broken and split and dry as a bone. Kakashi counted himself lucky his hitai-ate was covering one eye already so he only had to worry about losing the other one. This close, he could see the horrible split ends and flakes of dandruff with awful detail.

“Yeeeoooowch!!”

The cry echoed through the hallway, reverberating off the walls. Several heads poked out of doors to stare curiously, caught sight of Iruka’s face, and retreated.

“That’s my line,” Iruka grumbled, turning to confront him while rubbing the back of his head gingerly. “What the hell was that about?” Kakashi just gaped at him for a long moment, aghast, his hopes and dreams crumbling before him.

“Good God! Is my face bleeding?!” he blurted aloud.

“It’s about to be if you don’t start explaining yourself,” Iruka snapped back irritably, crossing his arms. “Seriously, what’s your problem?”

“It felt like I fell on a wad of steel wool!” Kakashi cried. “What the hell kind of hair product do you use?! Bar soap?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iruka huffed at him. Kakashi felt a glimmer of hope flicker to life. “I use my three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body-wash.” The glimmer of hope promptly whimpered, curled up, and died.

“Alright. That’s it. I’m confiscating this,” Kakashi said, twirling the red hair-band around his pinky finger. Iruka’s hair immediately flopped down around his face, sticking out in all directions like an unkempt bird’s nest and further destroying every one of Kakashi’s secret fantasies.

“Hey!” Iruka cried in outrage, shoving his hair aside. “Give that back!”

“You’ll get it back when you learn to treat your hair better.”

“Whatever, I have like three more,” Iruka snorted, rolling his eyes. He reached into his pockets, searching for a few moments, then frowned in confusion. “What the…?” He looked up to see Kakashi twiddling his fingers at him, each digit encircled by a colored band. “When- how did you- give those back!”

“Oh, I will,” Kakashi assured him, “but I have some…demands.”

“You’re holding my hair-ties ransom. You’re unbelievable.”

“Firstly, you-”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“-let me wash your hair,” Kakashi finished.

“Ew. Why?” Iruka made a face. “That’s just an excuse to get me naked, you creep.” Kakashi huffed impatiently.

“You don’t have to get naked, just take your shirt off-”

“And then I’m already halfway there. Forget it.”

“-and then I’ll bend you over the bathroom sink and-”

“I SAID FORGET IT!” Iruka exploded, his face flushing a near-match of his hair-tie. “I have two jobs! I spend all day at the Academy babysitting children who are trying to kill each other, and then all night at the Mission Desk babysitting Jounin trying to kill each other. I don’t have time for stupid things like treating my hair with the ninja art of deep conditioning.”

“Then you’re not getting your hair-ties back,” Kakashi said with finality, squaring his shoulders.

“You know what? Keep them.” Iruka turned away in a huff. “I’ll just go buy more.” And with that, he stormed away. Kakashi narrowed his eyes.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, hands flashing quickly in a series of signs. Several clones puffed into existence and with a short word, dispersed on their newest mission.

---

“The HELL do you mean, out of stock?!” Iruka shouted at the store clerk in outrage. The man flinched back in fear, cowering behind the counter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ninja, sir, but someone came in not five minutes ago and bought the whole lot of hair-ties,” he babbled. “Every single one! We won’t be getting more in another shipment until-”

“Okay, fine, whatever,” Iruka cut him off, mind working furiously. “I’ll take… rubber bands. String. I don’t care, I’ll buy it.”

The clerk simply stared at him in mute horror, eyes wide. Iruka sighed.

“…They bought all of those, too, didn’t they?”

“…Yes, yes they did.”

Iruka paused, a sudden suspicion dawning on him.

“This person didn’t happen to have ridiculous silver hair and a mask, did they?”

The eyes went even wider, threatening to pop out. “Please don’t kill me,” the clerk whispered.

“Calm down, it’s not your fault. I’ll just…” Iruka chewed on his lip, mentally mapping out Konoha and his other prospects. “I’ll try elsewhere. Thank you.”

But it was the same story at every shop in Konoha.

So Iruka changed tactics. Not that it made any difference.

It didn’t matter who he begged one off of (Anko, Ino, even Shikamaru, who rolled his eyes in exasperation, as if he wasn’t embarrassed enough already), within five minutes it had either magically disappeared or snapped for no reason and his hair flopped back down over his eyes, prickly and annoying- not that Kakashi had a point or anything.

Even his own home wasn’t safe. Iruka didn’t know how, but someone had snuck in and removed everything that could even potentially serve as a hair tie, even rags and bandages. Iruka suspected Kakashi had won over Naruto with promises of all-you-can-eat ramen. He had half a mind to bring his complaint to the Hokage herself, before realizing she would probably find it hilarious and cackle like a loon for hours. So, no. Better to just deal with it himself.

---

Iruka was a hard man to break, Kakashi would give him that. After a whole week of this charade and no sign of the sensei’s resolve weakening, he’d earned his respect. But it couldn’t last forever. He had to give up at some point. Everyone had their limit. Kakashi smirked, raising a hand to study the red band still wrapped around his pinky. Yes, any minute now…

“I’m not going to break, so piss off!” Iruka shouted from inside his apartment. Kakashi, who’d been sitting on the roof, jumped. The man was more perceptive than he’d thought. His respect went up another notch.

“You sure about that?” he asked, popping his head in through the window. It was Iruka’s turn to jump. Then he swore, grabbed him by the vest, and hauled him inside the apartment, which was just as messy and unkempt as his hair. Because, you know, two jobs or whatever. Kakashi caught sight of a pair of pink boxers splayed on the couch before Iruka spun him around to glare point-blank in his face.  

“What the hell do you even care if my hair isn’t perfect? Life is not a fucking shampoo commercial,” he demanded. Kakashi shrugged.

“I had expectations. Dreams. How dare you break my fragile, innocent heart.” He swooned and clutched his chest dramatically.

“I’m gonna break something else of yours in a minute.” Iruka scowled at him, stewing in fury. “It’s none of your business, anyway. My hair, my choice. Deal with it.”

“I refuse.” Kakashi glared right back, refusing to stand down. “It’s a matter of honor.”

“Oh, please! Like yours is any better!” Iruka burst out, stepping forward to plunge his hands into Kakashi’s thick mane. “You’re always out on a mission, don’t tell me you have the time to- merciful God it’s like I’m petting one of those fluffy Inazuka dogs.” Iruka stared at him in shock. “How the hell do you get it so soft and silky? Haircare no Jutsu?”

“Don’t be silly,” Kakashi scoffed. Iruka just gave him a flat stare. “…Alright, yes, I infuse my shampoo with a little chakra for extra volume. Sue me.”

“I’m considering it, after all the harassment,” Iruka muttered darkly, his hands still in Kakashi’s hair. Kakashi had to fight back a shudder of pleasure as his fingertips scraped across a particularly sensitive area. Finally Iruka removed his hands (Kakashi stifling a disappointed whimper) and frowned in consternation. “…I just have to let you wash my hair once?”

“Sure,” Kakashi answered with a nod. “…And then you are legally obligated to follow a strict hair-care routine dictated by me-”

“ONCE.” Iruka held up a finger, expression firm. “That’s it. That’s the deal. Then you leave me alone.”

Kakashi weighed his options. He could keep running around Konoha, using up his chakra on clones and buying up every bit of material that could serve as a hair-tie, following Iruka around till he was old and even grayer and broke.  

…Or he could just wash his hair right now and be done with it.

“Alright, fine,” he agreed. “Let me wash your hair and we’re good.” Rather than look triumphant like he expected, Iruka hesitated, biting his lip uneasily and dropping his gaze to the floor.

“…Promise you won’t take advantage of me,” he said, voice quiet and serious for once.

Kakashi solemnly placed a hand over his heart. “I promise.”

And then Iruka took his shirt off and Kakashi had never regretted making a promise more in his LIFE. He truly was that tan all over, with white scars scattered here and there like constellations, accentuating the toned muscles and hard flesh.

“Oh, wait,” Iruka said, “what am I thinking? You probably need to go to your place and get-” Kakashi wordlessly held up his shampoo and conditioner bottles. Iruka blinked. “…Of fucking course.”

---

Iruka’s bathroom was just as untidy as the rest of the apartment, half-empty three-in-one shampoo bottles and dirty clothes strewn everywhere. For some reason, the fact that he was a complete slob did nothing to detract from Kakashi’s burgeoning attraction to the man.

“If you please,” Kakashi said politely, rolling up his sleeves and nodding towards the sink.

“I am not tipping,” Iruka sniffed haughtily as he stepped forward. His eyes lingered on Kakashi’s bared hands and arms for a moment before jerking away. He leaned over the sink, which, thankfully, seemed large enough to accommodate an impromptu hair-washing. Kakashi turned the tap on, careful to adjust the water temperature to a pleasant degree, then eased Iruka forward into the spray with a gentle hand. The other man grumbled, but kept still as Kakashi thoroughly wetted his hair, careful to get every bit. When he was satisfied, he pulled out his shampoo and poured a dollop into one hand, paused, then poured some more. Might as well make it count.

“Hurry up, I’m getting water up my nose,” Iruka muttered, head still under the spray. “And water all over the rest of me, too.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Kakashi forced himself to concentrate on washing Iruka’s hair and not his glistening, muscled back. He sank his fingers deep into the dry, bristly hair and scrubbed gently, lathering up the soap, making sure to pay special attention to the scalp and roots.

The shampoo was his own special recipe, imbued with his own personal chakra for extra strength and luster. He rinsed it out after several minutes, then applied the conditioner. After one more rinse, he was done, and he stepped back, allowing Iruka to straighten. Kakashi turned away to find a towel, snatched the cleanest-looking one from a shelf, and turned back.

I’ve made a horrible mistake, Kakashi realized immediately. I can’t let others see him like this. He’s too beautiful.

Iruka on a bad day was a knockout. Iruka, gloriously shirtless and gleaming, with his wet hair pooling like ink around his face and shoulders, was a vision fit for the Gods. Kakashi stood frozen, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Unaware of the other man’s dilemma, Iruka raked a hand through his hair, pushing the wet strands off his face. Kakashi gulped, his throat suddenly dry and tight. A long, tense pause drew out between the two of them like a taut bow-string.

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“…Huh?” Kakashi stared at him, blinking.

“Make a move already, you idiot.” Iruka stood there in his shirtless glory, arms crossed over his tanned chest, wet, glistening hair framing his face. “You’ve already got me half-naked and everything.”

Kakashi sputtered incoherently for a few seconds, shaking his head.

“I...I can't, I promised-” he choked out.

“Oh my God come here.” Iruka grabbed Kakashi by the front of his shirt and reeled him in like a prize catch. Kakashi did his part, gaping at him like a fish, wide-eyed in shock. Iruka scoffed, then leaned in close enough for their lips to brush teasingly. “I never promised not to take advantage of you, dumbass.”

Kakashi was not about to argue.

---

Years later, he still kept the red band around his pinky, right next to the wedding ring that winked in the sunlight.

-End-

Months ago, I was chosen to be a pinch-hitter for the Kakairuzine (I would step in if someone had to leave), so I completed two fics in case they were needed. Since they aren’t, I might as well upload them here. This is the second and final fic. Enjoy!