#I forced myself to try drawing with paper and pencil again today while I was watching my best friend's dog | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wornoutmouse · 3 years

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Look I wrote this for my friend but i popped the hell off with this one so if you don’t mind reading a name inbetween a few dialogue points pls read

You ran hurriedly through the halls of the school as the third bell finally rang. You had overslept and had barely made it onto the bus. Skidding to a stop, you slow down when you get to the door, catching your breath before entering. Just as you annoyingly expected, eyes dart towards you as soon as you entered, effectively catching the teacher’s attention.

“This is the second time you are late young lady, one more time and I will have no choice but to write you up.” You smile awkwardly, “Sorry Miss, it won’t happen again.” Ms. Bustier clicks her tongue disapprovingly as she watched her student walk to her seat, head hanging low. You sit down in your chair with a soft sigh as Ms. Bustier spoke about today’s lesson.

For the most part, you pay attention to the lesson being taught, that is until your attention is being interrupted by a pencil poking your side. From your peripheral vision, you see fluffy blond hair swaying gently to get your attention. You mutter under your breath, swiping the pencil with your hand, “Quit it Adrien I’m already in trouble.” The boy huffs but the playful aura still hung around making your skin buzz with excitement.

Shifting in your seat, you squint your eyes at the smartboard, writing down notes every so often. Looking down once again, you notice a small piece of paper folded, You look at Adrien who boredly watched your teacher speak. Opening the paper you roll your eyes at the note inside.

A - Late again are you Miss Mia? One more time and I might have to wake you up myself

Nibbling the tip of your pencil you write a note back, crumpling the paper before tossing it at Adrien’s head with a smirk.

You- Well maybe I wouldn’t have been so tired if you hadn’t interrupted my study time with your modeling rants

The paper is tossed back at your head, catching in your curly hair, making Adrien snort.

A- Well I can think of other ways to keep you up at night...

You cough loudly at the message, eyes darting at Adrien’s laid-back figure. You scribble down a quick snarky reply with shaking hands. You go to pass the paper but the sound of a throat clearing interrupts you. You turn to your left and are forced to look up, gulping when you notice your teacher’s signature white blazer. She holds her hand out and you reluctantly place the ball of paper in her hand.

“While I will not embarrass you by reading out your hidden messages, I will embarrass you by writing you up for detention.” Sputtering, you point an accusing finger at the smug boy behind you, “He started it first I was just..” You are hushed by a firm hand on your shoulder, “Well if that’s the case, both you and Adrien can join each other at study hall.” Adrien groans behind you and you throw a glare his way, one that he responds with a teasing wink. The sound of the bell ringing grimly reminds you of the dreadful time awaiting you in study hall after school.

When you get thereAdrien is already there and waves you over to him. You narrow your eyes at him but sit next to him anyway. “Aww don’t look at me like that Mi, it’s not my fault you aren’t stealthy enough to pass a simple note in class.” You roll your eyes, “Well if you weren’t tossing notes like a child, we wouldn’t be here either.” Adrien laughs loudly earning a sharp look from the detention monitor.

He mutters a silent apology as you busy yourself with a notepad and pencil. The study hall is silent and boring and 11 minutes feel like 11 hours as the clock ticks by. Adrien watches your small scribbles turn into different shapes and sizes. Before long, he notices you drawing a rather familiar face. “Whatcha drawing?” You shrug, watching your pencil make the shape of cat-like ears.

You continue drawing, briefly recognizing Adrien’s body heat as he watches over your shoulder. “You like Chat Noir huh?” Your precise pencil strokes outline the lean frame of one of Paris’s heros. While it is undoubtedly Chart Noir in a heroic setting, the way his eyes slant a little more than his mask allows and the way one of his hands rested on his chest did give way to a more seductive undertone.

“Yeah, I think he’s pretty hot not gonna lie.” Adrien hums, the feeling of his short breaths blowing against your shoulder makes you shiver. “Really? Well, he can’t be hotter than I can he?” Adrien fluffs his hair pompously as he stretches his body lazily. “I don’t know maybe a little.” Adrien sticks his tongue out at you.

Your monitor stands up and walks towards the door before turning around, “Listen you two, I am going to get lunch, and I better see you two here when I come back or you’ll get worse than detention.” The teacher fixes you both with a long look before leaving. “They are a little stiff in the ass.” You chuckle resting your head on your palm. Adrien slouches in his chair to play on his phone, giving you the perfect opportunity to observe him. Your friend is attractive, that is something you’ve come to terms with a long time ago, hiding your crush away deep in your mind.

“You like to stare at me when you think?” His tenor voice startles you out of thought and you realize you now have his full attention. Your face is warm and for once you are glad you couldn’t visibly blush.

“Hey, Adrien? What did you mean by that last message you passed me in class?” You tried to pass the question off as casual but you could feel your heart racing as the room filled with daunting silence. “What do you think I meant?”

Suddenly Adrien felt too close and the room felt smaller. When you made eye contact with him, his eyes were slanted just like Chat Noirs on your drawing. “You tell me.” You said boldly. Adrien pondered for a while, green eyes observing your features, going from your eyes, down your nose before finally resting on your plump lips. “Well, I think it meant exactly what it said.” Adrien placed a hand on your thigh, squeezing the flesh in his palm. “So tell me why you like Cat Noir?” You stare at nothing, unable to compute the absurd request that came seemingly out of nowhere.

“What?” Adrian’s hand doesn’t stop moving on your thigh, heating your skin through your jeans. “Come on Mi, humor me for a moment.” You hum softly in an attempt at calming your heart rate. “Well, I like how he seems to enjoy what he does, saving people...” As you speak Adrien takes the time to scoot closer to you paying a sparing glance at the door your teacher left out of a moment ago. “What would you do if you met him?” His hands got closer to your inner thigh fiddling with your belt loops.

The urge to clench your legs together was immediate as the fire within you grew stronger. “I would thank him for his service and-” Adrien shushes you with the sound of your belt clinking a loose. “Let me rephrase, what do you want him to do to you?” Before you had comprehended your predicament, Adrien’s hand had found itself inside your pants.

You were sitting rigidly in your chair, lips parted in a silent exhale. Slender fingers focused themselves on your swelling bud, pressing soft circles on it in an effort to coax it out of its hood. Noting your tensed posture, Adrien tries to distract you. He’ll admit even to himself that this was a bold move on his part and he was surprised you hadn’t pushed him off at this point. “I can stop if you want me to?” You feel his fingers stop their ministrations and you quickly grab his wrist. “No!”

His concerned demeanor is quickly wiped away by a broad smirk as his fingers resumed their task. “Okay then.” He places a kiss on your shoulder through your shirt making you shiver. “You didn’t answer my question.” You nod and try to speak in a stable manner. “I would want him to- oh god!” Adrien’s fingers began to work overtime as they went down to your lips, now wet with your arousal. “I would want him to touch me there! Please.”

Lips latched lazily on your skin, sucking hard enough for you to feel it but not hard enough for marks to be left behind. “Where is’ there’ Mia? Use your words.” Your back arched in your chair when you felt his slick index finger playfully dip inside of you before returning to your clit. “Adrien~” Your soft moans were audible now, and every small whimper made his cock ache at the thought of being the cause of your sweet noises. Adrien mockingly hummed, “Oh I see now.”

“You want him to fuck that pretty pussy of yours don’t you?” You make a strange noise that is a mix of surprise and a moan. You’d never think words like those could leave Adrien’s mouth. “Y-Yes!” Adrien nodded moving to use both hands now, it was an awkward position but it was worth it seeing you fall apart by his hands. “I bet you think of him at night, kissing you slowly, while his hands roam your body.” Adrien sinks his teeth in your shoulder blade making you jerk as a particularly hard burst of pleasure racks your body. “You look so damn sexy like this kitty cat.’

You lean forward, holding yourself up by your desk as Adrien’s fingers move faster on your clit. “I can feel how fast your heart is beating, you gonna cum?” The teasing tone in his voice ignited the smallest ounce of competitiveness within you. You grit your teeth and shake your head, “Don’t get so full of yourself Agreste.” Your eyes clenched shut at the feeling of a finger finally entering you. Adrien looked at you with narrowed eyes. He wasn’t a fan when you got competitive, especially when you were obviously bluffing.

There was a thin layer of sweat forming on your skin as your orgasm got closer. Adrien focused on the way your walls quivered around his finger. Your choked-back moans cut the air as he pumps his finger faster. Your wetness was dripping onto your underwear and around his palm making squelching noises. “Are you sure you aren’t going to cum?” Adrien whispered close to your ear taking glee when a tremor passed down your spine. Your orgasm was too damn close for him to stop so you decide to swallow your pride just this once. “F-faster, Adrien, I’m close.” Those were indeed the wrong words to say. Adrien slowed his finger down to slow pumps while his thumb pressed harshly on your clit. He laughed as he could practically feel it throbbing, “I thought you said you weren’t going to cum?” You try to grind down on his hand, bucking slightly as his rough palm stimulated your sensitive lips. “Don’t be an ass ah-fuck!”

You grip the edge of your desk as you finally cum on his hand. Your eyelids flutter and Adrien marvels that the feeling of your cunt that was squeezing him so tightly he could neither tell if it was pulling him in or pushing him out.

You grunt as he removes his finger, when you look over at him, he is preoccupied with pulling his cock out while licking his fingers clean of your cum. Adrien whimpered around his fingers as his other hand jerked his cock sharply “Ah, you taste better than I thought.” Your eyes travel down his chest to meet his junior. It was thick and surprisingly long. You couldn’t help but feel sorrow for the angry red it was at the tip. But the vein traveling up the side made your mouth water.

His hips bucked to meet his hand desperately. Curses left his soft lips as he tossed his head back in pleasure. A deep warmth flooded your gut from the vibrant imagery of him fucking you with it. “Mia-ah shit.” You raise your head up to meet his eyes, your heart skipping a beat at how the green of his eyes was almost completely drowned by his pupils. “It’s not fair if I helped you get you off, but you won’t help me.” You scootch forward a little bit, swallowing your saliva, “What do you want me to do?” Adrien spread his legs with his hands holding the sides of his chair, “Come on Mi, I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’ve already gone dumb?”

A hand comes on your shoulder and gently coaxes you down to your knees. You feel small as Adrien peers down at you, gaze disrupted as his cock begins twitching in front of you. Nervousness enters your head as you quickly come to the realization of how large his dick actually was. “What, are you afraid Mia? Or do I need to get you into the mood?” Adrien sits up straighter, “Claws out.” Your tilt your head curious as he combs his fingers through his hair, revealing...cat ears? The sight of a green glow slithering around his body was almost as unnerving as the sight of his outfit changing right before you.

In little as no time flat, Paris’s neighborhood hero sat in front of you in all his leather glory. His eyes seemed even greener than before, and his personality seemed to change right before you. “Adrien you’re Chat Noir!?” The blond shrugs nonchalantly, gripping his cock and slapping it against your cheek. “Mi I am all for the formalities, but I am so close to fucking your brains out right now, that I think it would be in your best interest to start sucking.” While still being conscious of your hairstyle, Adrien...Noir, pulls your head closer to his groin.

You resist the urge to scrunch your face at the feeling of precum being smeared on your mouth and chin. This resistance only makes Noir chuckle, “Stick your tongue out for me.” As if it was routine, you do as he says and moan softly from the feeling of his tip tapping your warm muscle. “So fucking perfect for me.” The praise makes you clench and gives you the courage to open your mouth wider. You suck on his member making him release a pleased growl. His hand laid limply on the back of your head as you take the lead.

The salty taste while slightly unpleasant, wholly addictive. Feeling your growing comfort, Adrien begins thrusting to meet your mouth. The tip of his cock goes all the way to the back of your throat making you choke before dragging back but the sounds of you struggling doesn’t dissuade him. The feeling of your tongue grazing over his vein just before your throat constricted around him drove him wild. Your tiny whimpers made his balls vibrate as he moved faster.

You place your hands on his thighs in order to stable yourself as his thrusts got more brutal. Slob collected around your mouth before dripping down your chin and finally collected by his balls every time they hit your jaw. “Fuck I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum!” Adrien’s voice pitched higher as his claws scratched into the wooden chair of his seat. His head tossed back violently as his thrusts became sloppy, legs shaking. Loud sobs left his mouth as you bright him closer to the edge each thrust is accentuated by filthy words. “Your mouth is so. fucking. Tight. Fuck Mia!”

You felt cum shoot down your throat as Adrien holds your head painfully against this crotch. He weakly thrusts into your mouth a few more times before realizing you. Gasping for air, you wipe your mouth of saliva and look up at Adrien as he catches his breath. Rough hands grip your chin making you look up at him. “You looked wrecked Mi.” Adrien laughs as he wipes cum off the corner of your mouth. You stand up wobbly and albeit a bit light-headed, Adrien stands with you and kisses your lips, enjoying the taste of himself in your mouth.

“We are going to finish this later.” Before your brain could even prompt you to ask, the bell rings signaling that detention was over. Adrien deactivates his miraculous before grabbing his backpack and leaving detention hall.

#adrien agreste smut #anime smut #miraculous smut #chat noir smut #smut

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dreamerstreamer · 3 years

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Driver’s License

Pairing: Dream / Clay x f!reader

Summary: [High School!AU] You’ve had a crush on Clay ever since he was first assigned to be your lab partner, and you finally muster up the courage to confess your feelings to him. But sometimes, not everything goes the way you hope it does.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: this was requested by an anon who wanted some angst inspired by olivia rodrigo’s driver’s license! i hope i captured the right mood with the setting and story, and i sincerely hope you enjoy! <3

You glanced down at your phone, your thumb pressing on the power button before the screen flickered to life. The time flashed back at you in a white, clean font, and you chewed on your lip, your toes curling in your shoes.

There were only seven minutes until the bell—he was going to be late, wasn’t he?

Sighing, you picked up your phone and pushed your thumb against the home button, opening up your text messages. You scrolled down the list of contacts that stared back at you, your thumb hovering the one name that sent your head spinning in a flurry of pink hearts and white stars.

Clay.

Of all the people to have a crush on, of course it just had to be him. After all, how could you not fall for him? He was tall, cute, funny, and, well—he was a dream come true. It was almost like the universe had just set you up to fall, and really, you had no one to blame but yourself. It wasn’t like he liked you back, either. He was the cool, fun quarterback that was friends with everyone, while your only claim to fame was that you were his lab partner.

Should I text him? you wondered, fidgeting your fingers. I feel like I should text him. I know we’re technically just lab partners, but we’ve texted about other things, too. It wouldn’t be weird if I just asked him where he was, ri—

“Hey, you.”

You whipped your head up, immediately shutting your phone with one hand as your eyes wide went wide, your heart tripping in your chest. Standing by the desk next to you, Clay waved, amusement flickering across his face at your shocked expression.

“Hi, Clay,” you said, suddenly feeling breathless all at once. You could already feel the warmth blossoming in your chest, as his eyes locked onto yours. You really were too gone for your own good.

Sliding into his seat, he flashed you a bright grin as he dropped his bag onto the space beside him. “What’s up? Anything exciting happen to you?”

You turned away from your notebook with a soft smile. “Not really.” Trying to force down the heat crawling up your neck, you wagged a finger at him, a teasing lilt seeping into your words. “But you, my friend, are actually early—for once.” You shot him a thumbs up, winking. “Congratulations.”

Unzipping his backpack, Clay rolled his eyes at you, something like amusement flirting across his face. “Look,” he said, rummaging through his bag, “not all of us can be as early as you.”

Your lips twitched, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest with a triumphant look. “Well, I’ll have you know that I drove myself here today.”

He froze, his hand pausing as he looked up to blink at you with wide, fascinated eyes. “You did?” A grin slowly spread across his face, and he pulled out a notebook before setting his bag back down on the ground. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nodded your head eagerly, electricity buzzing up your skin as you pulled out your wallet from behind you. “It sure does!” Flipping it open, you held out a small, plastic card towards his face with a giddy smile. “I got my license.”

In an instant, he was cheering, his eyes as wide as saucers as he clapped his hands in celebration. You had half the mind to be embarrassed that more than just a few people were looking at you now, but you were far more focused on Clay. “Woah, congrats!” he said, lifting a hand tentatively toward you. “Can I...?”

You nodded, watching as he gently pulled your license from your fingers. He turned it over in his hands once, his lips curling up into a crooked grin before he tapped at your photo. “Look at you,” he said, mirth dancing through his emerald gaze. “They got your good side.”

You raised a brow at him, holding your palm out toward him. “Are you saying I have a bad side?”

Clay shook his head, sliding the card back between your fingers and your hands brushing. A spark ran up your fingertips at the touch, sending a dizzying surge of heat rushing into your chest. “Nah. Every side is your good side.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as he turned back to his desk, his gaze leaving yours. Your fingers curled tighter around your license, and you swallowed. How could he say something like that so casually? It was so unfair. You already liked him enough, and then he just had to go and say something like that. Of course. Stupid, dumb, handsome Clay. It was not your fault he was so... attractive. Totally.

After a long moment, your fingers curled a fraction tighter around your license, the plastic digging into your skin as you softly said, “Thanks.”

He waved a hand at you, his eyes curving into crescent moons. “Anytime.”

Your stomach tightened into a knot in your gut, tingling elation shooting through you and wrapping around your lungs. Tucking your license back into one of the wallet flaps, you watched as he flipped his notebook open to a blank page, quickly scribbling the date in the corner of the paper with a focused gaze. With a reluctant sigh, you tore your eyes away from him to look back at your own paper, pretending to write something down that wasn’t just his name. It was almost embarrassing how easily you could just stare and get lost in everything he did. You never thought you would be one of those people, yet here you were.

“Hey, by the way,” he suddenly said, his voice making you jump while his eyes flickered to meet yours, “do you happen to have any plans for Friday?”

Catching your breath, your pencil stopped in its tracks on the page. Friday? You furrowed your brows, the cogs in your head churning before you slowly nodded. “I think so.” A grimace tugged at your lips, and you held back a quiet groan. “I’ve got a project due on Monday that I need to get done, but I can’t work on it until Friday, so...” You gestured vaguely. “You know.”

There was a moment of silence, and Clay’s lips curled into a slight frown. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

You could have sworn you saw disappointment flit through his face, but it was gone in an instant. Leaning toward him, your eyebrows knit together in concern. “Hey,” you murmured softly, “is something wrong?”

In a flash, he was smiling again, and you couldn’t tell he had been frowning even a split second earlier. “No, no, I was just curious, that’s all.” He raised his hand toward you, tapping a finger against your nose. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

Your cheeks burst with warmth, his eyes brightening at the way your lips curled. Reeling back, you raised your chin at him, huffing. “Hey, this pretty little head is the one saving you from a C in chemistry, right now.”

He chuckled, his arm dropping back down to his side as he leaned back in his seat. “You sure are, and I hope you knows how much that means to me.”

Your heart came to a screeching halt in your chest. All at once, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Did he... could he—?

“Good morning, everyone.”

You jumped at the sound of your chemistry teacher’s voice, your hand tightening around your pencil as you watched him send your class a smile. “I hope you all had a good weekend. Today, we’ll be...”

Soon enough, you were already tuning him out, your mind drifting back to Clay’s words.

I hope you knows how much that means to me.

Something soft and fuzzy rolled over in your stomach, and you felt hope bubbling up in your throat.

Maybe your crush wasn’t as one-sided as you thought it was.

You dashed through the halls, your backpack bouncing against your shoulder as you weaved in between groups of friends leaning against the lockers and couples holding hands as they walked. You stifled a curse as you dodged someone’s arm, grumbling to yourself as you finally pushed past the doors that led outside. Couldn’t people learn to just not stand in the middle of the hall? People needed to get places—people like you.

Inhaling the fresh, spring air, you bounded across the dewy grass toward the familiar picnic table underneath the school’s willow tree. It was the only spot on school grounds that actually had enough shade to keep your head from overheating in the simmering Florida sun, so naturally, it became your and Wilbur’s go-to spot for lunch.

As the bench drew nearer, you felt your face brighten, spotting Wilbur already sitting in his usual spot, his beanie askew atop his head. The two of you were unlikely friends, to say the least, but after having spent years living next to each other, you were more than proud to call him your best friend, even if he did make you want to smack him more often than not.

Wilbur offered you a brief wave as you finally reached the bench, tugging open his sandwich bag with his other hand. Above you, the willow tree swayed, the branches and leaves scattering sunlight across his face. “Hey, how was chem—”

“Today, our hands touched when I showed him my license,” you blurted, not even pausing for breath.

Wilbur blinked at you once, stunned for a brief moment. Then, a groan flew from his lips, and he pressed two fingers to his temple, grimacing. “[Y/N],” he said, drawing out the syllables of your name, “I can’t keep doing this.”

You blinked as you sat down in the space across from him, dropping your bag onto the seat with a thud. “Keep doing what?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Keep listening to you endlessly pine over Clay without doing anything about it.” At your bewildered expression, he sighed, taking another bite of his sandwich as he pushed his glasses up further onto his face. “It’s been, what? Four months, at this point?”

“Five,” you said immediately.

He stared at you. “Five,” he repeated. When you nodded, his frown deepened. “You do realize how bad that sounds, right?”

A wave of embarrassment crashed over you, and you curled back into yourself, grumbling, “Let me live my life.”

“Not like this, I won’t.” Wilbur leaned over the table with a firm look, pointing his finger at you. “You need to ask him out.”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you felt your jaw drop open in disbelief. “No way,” you said, slapping your hands onto the table. “Absolutely not. I am not doing... that.”

You could practically see Wilbur’s impatience wearing thin, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “[Y/N]. C’mon. You like him—it’s so obvious.”

You opened your mouth to shoot back, then shook your head, closing it—Wilbur knew you too well to even try. “Probably, but not to Clay. To him, I’m just his lab partner.”

“His cute lab partner,” he pointed out, lifting a finger. “Who is also pretty, and smart, and funny, and interesting and—”

The smile was stretching across your face before you could stop it, and you whined, feeling your chest grow warm with genuine appreciation. “Stop, please.”

Wilbur’s lips split into a teasing grin, and he poked a finger to your side. “You know I’m only calling it like I see it.”

When you glowered at him, he only laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. Scoffing, you reached your arm toward him. “Well, if it’s only as much as you’re seeing it,” you said, “I guess I’ll just have to take these, then.”

Before he could react, your hand had wrapped around the side of his glasses, and you were pulling them off his face in a whirl. He jumped at the sudden change, and you watched as he fumbled with his sandwich, gaping at you as he whipped around. “Hey, give those back!”

You leaned back, sticking your tongue out at him as you held them above and behind your head. “Not until you stop.”

Now, it was his turn to glare at you, and he clenched his jaw with a long exhale. “Fine,” he said, focusing his attention back to his lunch. “I guess I just won’t tell you what’s happening on Friday, then.”

His glasses went limp in your hand, and your voice dropped down to a meek whisper. “There’s something happening on Friday?”

Wilbur only shrugged, humming softly. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Resting your elbows on top of the table, you pursed your lips, leaning forward to scan his face. “Will,” you said, your tone firm and demanding, “please tell me. Clay asked me if I was free on Friday and now I regret telling him no—you can’t just leave me hanging like this.”

Wilbur lifted his head to meet your gaze, a look of pure shock and disbelief shooting across his face. “He asked you if you were free and you said no?” He paused for a moment, then sighed for what must have been the millionth time. “Maybe you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

You scowled, but didn’t say anything. Instead, you lifted your head to slide his glasses across the table toward him. “Here,” you said, the tiniest tinge of desperation soaking into your voice, “I’ll even give these back.”

He raised his eyebrows at you, picking up his glasses with a soft whistle. “That was easier than I thought,” he murmured, ignoring the glare you shot him. Sliding his glasses back onto his face with practiced ease, he turned his attention back to you with a gleam in his eye. “Fine then, I’ll tell you.”

You held your breath as he leaned forward, opening his mouth. “There’s a football game on Friday,” he said, “and Chrissy’s throwing a party for after the game.”

You stared at him, then frowned, confusion swirling in your eyes. “Chrissy?” you parroted.

Wilbur nodded. “Yes, Chrissy.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. While you didn’t really know Chrissy yourself, you most definitely knew of her. That was the case for a lot of people in your school. After all, how could you not know Chrissy? She was the head cheerleader and practically the face of the school. With shiny, golden hair and a dazzling smile that put the sun to shame, it was basically impossible to miss her—you’d have to be blind to.

On one hand, you wanted to believe she was stuck-up and catty like all the cheerleaders you saw in movies, but deep down, you knew you had no right to make that judgement. People said she was nice, and you had never spoken to her yourself, so who were you to stereotype her? But on the other....

“What does Chrissy have anything to do with this?” you blurted, your eyes scanning his face for even a hint of something more. “We’re talking about Clay, not her.”

Wilbur only stared blankly at you, his eye twitching in agony. “How you pass your classes and still manage to be this dense is beyond me.”

You let out a groan, hanging your head in your hands. “Wilbur, you know I’m stupid. Now, will you please just get to the point?”

Wilbur dragged a hand over the bottom half of his face, sucking in a deep breath before lifting a hand toward you. “Chrissy is the cheer captain, [Y/N]. Clay is the quarterback. It’s an after-game party. He’s definitely going to be there.”

Silence washed over the two of you, and for an excruciatingly long minute, you simply stared at him, the dots slowly connecting in your head to form a full picture. After a few moments, Wilbur sighed again and looked away, giving you some time to think. Your head spun with thoughts of Friday, Clay, and your project, and you watched distractedly as Wilbur shoved the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing while you eyed him up and down.

A party, huh? you thought to yourself. Maybe, just maybe...

Just like that, something suddenly snapped inside you, and you felt your chest swell with determination. You could not believe you were about to do this.

“Wilbur,” you said, calm and slow, “this changes everything.” When he silently cocked a brow at you, you tightened your jaw. “We’re going to that football game, then we’re going to Chrissy’s party.”

He nodded, only half-listening as he stuffed his now empty sandwich bag into his pocket. “Sure, yeah, good for yo—wait.“ He froze, and you almost let yourself feel a sliver of pride as he gaped at you. “You said we.”

You ignored the sense of slow, sinking horror settling into your gut as you swallowed, squeezing your hands into tight fists. “Yeah—we. Because I’m going to need the moral support.”

Wilbur blinked once. Twice. Then, a slow grin began to spread across his face, and you could already tell you were about to regret telling him that. “Does this mean you’re gonna—?”

You swallowed thickly, your throat bobbing as you threw back your shoulders and nodded, firm and true. “I’m going to confess to Clay.”

Wilbur was on his feet in an instant, his hand shooting forward to clap you on the shoulder. “Attagirl!” Pulling back, he crossed his arms over his chest, smiling eagerly. “Sure then, I’ll come with. But you’re driving.”

You furrowed your brows at him, pulling yourself up until you were also standing. “You know I’ve only had my license for, like, half a week.”

He slung his arm over your shoulder, his lips twitching at the way you stumbled at his sudden movement. “That’s all the more reason to celebrate. Let’s go get ice cream.”

You gaped, somehow even more confused than before. “Celebrate? What are we celebrating? My driver’s license?”

Reaching down, Wilbur patted your head, grinning brightly. “You’ve made a step forward to finally being less of a wimp. That’s something.”

You sent him another glare, but shoved your hand into your pocket nonetheless. A few moments of rummaging later, you pulled out your parents’ car keys with a defeated sigh. “You’re lucky I like ice cream. But don’t blame me if I crash the car.”

“Hey,” he said, unwrapping his arm from its spot on your shoulder to pick up his bag, “even if you do, at least that way I’ll miss my stats test tomorrow.”

You gasped, frowning at him as you smacked his arm. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he simply hummed at you, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “Sometimes, the truth hurts,” he said, “and you just have to accept it.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he waved a hand, gesturing to your backpack. “Enough of the melodrama, though—get your stuff. I want ice cream.”

With a sigh, you rolled your eyes at him again, leaning down to grab your backpack with one hand and your keys with the other. As the two of you began to make your way across the field, squinting past the blinding sunlight, you felt your heart flutter in anticipation.

Friday—you could wait for Friday.

The roaring applause was absolutely deafening around you as the football slammed into the grass, claps and shouts ringing across the bleachers like nothing you’ve heard before. On the other side of the field, you watched as the cheerleaders shook their pom-poms, Chrissy landing a flip in front of the crowd with a stunning grin. With a slight wince, you grimaced, your eyes flickering to the scoreboard. Your team was losing 24 to 37, but from the way everyone was yelling, you’d have thought they had just won a war. Did they just get a point, or...?

“You don’t know anything about football, do you?”

You whirled around, tearing your eyes away from the scoreboard to find Wilbur sitting beside you with a bucket of popcorn sitting on his lap. You frowned at his unimpressed look, resolve etched into your features. “I know things. Like, um—” You paused for a second. “Like, Clay is the quarterback.”

A sardonic smile stretched across his face, and he cocked his head at you. “That’s great,” he drawled. “But do you know what a quarterback does?”

You stiffened, digging your thumb into the palm of your hand. “Plays football?” you offered sheepishly.

Wilbur deadpanned, picking at a stray thread on his mustard yellow sweater. “You’re hopeless.”

You let out a whine, burying your face in your hands to at least try to ignore the aching warmth creeping onto your cheeks, a prickle of anxiety creeping up your spine. “I’m trying, okay?”

A hand settled onto your shoulder, familiar and warm. “I know, I know,” he murmured, sounding reassuring for once, “and I’m proud of you for that.”

You lifted your head, your wide eyes meeting his earnest ones. “Really?”

He smiled. “Really. But,” he added, something flashing in his gaze, “as your best friend, it is also my responsibility to clown you at every given opportunity.”

You pushed his arm off your shoulder with a pout. “You’re right, but I hate that you’re right.”

With a chuckle, he stuck his hand into the bucket on his lap, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Look,” he said, casting a worried glance at you, “I’m just trying to lighten the mood a little—you look like you’re stressed out of your mind.”

Your voice came out louder than you would have liked, your nails digging into your palms. “Because I am! I am, okay? He...” You trailed off for a moment, searching for the right words. “...he means a lot to me, and I really like him.”

Wilbur’s gaze grew soft, his hold on the popcorn bucket growing loose. “I know you do.” He paused for a moment, then nudged your shoulder with his. “Tell you what,” he began, “if we win the game, you tell him, but if we lose, we can just go home.”

You stared at him, the weight on your shoulders suddenly feeling a lot less heavy. “Seriously?”

He nodded, his lips quirking. “Yes. I don’t want to push you into doing something you’ll regret.”

You turned back to the scoreboard once more, your gaze darting back and forth between the 24 on the sign and the grass. Down below, you caught a glimpse of a uniform with the number one plastered across the back dashing across the field as the crowd cheered. The gears in your head whirred, and you felt your gut churn. Did you really want to leave and give up, now? Were you really okay with that?

Memories of emerald green eyes and loud peals of laughter flashed across your mind, and you felt your chest grow hot.

“Okay,” you breathed, quiet yet firm. “Okay, I think I—”

You stopped, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment. Sucking in another breath, your eyelids shot open and you swallowed. “I can do this.” Your eyes flitted to Wilbur’s. “Yeah?” You nodded to yourself. “Yeah.”

Wilbur sucked on the inside of his cheek, his fingers nervously tapping on the side of the popcorn bucket. “We can still go home, it’s okay. We can leave now if you wa—”

You shook your head, and his words fell quiet. “No,” you sighed, feeling both nervous and relieved. “No. I’m gonna do it.”

His fingers stopped, surprise seeping into his expression. “You are?”

You watched as the football soared across the air, spinning in a perfect spiral. Something inside you flipped, and you found the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

“I am.”

Flashing lights scattered broken rays of rainbows across the ceiling, moving bodies jumping and dancing against one another as their eyes glimmered with excitement. Some pop song you were pretty sure you had heard on the radio that morning was blasting through the speakers, making the floor shake beneath your feet. You blinked down at your shoes, feeling your arms tingle at your side with discomfort.

“I kind of regret doing this.”

Beside you, Wilbur let out a long sigh, shaking his head as he poured himself another glass of... whatever he had been drinking. “I literally told you we could leave earlier.”

Your hand trembled at your side, your thumb pressing against your side as you shuffled back and forth anxiously. “Do not remind me, please. I’m already on the verge of losing my mind right about now.”

Wilbur glanced down at you, taking in your shaking lip and nervous expression, then smiled, bending over slightly so that he was eye-level with you. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice still reaching your ear despite the deafening music, “you’ve got this, okay?” He pushed his cup toward you, gently tapping your arm with it. “I’m still here for you, even if goes badly. Remember that.”

The sting crawling up your spine grew a little fainter at his words, and you bit your lip, shooting him a sheepish smile. “Thanks. I’ll, um, find you later?”

Reaching his hand up, he ruffled your hair with a reassuring smile. “Of course. Go on, now.” Patting your back one last time, he bumped his side into yours playfully, pushing you forward. “You can do it.”

You pursed your lips one last time, willing the butterflies in your stomach to die down before turning on your heel and making your way through the house. You could do this—yeah, you definitely could! What was the worst that could happen?

You stepped past wild movements and braying laughter, weaving your way through the maze that was Chrissy’s house as your eyes swept over the bustling crowd. You never knew Chrissy lived in such a nice place, but really, you weren’t all that surprised, and you weren’t really complaining. After all, it was a nice party, and more than a great place to celebrate your school’s victory.

Although you would wished that it wasn’t as big as it was, if only so you could actually find Clay.

As you slowly pushed against the torrent of mingling people, your mind began to wander. I wonder if I look okay. Does my hair still look alright after Wilbur messed with it? He better not have ruined it. Or maybe Clay would find it cute? Your face burned, and you shook your head to yourself, muttering under your breath. You weren’t sure anymore, but you could tell that the nerves were starting to get to you.

You found your pushing into the kitchen, nearly toppling over someone’s leg as the dangling lights came into view. Reaching forward, you grabbed onto the counter to balance yourself, blood pumping in your ears. Were parties always this crazy, or was everyone just high off the adrenaline from the game? You couldn’t tell.

It was then that a voice called out over the deafening music echoing in your ears. “Yo, [Y/N]!”

You whirled at the sound of your name, your eyes scanning the kitchen for the owner’s voice before landing on a familiar face leaning up against the counter. “Sapnap?” you said, eyes widening as you walked over.

Sapnap flashed you a welcoming smile, raising his cup to his lips to take a small sip. “Hey,” he said, his voice somehow sailing across the blaring bass, “it’s good to see you. I feel like you never come to parties.”

You nodded, tucking some hair behind your ear as you offered him a sheepish smile, shrugging. “Just thought it would be nice to spend some a night out for once, you get me?” It was right when Sapnap nodded that you gasped, clapping your hands together. “Oh, by the way, have you seen Clay?”

Sapnap paused, fiddling with his cup. “Clay? I’m pretty sure he was with Chrissy out in the backyard.”

He jutted his head toward the glass, sliding door on the opposite side of the room, and you sent him a grateful grin. “Awesome, thanks.” Raising your hand in a wave, you turned. “See you around!”

He raised his cup in return, smiling back at you. “See ya.”

Your anxiety had blossomed into excitement now, a grin tugging at your lips as you leapt around the dining table and grabbed the door handle, sliding it open with a grunt. Stepping outside, you heard the splashing of the pool and bursts of giggles echo around you, washing the dim, evening clouds with a pale, swimming glow. Like the rest of her house, Chrissy’s backyard was big—bigger than you’d have thought. With a pool and a gazebo to boot, you were shocked by how unsurprised you were.

Sapnap said he was out here last time he saw him, you thought, wiping your damp palms on your bottoms. Your heart raged against your rib cage, beating wildly as you sucked in a deep breath. I guess it’s now or nothing.

Plastering a smile to your face, you lifted your head, taking a step forward only for your eyes to catch on someone moving in the gazebo.

Your heart stopped.

Tucked away under the gazebo’s arching roof, there sat Clay, his arm wrapped around Chrissy’s waist as he gazed at her with warm, fond eyes. He dipped his head down to whisper something into her ear, and you could only watch as she giggled, tilting his head down to press her lips against his in a soft, sweet peck.

Your lungs were constricted in your chest, and you suddenly felt like you couldn’t breathe. Every breath you took felt like a weight of bricks had been set into your bones, your vision hyper focusing on the sight lying a few feet away from you.

Her hands in his. His eyes focused on her. The sound of her laughter, light and pure. The flash of his smile, loving and kind.

He... Clay... and Chrissy...?

It was almost as you had ducked your head into the pool, everyone’s voices sounding murky and unfamiliar. Beside you, you could vaguely make out the conversation of two girls chatting away with one another, their smiles bright and gazes eager.

“Hey,” one murmured, “do you know how long Clay and Chrissy have been together?”

The other paused. “I think he asked her out after they won the game, right when everyone was coming over. Romantic, right?”

There was a gasp. “Really? That’s so cute. They’re perfect together, aren’t they? Head cheerleader with the quarterback—” A dramatic sigh. “—it’s like a movie or something.”

You heard a noise of affirmation. “And they’re both so nice. Like, gosh, no wonder they ended up together.”

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, your eardrums ringing inside your head. The world suddenly felt like it was a million miles away, like you were hearing everything through a tunnel as you stumbled your way back toward the house. Voices chatted around you and bodies jostled you as you walked, but all you could think about was the thought of Clay’s lips pressed to Chrissy’s, the image burned to the back of your eyelids.

Wilbur, you thought through the jumbled mess of your thoughts. I need to find Wilbur. Where is he?

Someone laughed beside you—it sounded too much like Clay. Everything was too loud, too bright. You were going to be sick.

Just then, a swathe of mustard yellow caught your attention from the corner of your eye, and in an instant, you were turning on your heel, pushing past strangers and acquaintances alike with only one goal in mind. Wilbur was taking to someone you recognized as Eret, the British transfer student from a little while back. They looked like they were getting along well, what with the way Wilbur was smiling, but right now, you couldn’t wait another second to get your best friend’s attention.

The moment you reached him, your hand was already gripping onto his arm, tugging at him. “Wilbur,” you said shakily, feeling like your knees were about to give out, “we need to leave. Right now.”

Wilbur turned, the bright lights making his eyes gleam in the dimness. “Oh, [Y/N], how’d it g—” His smile fell from his face the second his eyes met yours, worry flooding his features. “What happened?”

Your throat felt tight as you curled your fingers tighter into his sweater, the fabric bunching up in your hand. “Wilbur, please.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, then he nodded, his gaze softening. “Okay.” Turning, he sent a quick wave to Eret, muttering some excuse before dipping his head closer to you and placing his hand on the small of your back. “I’ll drive,” he murmured. “Where to?”

You felt your heart squeeze in your chest, a small, tight noise leaving you as your lips struggled to form a sentence. “I don’t know—my house... yours... the park?” You clung to his arm like an anchor, half-feeling like you would drift off into the endless sea without him. “Just... anywhere but here.”

Wilbur scanned your face, his fingers twitching against your backside before he nodded, nudging you forward ever so slightly. “Park it is.”

You were only vaguely aware of being pulled away from the party, walking down the front steps of the house and into the passenger seat of the car as Wilbur turned on the ignition. Your vision grew blurry as you felt hot tears begin to stream down your cheeks, the world outside the car windows turning into a hazy mess of colour and shadows. Inside your chest, you felt the shards of your heart dig against your lungs. Heartbroken didn’t even begin to describe the anguish you felt.

At least you weren’t the one driving.

You kicked your legs back and forth on the squeaky swing set, the loud creaking digging into your skull like a thought you couldn’t shake. Your insides felt heavy underneath your skin, and you felt the back of your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

Your eyes slowly lifted to meet Wilbur’s, who was standing in front of you, his face contorted in concern as he quietly waited for you to respond. “I...” you began softy, swallowing. “I’m not sure.”

He simply watched you for a moment, then nodded, murmuring a soft, “That’s okay.”

In the distance, you could see a lamppost flickering in the darkness, the light fading in and out of view like it was just barely grappling to stay afloat. A wave of sadness rolled over you at the sight, although you couldn’t name why, as you found yourself opening your mouth, the words tumbling from your lips in incoherent sentences.

“It’s just... I just... I, um. I—” You stopped, letting your eyes fall shut before you managed to whisper, “He was with Chrissy, you know?”

Wilbur froze, his eyes slowly widening as he took in your words. “He was?”

You nodded your head, something cold and broken rattling in your chest at the movement. “Yeah.”

Fury flashed across his face like a wildfire, and he crouched down before you, his jaw clenched tightly. “Even after he asked you if you had plans...” He scowled, cursing under his breath. “What a prick.”

You let out a soft laugh, but it felt forced, the smile immediately slipping off your face the moment you closed your mouth. “He was all over her, you could tell,” you whispered, clutching your arms tighter around yourself. “He was looking at her like... I dunno, like she had done something wonderful, like she was the greatest thing in the world.”

The back of your eyelids stung, and you sucked in a shuddering breath. The hollow hole in the pit of your stomach suddenly didn’t feel so empty anymore as something cold and sad began to pool around your lungs as you continued. “And like, gosh, just... you were right when you said the truth hurts, Will.” Beside you, you saw him since, his expression blurry from the tears starting to fill your eyes. “It hurts. A lot. It really, really does.”

Your hand clutched at the fabric covering your heart, almost as if you were trying to cradle the shattered pieces. “I know I can’t control his feelings, and I shouldn’t have expected anything,” you whispered, “but I just felt like we had something, you know? Like we could have been something. But now it’s all—”

Your voice suddenly cracked, your sentences cut off by an empty, choked out sob. Hot, wet droplets spilled down your cheeks, and you squeezed your eyes shut, your sides trembling. In an instant, Wilbur’s arms wrapped around you, and you felt him tug you into his chest, your head resting against his shoulder while you whimpered.

“Oh, [Y/N]...” he whispered, his hand stroking against your back.

You hiccuped against him, shaking like a leaf as you buried your face into his sweater. “I’m sorry for roping you into this—I really thought I had a chance, but what was I thinking? She’s Chrissy, and I’m just...” You sobbed. “I’m just...”

All of a sudden, Wilbur pulled you back from him, his hands gripping onto your shoulders tightly as his eyes bore into yours. “You’re you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, your eyes going wide. Wh-What?

Before you, Wilbur’s fingers dug sternly into your shoulders, his stare unwavering as he spoke clearly and true. “Look,” he said, “I can’t tell you what he was thinking, and I can’t tell you why he did that. But...” He paused for a moment, and you watched his face soften as his tone grew warm.

“I can tell you that he just passed up the best girl in the whole, wide world.”

You felt tears prick your eyes once more, but this time they didn’t burn. “Y-You’re just saying that,” you whined, reaching a hand up to wipe at your eyes.

He shook you gently in his arms, prodding you with his hands. “I’m not, I promise, even if I do think you’re my loser best friend.”

When you laughed this time, it didn’t feel nearly as heavy as it did before. You caught a glimpse of his smile as you pressed the sleeve of your shirt against your eyes, soaking up your tears. “Thanks, Wilbur,” you whispered as you sent him a smile—a real one. “Really.”

He grinned at you, dropping his hands from your shoulders. “Anytime, [Y/N]. Now,” he said, rising to his feet, “how do you feel about getting ice cream?”

You blinked at him, taking in the sight of his glimmering eyes in the light of the shining moon. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling this a celebration.”

He shook his head, but you caught the way his lips twitched in amusement. “No. Sometimes you just get ice cream because it makes you feel better.” He stretched his hand out toward you. “Here.”

You slipped your fingers between his, letting him pull you up from the creaky swing set with a slight huff. Once you let go, you held your palm up toward him, waiting. “I’ll drive.”

He cocked his head at you, slowly pulling your keys out of the pockets of his jeans. “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

You shook your head at him, picking the keys up from his palm. “It’s alright.” Tossing them once in your palm, you flashed him a grin. “Hey, if I crash the car, I won’t have to hand in that assignment on Monday.”

Wilbur blinked at you once, then twice. Then, he burst into laughter, clutching at his chest as he keeled over, wiping a tear from his eye as he smacked your arm with his. “You know what?” he gasped between breaths as he stood upright once more. “I’ll pay for ice cream, this time.”

A cheer tore itself from your lips, and you pumped your fist in the air as you went racing down the hill toward your car parked by the sidewalk, the wind whipping at your face. Behind you, you could hear Wilbur shout your name as he chased after you, his voice echoing into the cool, dark night.

Maybe things weren’t as bad as you thought. Clay was happy, and while you weren’t quite there yet yourself, you knew that one day, you would be, too.

After all, while the truth may hurt, it wasn’t all bad, either.

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souperbulous · 2 years

Note

Can I pls have a encanto matchup? I'm an Asian who uses she/they pronouns and an Aquarius, minor and INTJ. My sexuality is bi demiromantic. I'm 5'0 with tan skin, long black hair, brown eyes and glasses.I'm bilingual. People say I look intimidating and unapproachable since I don't smile or talk much around strangers but I try my best to be polite and nice.I'm very introverted and shy. It takes a while to for me to warm up to people but when I do, I will surprisingly be very energetic.

I consider myself a fair, open minded and laid back person. I like to seek out my friends' company when bored. I either ask them to do something wholesome or something they are afraid of with me. I'm down to do anything with my friends. I'm hardworking if its something that interests me. I'm very creative but can't seem to make my ideas into reality. If I'm not good at something, I tend to put it on hold until I get motivated again.

My friends describe my sense of humor as dark and cursed. I can be mischievous and chaotic but still reliable and smart.My hobbies are baking,gaming,art, true crime and supernatural stuff. A negative trait of mine would be barely taking initiative at 1st due to fear of rejection. Sorry if its too much info. Thanks in advance and I wish you the best💗

WHO’S THAT POKEMON?!

IT’S ISABELA MADRIGAL! 🎨🎇

A/N: This decision was a tough one, but the more I wrote, the more I realized how perfect Isabela was for this matchup. I really hope you enjoy it!

WHAT ISABELA LIKES ABOUT YOU

She likes that you’re open-minded. As a child, she was often forced into a box, expected to be effortlessly perfect. You were the first person she ever felt like she could be herself around.

She also liked that you challenged her to be herself rather than being who her abuela expected her to be.

Isabela loves that you’re laid back. Again, for most of her life, everyone saw her as the perfect, golden child, so you were her sanctuary. The one person she didn’t have to act perfect around, because she was already perfect to you anyways.

She likes that you’re creative and will do whatever it takes to help you make your ideas into reality. She’s good at making more than plants!

She likes that you’re interested in supernatural stuff! Although she’d never admitted it out loud before, she had always had a bit of interest in ghosts and such. ( She believes that if her family is magic, anything is possible )

HOW YOU MET

You sat against a tree, furiously scribbling away at the page that you had before you, and then erasing what you had drawn. Drawing, erasing, drawing, erasing, crumpling up the paper, restarting the cycle. You just couldn’t think of anything to draw today!

Your mother had gotten you the sketchbook for your 10th birthday yesterday. You wanted to fill it with so many wondrous things, but you couldn’t think of any wondrous things to draw. There really wasn’t anything wondrous around you worth drawing. All the other kids were running around playing tag, so there was no use in asking them for help.

You huffed, tapping your pencil against your head. Think, (Y/N), think!

Just then, you saw a flower blooming in front of you. It was absolutely beautiful, the petals a gradient of pinks and purples and blues. Your eyes went wide with curiosity. Where had that come from?

“You looked like you could use a bit of help,” a young girl called out to you, smiling wide.

She was probably the prettiest girl you had ever seen in your entire life. She had beautiful dark skin, black hair that went to her shoulders, and hazel eyes.

“How did you just do that?” you questioned. You had never seen anyone grow a flower so quickly before.

“You haven’t heard of the Madrigals?”

“The Madri-who?”

“The Madrigals! We’re the family that live up on the hill,” she explained, pointing in the direction of her house. “You know, we’re the ones with the magical powers?”

You thought for a moment before exclaiming in realization. “Oh! Those Madrigals! Which one are you, then?”

“I’m Isabela,” she greeted, curtsying. You giggled at how graceful she was being. She quirked a brow. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, I’ve just never seen a kid who was so… fancy.”

Flowers grew on her head, and she played with a lock of her hair. “Well, I, um-”

You could hear someone yelling in the distance. The shout sounded like Isabela’s name.

“Oh, it looks like I’ve got to go now,” Isabela told you disappointedly. “It was nice meeting you… what was your name?”

“(Y/N), of the non-magical (L/N) family.”

“(Y/N). That’s a nice name. Bye, (Y/N)!”

She hurried off elegantly, and you looked back at the flower that had grown in front of you, and then at your sketchbook.

You began sketching the flower before you, a small smile on your face.”

ROMANTIC HEADCANONS

She liked you long before Mariano even came into the picture. You were the first person she told she didn’t want to marry Mariano and the last person she told about her crush on you. Of course, you knew long before she told you.

When you make a dark joke, she can’t help but snort, and her snorts are ugly. The cute kind of ugly, though.

Every time she thinks about you, little flowers grow in her hair. Every time.

She loves dancing with you. She likes to be the lead, but she’ll let you lead if you want to.

If you pull a prank of any sort or do anything mischievous she’ll sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose, trying her best to not look amused. Part of her wants to encourage the behavior, and part of her doesn’t.

She’s always leaving flowers and plants at your windowsill or your front door step. Your house is probably chock full of them at this point.

When you bake, she tries to take at least one bite of whatever you’ve made ( she doesn’t really like sweet things, but she’ll try anything you’ve made! ).

#encanto matchup #encanto #the madrigals #the family madrigal #familia madrigal #isabela x reader #encanto isabela #isabela madrigal #madrigal family #la familia madrigal #isabela x you #soupwrites #madrigal matchup #matchups #requests #x reader #requests are open

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butterfliesinmyguts · 3 years

Text

A Helping Hand

summary: reader always helps around and levi wonders why.

warning : fluff, angst, and happy lovely stuff(may or may not turn into a series)

“ you did better today...” Mikasa breathed pushing my body off of hers. I finally was able to take her down. before dinner, she’s been helping me train to get better at combat.

a smile fell on my face, getting up and dusting myself off, “ keep it up and I’ll be more scared of you then those titans are..” I was able to keep up with Mikasa in ODM training, which was nearly impossible for everyone else. i felt at home in the air- as soon as my body begins to float, everything thing else zones out. my swords were just an my arms extended and I felt so powerful killing titans- scared yes- but powerful, but on ground I’m a clumsy wreck.

“ now let’s go eat before our meals fall victims to Sasha” letting out a laughed, I quickly remember a promise I made earlier today.“ could you save me a potato or something? I promised Jean I’d cover for his stable shift...” My friend sighed, “ again y/n?” quickly nodding, I set off to the stables.

I didn’t mind helping, if it was me I would want someone to offer to help me. sometimes I helped hange with mission plans, the days we go into town a lady sometime needs help carry supplies in her store, at the end of the week I help armin with reading, and at the beginning of the week I help captain levi organize his papers.

helping Levi is my favorite part of the week, if I’m in his office late enough he’ll set a cup of tea in my face with the words “ drink “ following after. while in my focused trance of replacing the water for the horses, and daydreaming about my captain Levi- two feet come into my line of vision. looking up my eyes were met with cold grey ones and then his trademark frown.

“ why are you out here, this is Jean’s punishment” dropping the buckets to the dirty stable ground, I wiped the sweat off my palms against my pants- fucking Jean, you told me this was duty.

“ just giving him a helping hand” my voice cracked, trying to laugh off the pure nevrousness that his presents brings me. I admit that im extremely fond of captain levi. he’s was the only guy that has ever made my stomach go crazy just by looking at me. the way he holds himself, short- yes- but never looked down on. he is humanity greatest soldier, during training I swear that he watches me. I feel his eyes burning my skin, the one time I did catch him Levi’s eyes widen and his breath hitched. I would kill to even be able to hug him, sometimes I imagine what it’s like to kiss him-but know that’ll never happen, hange told me that he thinks I’m silly and child like - he’d never feel that way about me.

“ - and now you’re standing there looking stupid, are you going to answer me y/n?” I realized that I’ve completely blocked out everything he said.

“ i.. please repeat the question- I’m sorry.” pinch his nose, my captain shook his head toward the ground. “tch, I asked you why your doing his punishment ?” shrugging, I began to brush the horses. “ I like being a helping hand, -“ before he got the chance to scold me I continued with “ it’s the only thing that makes me feel happy..”

looking up to catch him staring at me, our eyes locked together and for the first time ever I saw his eyes soften. taking him in, cause I may not ever be allowed to do it again, my heart ached. Levi is beautiful, breathtaking. his youthful glow made those dark orbs glow,if lips werent in the plain straight line- they would be puffy and pinky- so kissable. pulling my eyes away I finally breathed, trying to focus on the brush going through the horses hair while Levi still watched me. “ if that’s the case I need help mapping out the next expedition, hange told me your quite intelligent.” my cheeked warmed and a smile began to creep up on my lips- hange is getting so much praise next time I see them.“ I’ll find out for myself..” that smile dropped. “ come to my office after you clean and change from your filthy clothes.” nodding I watch the man walk towards the dining hall. On the inside, I was doing leaps. more time with levi, and we’d be talking to each other- I get too share my thoughts with levi.

“let the horse boy have fun with his siblings, and if I catch you doing other’s chores I’m making you run until the sunsets...” and you giggled.

during dinner levi couldn't help to think of you. why did you look at him like that, was there something on his face? maybe you were just scared, but no he’d always caught you looking at him. rather it been during training, in the dinning hall, and even doing expeditions.

Recalling back to when he first saw you, that smile you had permanently planted on your face- stupid what made y/n so happy? he was even more stunned when you got your ass handed to you by reiner during training and yelled “ again!” with that grin. that beautiful smile, y/n was beautiful- everyone knew it. levi heard eren, jean, connie, armin, and even hange talked about what they would do to have you in they’re beds, they all ranted about you body- Levi will admit that he has imagined your shy breath as his hand roamed your skin but It's more than looks with you, you care so much and you're gentle with him.

y/n would make sure that you take off your boots when entering his office ( which is tedious a job in itself ) but you did because Levi hated it when his floors were dirty and when on missions you squeeze all you cadets hands just to comfort them. no one ever has been gentle to him, it made him feel important but more importantly, why couldn't he stop thinking about you.

after showering, you changed into you nightclothes and headed to levi office. you knocked softly to quick “ come in..” I opened the door to Levi pulling two cups of tea. “ your late, I hope you didn't finish the stables...”

pulling your shoes off placing them beside his door you watched him pour, “ I didn’t” assuring him. moving towards the desk, examining the maps- Levi’s notes were so oragnized and neat. each note had so much detail about the surrounding area. while familiarizing with the map, Levi placed the tea cup infront of you. “ drink.” Brushing passed you, he set down in his chair.

why would he risking going in the open field for 740 meters, “ wouldn’t it be better to use this patch for cover?” expressing my concern, levi leaned up and listened to me rumble about the how it’ll be longer but it’ll save more cadets- every change I got I took a peek to see if he was still listening.

those sliver eyes watched me draw circles and point at the map, bottom lip between his teeth. i imagined how good it would feel to push my lips against them, the relief and pleasure that would rush through my body. I craved him “urh- but those are my thoughts..” finishing pushing away from the desk, distracting myself by sipping the tea.

“ where would we stop ?” Levi questioned, my heart warmed up, I stood over him to explain better “ over there would be a great rest point..” pointing to it, my neck completely in front of levi. I felt his breath hitched, clearing my throat i grabbed the pencil marking the on the map. “ I notice a cabin the last time we traveled...”

“ tch, impossible that’s a bit of the trail, with those tree you couldn’t have seen anything..” looking down in shame “ well while everyone was sleep I explored, even found a waterhole..”

I knew the risk of exploring, but I couldn’t help myself. while setting up for camp I saw a stream pulling down and I just had to see.

“don’t ever do that again...” nodding feeling ashamed, does this mean I have to go stay in the dungeon like eren? his eyes lighten a smirk playing along his lips.

“ just don’t go alone okay?” smiling at his words. sitting across from him I continued to tell him my discoveries - making sure he took notes of the waterhole and fields filled with berries. Levi forced me to write all my finding down, and he promised to even follow me on one of my ventures next time.

as time flew by tea cups were spilled, by me of course, and I was forced to re write the papers I ‘ ruined ‘ leaning my head on this desk my eyes flutter - wake up y/n - yawning I turned to levi still writing, how is he still writing? that tea was not keeping him up. so much energy, my eyes trailed his toned arms- the veins moving every in each stroke. blinking I distracted myself from my dirty thoughts.

“ you need to sleep levi” stretch my bones, the pop and crack give me a shot of adrenaline so I can actually wake up. “I’m fine” he muttered.

Levi eyes sunk from the lack of sleep, he was fighting it- too focused in his work to care that his eyes were burning and skin was red with an indention on his finger from the pen. “ they’ll be there tomorrow I promise..”

I reach to grab the papers, placing my hand softly on his bicip- he stiffened instantly and pushed my back into his bookcase. my ass landed on the ground,“ owe!” I cried, rubbing my back. fuck he is strong for a little guy, wow.

“y/n!”

levi rushed over and I swear his eyes were widen, like he was worried that he actually hurt me. Levi quickly leaning down watching me.“ I didn't mean to that y/n” a couldn't help but smile at him. were so close right now, my nose filled with his fresh scent- mint and tea leafs.

“ don't worry captain I-” levi’s hand pat my head. I could fucking scream in joy right now. did he just pat me? he never touches anyone. what does this mean, pulling away I watch his hand close as his finger tips carcassed his palms. as if he was trying to saver the feeling of my head, huh?

“your being gentle with me, why?” questioning him- levi set down in front of me. “ why not, your gentle with everyone else..” my eyes widen, he notices me In that way? planting his hand on my cheek, my heart stop, It felt so warm- his thumb wipe the tiny tear from the corner of my eyes. I’m blushing “I just flung you, and your still smiling why?”

shrugging “ I should have known that what’s going to happen” breathing out, I stared at his lips. “ y/n..” nodding not looking up at him. just kiss him, Levi is right there.

“ l'm going to kiss you..” he leaned and pushed my hair out of my face. repeating those words in my head, “ is that okay?” nodding quickly our lips came together as Levi took me in. I felt his chest against mine, and I couldn’t help but to grip his collar pulling him closer.

our lips begun to dance with each other, levi hands landed on my waist pulling me on top of his thighs. that smile still planted on my face between the kisses, while my hand combed his undercut.

my daydreams weren’t even a compare to the real deal, gently rubbing the back of his neck, Levi groaned into my mouth. With each movement we gained a slow rhythm,our body flowing against each other. I couldn’t help but to moan in pure pleasure I was feeling.

levi pulled bac slowly and watched me with my smiled in a drunken daze. replaying the moments in my head, Levi just kissed me, Levi my captain levi thinks of me- he thinks I’m gentle. a “ wow” left my mouth as he got up, leaning down quickly to steal one last kiss. my smiled never left my lips as I stood up leaning against the bookcase as finger tips brushed over my lips, hope the tingling sensation never went away. Im buzzing, I’m buzzing- all because of him.

watching the man, pick the fallen books up his eyes went to the window . “ it’s almost dawn, go get some sleep” Levi ordered coldly , point toward his bed.

fuck, “it’s dawn already!” I darted around Levi’s office trying to clean my area and while getting myself together. Levi stood there confused, as my actions all clicked in his head- arms crossed tightly along his chest.

“ I promised sasha that I’d help her with her hair this morning- I hope she’s not up already- oh no” slipping on my shoes on. opening the door to walk out, I give him a warm smile. “ I’m so sor-“

“ don’t worry, thanks for the helping hand..” leaning in to kiss him I was met by a closing the door. dumbfound I stood there, “what?”

part 2!

#shall we date leviathan #levi x reader #captain levi #levi aot #levi akerman #attack on titan x reader #aot x y/n #sasha aot #mikasa ackerman #levi attack on titan #odm gear #attack on titan

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musecharm-writes · 3 years

Text

Bad Influence, Pt 2 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: Jonathan, Robin, Steve, and Nancy find out more about what happened at Melvald’s; you have your first shift at the general store.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

When Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin head to the Byers’ later that night, Joyce is there, making herself a sandwich and smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

“Jonathan, sweetie? That you?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jonathan replies. “Nancy, Steve, and Robin are here, too.”

Joyce appears around the corner, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh! Hey, guys! Sorry, if I had known you were coming I would’ve cooked dinner, or--or gotten take-out, or something. Will is over at Dustin’s tonight so I was expecting it to just be me and Jonathan--” She cuts herself off to take a pull from her cigarette.

“That’s okay, Ms Byers, me and Robin were gonna get pizza later,” Steve says politely. He’s always been good with parents, moms especially, and for whatever reason Joyce seems to like him.

He assumes that Jonathan has never breathed a word to her about all the shit Steve used to put her son through, otherwise he’d probably be eating all his meals through a straw to this very day.

“Hey, Mom,” Jonathan begins, in a characteristically unsubtle fashion, “we were wondering if we could ask you about something.”

Joyce smiles, somewhat unsurely. “Okay,” she says, with a nervous little laugh, “ask away.”

Jonathan and Nancy share a look before Nancy says, “We were wondering if you knew anything about what happened at Melvald’s earlier today?”

Joyce’s eyebrows draw together, a furrow appearing like magic on a face that Steve privately thought looked too young for all the stress Joyce Byers carries with her. “How do you all know about that?”

“Steve and Robin saw it,” Jonathan says.

“Uh, technically only I saw it,” Steve corrected. “I’m still not quite sure what it was all about, though, we were too far away.”

Joyce nods slowly, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well… I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. Technically, I’m supposed to keep it kind of a secret.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Nancy says, and Steve can tell she’s trying her absolute best to look innocent and wide-eyed. “We’re very curious, is all. And, honestly, a little worried that something bad is happening again.”

Clever play, Nance. They weren’t worried there was another impending apocalypse -- not really. She’s just trying to appeal to Joyce’s instinct to comfort.

Sure enough, it works; that furrow in Joyce’s brow deepens as her conflicted expression melts into a look of concern. “Oh, honey, no. It’s nothing like that.” She bites her lip, mulling it over for a moment, before she says, “Okay, if I tell you, you all have to promise you’ll keep it quiet, okay?”

They all give various answers in the affirmative.

“Someone -- a teenager, around your age -- tried to steal a carton of cigarettes from Melvald’s. I spotted them right as they slipped it into their pocket and started to walk away. Powell and Callahan happened to be there, stopping by on their way to the station, so they took the kid in.”

“Seriously? They tried to steal cigarettes?” Nancy asks, her nose wrinkling with her distaste. “God, that’s so stupid. I’m glad you caught them.”

Joyce sighs. “I feel a little bad for getting them in trouble. It seems like it’s just a case of a good kid making bad choices. I mean, I remember myself at that age…” She shakes her head, taking another drag from her cigarette. She walks over to the coffee table and flicks ash into the ashtray.

“I mean, you did the right thing though, right? Just because they’re some mixed up kid doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to learn from their mistakes just like anyone else,” Steve says.

Everyone, save for Joyce, turns to look at him.

“...Why are you all staring at me like that?”

Robin puts a hand on his shoulder. “Probably because that’s the most intelligent thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” she says, giving his shoulder a little pat.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims, but everyone else is laughing, and he can’t help but smile.

Even though he knows it can’t possibly be true, because he says intelligent stuff all the time.

The morning of your first shift at Melvald’s begins with your alarm clock, which you set the night before to go off at five. Unfortunately, it never actually went off; unbeknownst to you, one of the breakers had tripped in the middle of the night, which reset your alarm clock.

You wake up from a blissful sleep and roll over to see the blinking red 12:00 . For a second, you don’t comprehend what you’re looking at, and then when it sinks in, you scramble out of bed so frantically that you go tumbling to the ground, tangled in the sheets, yelling, “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

You get ready faster than you ever have in your life, skipping breakfast and brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink while tugging on your clothes. As soon as you’re ready, you’re flying out the door, grabbing your bike, and peeling down the road that will bring you to Downtown Hawkins. You count your lucky stars that the only drivers out this early are the people driving to work.

When you get to Melvald’s, you chain your bike up at the bike rack and blow through the door like a hurricane, your cheeks bright red with exertion and your blood rushing in your ears. The tinkling of the bell over the door is almost mocking in its gentleness.

The store is almost completely empty except for a single woman in a uniform vest who appears to be pricing items. She looks over at you; you recognise her as Joyce Byers, the woman who caught you stealing the cigarettes.

“Oh! Hey,” she says, sounding surprised to see you.

“I’m so-- so sorry,” you pant, walking forward a bit to lean on the counter. “My… My alarm... didn’t go off, and I--”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re actually early.”

You pause, your chest heaving, looking at her in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep. By about…” She looks at a clock behind the counter. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

You let your head loll against your back. “So I skipped breakfast for nothing.”

Joyce smiled sympathetically. “‘Fraid so. Sorry. If it makes you feel better, Hop’ll definitely be happy about it.”

And, embarrassingly enough, it does make you feel a little better.

You’d like to say your first day on the job goes pretty well.

You’d like to say that, but if you did, it would be a lie.

It starts with the pricing gun, which miraculously stops working moments after Joyce leaves you to your task. She assures you that it’s just because the damn thing is so old and Gary refuses to replace it because of how expensive they are, which makes you feel a little better, but part of you still feels as though you broke it despite her reassurance.

Then, when Joyce offers you a break to go and grab lunch for the two of you from the diner, you almost lose the money she gives you thanks to a hole in your pocket that you hadn’t even realised was there. Thankfully, you’re able to make it with the cash still in hand, but the incident makes you so nervous that on the way back to the store you almost drop everything multiple times.

When you finally make it back, the store is unusually busy, so you’re forced to stow the paper take-out bags under the counter as Joyce attempts to teach you how to use the register. You frantically memorise as much as you can, and are somehow able to make it through the rush without missing a beat, but by the time it’s over and the two of you are able to take a load off, your lunch is stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Joyce, staring dejectedly at your cold fries. “I don’t know why I’m having such a shitty day today. I’m trying so hard but it feels like everything is going wrong.”

Joyce shakes her head. “Hey, no. It’s okay. Sometimes, you just have bad luck, no matter how hard you try. It’s not your fault.” She places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes.

You wonder why she’s being so nice to you, but you can’t work up the nerve to ask. Instead, you ask if there’s a microwave you can use to heat up the food.

Toward the end of your shift at around 12:30, Joyce calls you over from where you’ve been organising a window display and says, “Hey, would you mind going into the back and grabbing the boxes that have ‘ballpoint’ and ‘pencil - yellow’ written on them? I need to restock.”

“I’ll do it for you!” You blurt out. You can feel your cheeks flushing.

“Oh,” Joyce says, raising her eyebrows at you. “Okay. Uh, I’ll show you where they go and then that’ll be the last thing you have to do before I let you go for the day. Okay?”

You nod, too flustered to speak. You need Joyce to like you for reasons you aren’t totally sure of, and you hope with every part of you that you aren’t being too obvious.

Joyce walks you through restocking the shelves and then sends you on your way to retrieve the boxes from storage. They’re bigger than you thought they would be considering they’re just boxes of pens and pencils, but you guess it makes sense, since it’s not like the boxes are full of individual pencils and pens. There are three of them, standard sized cardboard boxes; you lift each one and find that you could probably carry two at a time, if you were careful. You stack the two boxes of pencils on top of each other on the ground, squat, and lift them up with a grunt of effort.

Now that you’re holding them, you realise it’s a little hard to see around the boxes. You have to angle your head awkwardly to peer around one side, which leaves you with a pretty big blind spot. You guess you’ll just have to trust that any customers nearby will be smart enough to stay out of the way.

You’ve made it almost all the way to the correct shelf before tragedy strikes again.

You glance down at the ground to make sure that there’s nothing you could trip over or slip on, and as you’re adjusting your grip on the bottom box, you hear a voice coming near you.

“--And stop nagging me! You’re not my mother, Buckley!”

Shortly following this is a shout of, “Steve! Watch where you’re--!”

You look up right in time to slam into someone.

The boxes fly right out of your hands. Boxes of yellow Ticonderoga pencils go flying, scattering across the floor. Some of the boxes even come open and pencils go rolling every which way. You end up flat on your ass in the middle of it all.

For a moment, you stare at the boxes of pencils all over the floor, gobsmacked. Once you’re able to tear your eyes away from the mess, you look up to find Steve Harrington looking down at you with his eyes as wide as dinner plates, but not one strand of hair out of place.

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Then, Harrington opens his mouth.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he babbles, dropping to his knees and starting to pick up the stray boxes and escaped pencils. “That was an accident, uh-- shit, I swear I’m not usually this much of a klutz. I’m sorry, please, lemme help--”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, somewhat dejected. You’re probably going to have to stay after your shift ends to finish picking all this up and do what you promised Joyce. You glance at the clock and find your theory is confirmed, to your dismay. “I can handle it. It’s my job.”

“No, really, I…” He pauses after a moment, squinting at you. “Wait. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He has. The two of you went to school together for, like, your entire lives. That’s not what he means, though; he recognises you from yesterday, when he watched you get patted down and shoved in a cop car after making the dumbest mistake you’ve ever made in your life.

“We went to the same school for twelve years,” you say stiffly. Like hell are you gonna remind him if he actually forgot.

“...Oh,” he replies awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry. But, no, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else. Did you used to hang out at the mall? I used to work there. Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Wait! I got it! You’re the one who got arrested yesterday, right?”

Before you can answer, a girl you vaguely recognise as being a high schooler a couple of years your junior appears at Harrington’s side, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him with surprising strength and an almost enraged expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She hisses at him, before turning to you with a sunny smile. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s chronically stupid. We’re going to go before he says another dumb thing, right , Steve?” She has him by the ear, now, and you have to admit it’s kind of funny; she’s a couple of inches shorter than him, so he has to bend down to keep her from tearing his ear off.

“OW! Yes , Robin, jesus! Let go of me, I’m leaving!”

As you watch them go, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’d kind of wanted someone to help you pick up the pencils.

When Robin and Steve are outside of Melvald’s, Robin finally lets go of Steve’s ear, saying, “Steve, what have we talked about? About thinking before we speak?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “I know, dummy. I had to learn it, too.” She sticks her hands in her pockets and glances back into the general store through the front window. “So, what was your angle with that whole spiel back there?”

Steve blanches. “What?”

“I mean , you’re not just nice to people for no reason all the time, even if you did something to them. So why were you being such a hardcore nice guy?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something and realises he doesn’t have any clue how to respond. He crosses his arms and shrugs, flustered. “I dunno. Maybe I just felt like it. What’s it to you?”

He starts to walk away, tired of the conversation, and Robin comes trotting after him, still yapping right in his ear. (He pretends to be annoyed, but honestly, his heart feels full to the brim with love for Robin. Before her, nobody has ever chased after him before.)

“Uh, you’re my best friend, dumb-dumb! That’s what it is to me! My nose belongs stuck right in your business!” She catches up to him and runs around to plant herself in his path, grinning broadly. “So, tell me what it is that has you so riled up.”

Steve gapes at her for a moment before shrugging again. “...I don’t know.”

Robin arcs a brow at him. “Seriously? You’re still not gonna tell me?”

“Robin, c’mon, I’m telling you I have no idea ,” Steve insists. He sighs, and lowers his voice. “Look, I just felt this weird… Urge to stay and talk? And picking up the mess that I caused anyway seemed like a good excuse at the time. Until I stuck my foot in my mouth, that is,” he sighs.

Robin gasps. “Steven Janine Harrington--”

“Not my name.”

“--Do you have a CRUSH?”

Steve feels his entire body burst into flames. He looks around frantically, saying, “Will you keep your voice down?”

Robin’s face takes on an expression of pure glee. “So you do! Oh my god, I didn’t think you were capable. So, are you going to pursue anything? Or are you more the brood-from-afar type?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, will you shut up? You’re such an embarrassment. This is why I never take you anywhere,” Steve says, walking off in a huff.

Robin chases after him, laughing her ass off. He’s glad at least one of them thinks the situation is funny.

#stranger things x reader #stranger things reader insert #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #x reader #reader insert #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #robin buckley #joyce byers #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #writing #writing blog #reader insert blog #x reader blog

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

if you're in the mood for requests i would absolutely LOVE something from the hidebehind au? (maybe including blindfold sex??)

Here you go! I decided to do this for monster march. We’ll figure this counts as prompt 18: claws.

All things considered, Duck is lucky. He’s employed which, given when the newspapers are calling the great depression raging across the country, is a blessing. His days are spent among the mighty trees of the Pacific Coast, he has a small cabin all to himself, and a cat to keep the mice away.

He just wishes he wasn’t working for a fucking logging company hundreds of miles away from anyone he’s ever known.

Winthrop Logging needed someone with an arborist or botanists training to make sure the woods stayed healthy before they were chopped down. So they pay Duck a fine sum to make sure diseases or pests don’t send their prospects toppling like dominos. As he traverses his usual route between the trees, he wonders if there will ever be a way to convince them to preserve some of the land rather than profit from it.

He stops, studying a pine. There it is again, the feeling that someone, or something, is behind him. Watching. Waiting.

It started three weeks ago, when he was deeper in the woods than usual, humming to himself and occasionally talking to the trees. The skin on his neck prickled, all his senses forcing him from his thoughts and into the present moment; something was there, tracking him as he moved. Not a bear, our a cougar, as the birds still called and the insects chorused. Whatever it was stood directly behind him, yet when he turned to look, there was nothing but the path.

For the first few days he tried to spot it, never got more than a flicker in the corner of his eye. He came home exhausted, the day spent on high alert as the primal part of his mind demanded he remain on guard for the moment his hunter decided to strike.

The moment hasn’t come, and Duck is growing used to the gaze crawling up his spine. He decided to ignore it, pretend it was just his imagination and some days that worked.

Today, there’s no getting around the fact that something is peering over his shoulder. Twice now he’s felt fingers millimeters from his neck. When he feels them again, he reaches his arm back, eyes firmly on his notes, and grabs hold of his stalker.

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

Humans are not known for their speed. Indrid’s foresight showed this one as no exception, so when the man is fast enough to grab his leg, he chirps in surprise.

“Fuckin knew it, there is someone back there.” Warm fingers smooth across the short down of his leg.

Indrid appreciates being called a someone instead of a thing, but not the position of Duck’s hand.

“Please let go. That is my thigh you are grabbing. My upper thigh.”

The hand stays put, “Anyone ever tell you it’s mighty rude to stand right behind a fella when he’s tryin to work?”

“I cannot stand anywhere else, though the proximity is due to-”

“Uh huh, sure, just like you can’t help but play and hide and seek whenever I try to figure out what’s goin on. Lemme guess, you’re one of the other fellas from the loggin camp playin tricks on the new guy?”

“I am nothing of the kind.” Indrid contemplates moving the hand himself, but it feels so very nice.

“One of the locals then? I keep tellin you, I’m a country boy, I’m not gonna get scared by campfire tales or weird noises in the woods. Try that government fella instead.”

“What about the part of me you are touching suggests I am human?”

“Probably a left-over monkey suit or somethin’ from Halloween.”

“I am not a costume, I am a Hidebehind.”

The human pauses, then shakes his head, “No such thing.”

“You are literally touching one.” Indrid stamps his foot, frustrated by the turn this is taking and the fact that futures do not show the human believing him any time soon.

“Don’t believe I am.” The human turns his head. Indrid’s body whips sideways, keeping him from view. The human holds on, tries again from the opposite direction, only for Indrid to be wrenched back the way he came.

“Stop movin!”

“Stop trying to look at me!” He’s twisted to the side once more, wrenching the humans arm in the process.

“Ow!” The grip on him tightens, “quit this fuckin game right now. You don’t lemme see you, I’ll drag you right back to camp with me.”

“I can’t!” Indrid chirps, panicked, the noise continuing into a wail of alarm at what might happen if he’s surrounded with nowhere to hide.

His fear must register as genuine, as the human releases him with a sigh. After a moment he removes his hat, running his fingers through his hair but not turning around.

“You still there?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you even followin me in the first place?”

A peek at the futures says the truth will be most effective, though almost all timelines end with the human telling him to “get gone.”

“I find you intriguing. You do not chop or hack at my home, you study it. You speak to the trees when you think you are alone. You look soft to touch, especially the fur on your head. I like looking at you and being near you. That was why I stood so close.”

“...You been followin me because you’re sweet on me?” The drawl, as soothing as movement of water through plant limbs, seems confused.

“I do not find you sweet. I could only do that if I ate you. Which I do not want to do.

A chuckle, “Not quite what I meant. You been hangin around me because you think I’m swell and wanna get to know me. Guess I can’t fault you for that, I'm a decent fella to know if I do say so myself. You got a name?”

“Indrid.” This is an unexpected turn of the timelines.

“Nice to meet you, Indrid. I’m-”

“-Duck” Indrid says along with him, “apologies, I can see the future and am thus a bit ahead in conversations.”

“Huh. Well, I gotta head back to town. If you wanna talk again, I won’t mind. Just tell me you want to instead of lurkin, you hear?”

Indrid grins, “Yes. I hear you perfectly.”

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

“Fuck” Duck picks himself up from the dirt where he fell, brushing pine needles from his coat. He’d been angling for a better look at a set of roots and tripped over a different set in the process.

“Are you alright?” A now familiar voice asks from behind a tree to his left.

“Depends. You see me make a fool of myself by fallin on my face?”

“Yes.”

“Then my body is fine but my dignity is real wounded.”

A laugh like spring breeze through new leaves, “I suspect it will recover. You do have quite a deal of leaves in your hair. May I help you with them?”

Duck nods. Slender fingers pluck at his hair.

“Ohhh, it is just as soft as I thought it would be.” Indrid murmurs, “does it feel nice?”

“Don’t feel like much--oh, uh, fuck, that does though. Feels damn good.” Duck groans as claws scritch his scalp. The first time he felt them on his shoulder when Indrid was talking, he tensed; The hidebehind isn’t small, and the claws suggest he could shred Duck to bits and scatter him across the woods. But after weeks of keeping him company, Duck knows the worst Indrid might do to him is steal too much of his lunch.

The hidebehind, endlessly fascinated by Duck’s job, will sit out of sight as he works. Duck asked him if he only watched Duck the entire time. It turns out the creature draws as well, and Duck now recognizes the sound of a pencil under the rustle of leaves and calls of wildlife. Indrid also spares Duck dangerous climbs into the trees, offering to look at marks or discoloration and describe them if they’re too high for the human to see.

Turns out he also gives a mean rubdown, his claws moving from Duck’s head to his neck, banishing the knot that’s been bothering him all morning.

“I like touching you.” Indrid chirps. Duck hasn’t forgotten their first meeting; if a man had come to him with such flattering shyness in his voice and an interest in Ducks body, he’d have been in Duck’s bed by the end of the night.

He’s not ready to take a hidebehind home, but he’s ready to tease one.

“Seems mighty unfair that you get to touch and I don’t.”

“You would have to close your eyes to so much as shake my hand. My form does not care how little of me you would see, it will pull me into hiding regardless.”

“Then I’ll close my eyes.” Duck does just that, tips his head back so Indrid can see it’s safe. One hand continues massaging his head, while a spindly arm reaches around his chest.

“Bring your arms up, towards you a bit more, yes, there we are.”

Duck runs his hands over the limb; it reminds him of Manzanita bark he saw in the Sierra Nevadas, smooth but unmistakably of the woods. Towards the elbow the texture changes to soft, short feathers, like the ones on Indrids leg.

The hidebehind tightens his hold, pulling Duck to his torso. More feathers prickle the back of his neck and the creature shudders.

“You alright back there?”

“I...it has been so very long since anyone or anything touched me. I foresaw my body being sensitive to it but the intensity is, is-” he lets go so suddenly Duck stumbles, “I am sorry, it was too much and yet I wanted, wanted more.”

Images of Indrid surrounding him, chirping and purring as Duck touches him all over, flood his mind. The embarrassment in his voice keeps the arborist from acting on them.

“You, uh, gonna show me that Saw-Whet Owl nest?”

“Of course, sweet human. Take the right fork of that deer trail just ahead, and we shall go from there.”

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

“I have something for you. Close your eyes.”

Duck, still perching on the stump he was using as a lunch chair, does as instructed. Indrid sets a piece of paper in his right hand.

“You may now look.”

An illustration fills the entire page. It shows a being with stick-like arms and legs leading to a narrow body covered in short, leaf shaped feathers in mottled browns and greens. The face is angular, shaded to suggest it’s dusted with fuzz, and leads to several stick-shaped horns. The eyes are wide and black, the claws long, and there are short, triangular shapes behind its shoulders.

“Holy fuck, you’ve got wings?”

“Indeed. I do not use them much. I believe they help my kind migrate when our habitats dwindle.”

Duck traces the face on the paper, “How long did it take you to make this?”

“Two days, as the lakes I use to study my reflection tend to attract townspeople and loggers looking to take a break from their toil.”

“You did all this just ‘cause I said I wished I knew what you looked like.”

“Not solely. I...I wanted to show you it as well. So you might know the face of the one who, ah, whose days you brighten.”

Carefully, Duck folds the portrait and tucks it into the inside pocket of his coat, “Find I like my work even better with your company too, ‘Drid. Would you, uh, be okay if I tried to match what you showed me to what I can feel?”

An intrigued chirr floats through the air as Duck shuts his eyes and waves to the ground in front of him. A scuff and rustle of dirt and leaves, and then he feels Indrid in front of him. Cool hands guide his own onto the multicolored feathers.

“Shoulders?”

“Correct.” Indrid moves their joined hands upwards, stopping on velvet-dusted cheeks, “oh, oh goodness, I have always wanted to be held like this.”

“Yeah?” Duck’s heartbeat is in his fingertips, “what else have you always wanted?”

“To, to be touched, to be known, toMMMphohh” a rough tongue laps at his lips as he pulls Indrid into an awkward, bowed kiss.

“How’s that, darlin?” Duck kisses along what he thinks is Indrids’ jaw, “that the kind of knowin’ you in the mood for?”

“Yes, oh my sweet human you spoil me, oh” claws grab his shoulders, “I, do you really wish this, with me? This was in so few timelines I assumedAH” he squirms adorably as Duck gropes the feathers of his chest.

“You better believe it, sugar. It’s the weirdest goddamn thing I ever wanted and I want it, want you, more than I’ve wanted anything in a long fuckin time.” Curious and eager to fill every one of his senses with Indrid, he buries his face against his upper chest, finds skin beneath all the camouflage and bites down. The hidebehind keens, pulling Duck from his seat into his lap. Duck laughs, bites down once more and gets a nose full of fluff.

“AhCHOO!” His eyes pop open on reflex after he sneezes, sending the hidebehind out of view and Duck flat on the ground.

“Blasted physiology” Indrid chirrs, frustrated.

Duck sits up, Indrid’s cries of pleasure ringing in his ears and giving him all kinds of reckless ideas.

“Don’t worry, darlin. If my hidebehind wants to romancin’, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

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

He takes to wearing a kerchief around his neck at work. The loggers and company pencil pushers assume it’s an affectation, not a tool for covering his eyes for some uninterrupted kisses while deep in the woods. Today, he’s not sure kisses will be enough.

Duck woke up hard, dream of Indrid looming above him in bed fading into the morning sun. His hidebehind has yet to show himself, so the humans mind has nothing but his fantasies to distract him on his trek through the woods.

He’s ahead on his tasks for the day. He’s five miles deep in the woods. And he’s got an idea.

After rinsing his hands with water from his canteen, he leans back against a tree and undoes his suspenders, followed by his fly. Closing his eyes, he slips his fingers into his underwear, teasing himself and sending soft moans into the air. It doesn’t take long before he’s wet enough to push two up into himself with ease.

“‘Drid” he gasps, letting his head loll back, “‘Drid, fuck, that feels so fuckin good.”

A single leaf crunches in front of him, and his kerchief slowly slides up his face to shield his eyes.

“It is about to feel much better, dear one.” Indrid kisses the top of his head, “Shall I take this shameless display as evidence that you wish for me to, ah, fuck you?”

“That it does. And I’ll have you know I got plenty of shaAAmeWHoah.” Duck flails as his pants fall down and his body flies up in one smooth motion. Indrids claws prick his thighs as he spreads them open, holding him against the trunk with ease.

“So very polite of my sweet one to prepare himself for me. It makes this all the easier.” A round, bumpy cock teases his folds, pressing in with a stretch that makes Duck twist in his lovers hold.

“Fuck, fuck, that’s so fucking good but holy fuck, are you packin a fuckin pine tree down thereOH, ohfuckdarlin, that’s, that’s as far as it’s gonna go.”

“Half of it? My, who knew my human could take so much? Wait, it is not too much, correct?”

“N-nope, just the right amount” the bumps rub every inch inside him, one on the shaft catching his cock as Indrid thrusts and wiggles his hips.

“Wonderful” Indrid purrs, “I have dreamed of this all dayAHnnncareful” he chides after Duck bites the part of his arm he’s able to reach, “or I shall take you so roughly your back will wear imprints of bark for days.”

Duck whimpers excitedly, very aware of thick pre-cum dripping into him, “Yeah lets do that.”

He can hear the grin.

“If you insist.”

“FUCKohfuckohfuck” his hands scrabble at the tree and at Indrid’s arms, “that’s it darlin, that’s it, fuck, gonna give you the best goddamn rub-down after this, touch you until your body forgets what it’s like to be without my fuckin hands on it.” Leaves scatter in his hair and down the back of his shirt as Indrids fucking turns frantic.

“I, I shall hold you to that AHhnn, sweet one, you are so tight, so deliciously slick and inviting, I, I am not going to last long, you are too perfect, just touching you makes me burn like wildfire” His thrusts sharpen, never pushing too deep but making Duck feel like a log split beneath an axe of ecstasy, “Duck, sweetheart, yes, yesyesyes” Indrid spills into him, cum running out of Ducks body and back down his shaft.

For a minute, Duck is nothing more than a pinned specimen, spread eagle on the tree as Indrid shudders, purrs, and drags fuzzy kisses along his throat. Then his shirt rides up as he slips down the tree, but Indrid doesn’t put him down. Instead, a rough tongue glides up one thigh and then the other. The human gasps, gripping Indrid’s horns for balance as Indrid buries his face between his legs.

“Ohhhhhh, oh I do so love tasting how we mingle together.” Indrid’s breath is ragged and hot against his dick, “I am going to do this every day.”

“Please” Duck squeezes his horns, his orgasm painfully close, “please ‘Drid, wanna cum on your tongue, want you holdin me up while I, I-ohfuck.” His legs kick weakly as Indrid sucks him off, tongue lavishing his cock with so much friction he goes hoarse from moaning. The fact he cannot see makes it all the better, makes his world nothing more than Indrids mouth, his claws, his desire that wraps around Duck like vines.

He cums, arching his hips into the “thank yous” Indrid presses to his legs.

When his boots touch the ground, deft claws begin pulling his clothes into order, Indrid kissing and caressing him as he does.

“Y’know, I can get my own britches up.” Duck ruffles a nearby patch of feathers.

“I know, but I wish to take care of you. Hidebehinds are attentive to our mates, and while I cannot build you a nest, and I can least clean you up after you let me do something so wonderful with you.”

Duck wraps his arms around the cryptid, resting his cheek against him, “Would you wanna do this, uh, wonderful somethin again?”

“Of course.”

The human smiles, reaches his hand up to stroke Indrids cheek. This means he feels the hidebehind smile when Duck says, “Glad to hear it. But I’ll have you know, one of these days I’m gonna expect a nest.”

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #monster march #reader request #trans duck newton

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thoughtsofanexcitedspacechild · 3 years

Text

The question is inevitable. I stop wiping down the ice cream equipment and look up. For the past two years, that’s all anyone’s ever asked me. Now as I sit here, I realize that by this time next year, I’ll be preparing to move. By this time next year, the question “what do you want to study?” will be answered. The thought of growing up and going to college has always been in the back of my mind, but it always seemed far off. Now as my boss asks me the same question I’ve been asked a million times, the answer doesn’t just feel real; it feels tangible.

“I want to hopefully study something in the arts,” I reply. “I’m hoping to study to then get a job as a concept artist for movies and TV shows.”

"Well, you know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m three years old. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with white printer paper spread out all over the place. Half of the sheets are filled and the other half to go. My tongue sticks out in determined concentration as I finish what feels like my fiftieth self portrait today. I’m still not happy with how the hair looks, but I’m getting better with every one I make.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m eight years old. I wait nervously outside the classroom in the aquatic and community center for my first ever real drawing class. I wait until the door opens and file in behind the rest of my peers into the classroom. I find a spot a little further away from everyone else. Once the teacher begins instructing us on how to draw the basic construction of a horse, I immerse myself into the lecture. Soon enough my anxiety melts away as I immerse myself in the drawing. By the end, I’m not quite satisfied with how my horse looks, but I look forward to the next day. There’s still three more days of camp, and I’m ready to get even better tomorrow.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m twelve years old. I’m sitting with what feels like my entire body sunken into an overly plush floral print couch. I watch as Mrs. Scalabrino, a family friend, teaches me how to make a magic loop with the yarn and crochet hook. “I’ve been doing it all wrong! Now I finally understand!” Deb hands me the yarn and hook and urges me to try myself.

This time, instead of having the hook slip through and make a tiny slip stitch, I loop the yarn though and then pull through a final time to create a stitch.

“I did it! I was doing it wrong!”

“It looks very good! Keep going and you’ll be making full projects in no time!” I smile at her compliment and keep practicing.

By the end of the afternoon, I have a long rectangle of clumsily made single and double crochet stitches, but I don’t mind. I’m proud of my lumpy, uneven, handmade rectangle.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m thirteen years old. It’s my first time at Blue Lake Fine Arts camp, and I’m taking my first pottery class. I’m carefully carrying my freshly reglazed pot to the back room of the pottery studio after fixing it for a second time. The first time it got damaged I had dropped it after molding the structure and the second time someone else bumped into me, messing up the glaze and sgraffito pattern and glazing in multiple places. I stayed after class during my recreation time and painstakingly remolded and fixed the intricate glazing pattern.

At the end of the session art show, I’m called to the front of the crowd of visiting parents and my fellow campers. I’ve just won the Outstanding camper scholarship. My cheeks flush furiously with embarrassment, but inside I’m also elated. Even though the pot wasn’t perfect. I was still proud of it. I worked hard to save and fix the pot twice broken, and for once, that work pays off. I look out and see the faces of everyone who was with me on the journey to complete the piece, and I know that that pot will always be more than a keepsake planter.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m fifteen years old. I lay in bed before my first day of high school. I should be worried about my academic classes, and I am. I can’t stop thinking about the homework for my double paced math class and honors biology, and the more advanced reading we’ll do in honors english this year.

I console myself by thinking about the art class that I’m going to take. By chance there was a scheduling conflict with my social studies credit, and there wasn’t a spot to fit it in. I’d have to test out of the class over the summer, but that meant that I could take Art 1 instead. I stay up and wonder what it will be like. Will it be like my art classes in middle school? Will I finally be able to try oil painting? What about ceramics?

I drift off to sleep anxious, but ready to try all new mediums and make more; to be able to create amongst all the chaos that comes with advanced academic studies.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

I’m sixteen years old. I’m almost finished with what was supposed to be my sophomore year, but because of the pandemic, quarantine has made the past month of march even more grey and dreary than normal. The trees outside droop with the heaviness of the recent freezing rain and the sky is a somber grey. I stare absentmindedly at my computer screen waiting for my last zoom meeting of the day to end.

I return to my painting once I log off of our AP Art zoom. I glare at the canvas in front of me. I hate this piece. Even the dull grey color palette outside seems more appetizing than the same oranges and blues that I’ve stared at for the past three months. It’s the feeling in the pit of the stomach when you don’t feel particularly welcome and you know something is off. The dynamic is all wrong and you infuriatingly search the faces of the people there for an answer but to no avail.

I sigh and start to reach for my paints to force myself to push through to a solution, but set them down. “There has to be another way to get through this,” I say to myself as I open my sketchbook against my better judgement. After a quick image reference search, My pencil migrates from the jar to the page. I don’t worry about making it perfect. This piece is just for me.

I sketch out the figures of the boy and girl and boy in the photo, their arms intertwined in an embrace and their lips in a gentle kiss. I make sure her thumb just skims the length of his forearm and that his hand is placed just so on her waist. I step back. We’re getting somewhere.

Long since abandoned for my previous acrylic piece, my colored pencils feel slippery and foreign in my hand. I reach for the tan and brown colored pencils to start, but the bright fuschia red catches my eye. I cautiously begin to apply it to the girl’s face and neck area. Perfect. I don’t stop until the shadows crossing the girl’s face are all shades of pink and red and the boys silhouette is coated in deep blues. What next?

My watercolor palette sits just inches from my paints. I open it and observe my options. I water down a bright pink, an ocean blue, and my untouched cake of deep purple watercolor. I haphazardly splash the pink on one side and the blue on the other, applying purple to blend the area where the two seas of paint mix. I remember an old painters trick of using salt to make cool backgrounds, and apply a generous amount. The scissors come out next, and I delicately cut the form of the girl and boy out. I paste it right on the background and let it sit under a book overnight to press.

In the morning, I observe my work. It’s not perfect. The proportions on the girl’s arm are off and I never quite managed to capture the folds on the boy’s shirt, but I smile. I love it. This is my piece. No one told me to make this. I just did. It’s for me.

My abandoned assignment sits waiting on the other side of the table. I look at it again. This time I do see what’s missing. Like I did while I was working with the pencil, I need to add more depth. That’s why I hate it. That’s why it felt flat and boring. I set my new opus aside and reach for the beaten up acrylic brushes and paint tubes.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

The computer screen finally loads. I'm exhausted and have just returned from a missions trip to the Dominican Republic, but in my blissful sleep back in my own bed, I'd remembered that AP scores had come out while I was away. The three numbers I've waited for loom in front of me:

AP Spanish Language: 5

AP Language and Composition: 4

AP Studio Art: 4

A four.

I stare in disbelief at the screen. I'd expected a three at best. I rush to tell my parents.

“You know art can be just a hobby, right?”

***

"Yeah, I know," I respond. "But it's so much more than that to me."

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virtueangel · 3 years

Text

limitless.

chapter thirteen.

wc: 2,245. original publish date: october 27, 2020.

"Christ, Jack, what did you do?" Van Gogh mutters. He and JFK are in the master bathroom, Kennedy sitting on the tiled floor while Vincent sits on the side of the bathtub, scrubbing John's arm with a warm rag, fresh blood trickling into the basin.

"Exactly what you told me not to," John replies, smiling.

Van Gogh and JFK sat on the rollercoaster track for some amount of time -- it could've been minutes or hours, it made no difference to them. They didn't talk outside of the occasional, your eyes are pretty or your skin is soft, and eventually they stood up and walked back to the service ladder. They'd gotten lucky on their ascent, managing to avoid all the rusty metal. On their descent, though, JFK hadn't been so good at avoiding.

Vincent takes the rag off of John's arm to examine the wound. There's a small amount of blood trickling out of it, but he can't see any rust contaminating his boyfriend's skin anymore. He gives one last swipe with the rag, smearing the blood from the wound before dabbing it up with the cloth. From the cardboard box on the lip of the bathtub next to him, Van Gogh fishes out a big rectangular bandaid and peels back the paper. He sticks it to JFK's arm, the cut vanishing from sight.

"You got your shot, right?" Vincent asks, an unwelcome twinge of panic seeping into his voice. "I could never live with myself if you got tetanus under my care."

"Under your care, huh?" Kennedy jokes. Van Gogh raises a warning eyebrow. "Yes, I got my tetanus shot," he adds in a more controlled voice.

Vincent smoothes down the bandaid before crumpling up the paper in his palm. "Good," he says before turning away and depositing the wrapper into the trashcan.

JFK bends his arm and looks down at it, assessing the bandage and the damage underneath. He smiles to himself in satisfaction. "You could be a doctor, Vinny."

Vincent laughs. "Yeah, because I'm so gentle."

Kennedy shrugs. "You didn't hurt me while you were patching me up."

Van Gogh turns to look at JFK, his elbow resting on the bathtub, his wet brown hair flopping over his face. The individual strands clump together, sticking to his forehead, his cheeks, his brow bones. He moves the hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and Vincent watches with a slack jaw.

When he finally gains his composure, and stops staring, he says, "I'm gentle with my hands, not with my words."

"You're gentle with your lips, too," JFK adds.

A sly smile tears across Vincent's face, and his cheeks glow pink. "Oh, stop that," he replies, shoving Kennedy playfully.

"Ow!" He whines, rubbing his arm in his over-exaggerated way. "Don't hit the wounded!"

"You're insufferable, my boy," Vincent smiles.

"Clearly you don't think so, considering you just saved me from tetanus."

Van Gogh laughs. "Come on, we don't need to be sitting on the bathroom floor anymore. I'm gonna go read." He stands up and heads for the bathroom door, JFK following shortly behind.

"Ooh, when he reads for fun!"

Vincent stops suddenly, and John nearly smacks into his back. "Jack."

"Vincent."

"We're missing school," he replies, turning around.

JFK and Van Gogh stare at each other for a couple of seconds, before bursting into mutual laughter.

"I don't care," JFK says once he catches his breath.

"Oh, me neither."

Van Gogh takes his book off of the nightstand on his side of the bed and pushes open the dormer window, listening to it squeal and shriek against the wind and rusty mechanism. He climbs out onto the balcony, setting his book down on one of the chairs before assessing how cool the air is and turning around to get a blanket.

"Are you going to come outside?" Vincent asks after retrieving a folded blanket from the bottom drawer of the dresser. JFK is sitting on the bed, the faint white glow of his phone screen illuminating his face.

He looks up at Van Gogh, his expression distant. "Hm? Oh, yeah in a second."

Vincent shakes the blanket, letting it out of its neat square before wrapping it around himself. "What're you doing?"

"Oh, you know..." JFK waves him off. "Just... texting."

Van Gogh stops, one hand on the dormer window, an eyebrow raised. "Who?"

John shrugs, as if to say no big deal. "Ponce de León."

"The guy with the weird pants?" Vincent asks.

JFK's eyebrows knit together, defensive. "His pants aren't weird!"

"I'm kidding," Vincent replies. Kind of.

Kennedy looks up from his phone when he feels Van Gogh still staring. "I'll be out in a bit. He just... needs some help on an assignment."

"Oh, because you'd be able to help."

JFK knits his eyebrows together. "Didn't you say earlier today that I'm smarter than I let on?"

Vincent scoffs. "You are smarter than you let on. But how could you possibly help Ponce with an assignment when you haven't even been at school?"

Kennedy begrudgingly switches off his phone, and rolls himself off of the bed. He picks up his own book from the nightstand on his side of the bed, and walks across the room until he's standing in front of Van Gogh.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go read on the balcony."

Vincent drops his book, and it thuds onto the hardwood floor. He winces internally, worrying about the paper cover bending backwards. He doesn't peel his gaze off of JFK to look at it, though. That's an issue for later.

"I'm not going to read," he says, his words curt.

"Are you going to draw?" JFK asks, and he can feel Vincent soften.

Van Gogh can never stay mad at Kennedy for long, not with his watercolour-green eyes boring into his brown ones. "Yes," he replies, his tone lighter and volume lower. "I am going to draw."

John glances at the book lying on the floor beside Van Gogh's socked feet. He nods toward it. "The cover's going to bend back."

Vincent bends his knees to pick up the book, never breaking eye contact with John. "Thanks," he says before brushing past the boy to switch out the novel for his sketchpad. He hears JFK step out the window and rest his foot on the balcony behind him. His phone is still sitting on the bed, the screen dim, but the phone unlocked. Van Gogh takes a guilty look behind him, making sure Kennedy is occupied.

If I could just see what they were really texting about... he thinks, and he takes the device in his hands. He taps the screen, restoring it to its full colour. His thumb hovers over the iMessage icon, but he stops himself before he can go any further. No, Vincent! Looking through your boyfriend's phone is a crazy boyfriend thing, and you're not a crazy boyfriend. He sets the phone back down on the bed and takes a deep breath, retrieving his sketchpad from his nightstand.

JFK is reading peacefully when Van Gogh steps back out onto the balcony. He seems to already be absorbed in his book.

"What class did Ponce want your help with?" He asks casually, still not convinced that leaving JFK's phone alone was the best decision to make.

The corners of Kennedy's mouth pull up. "Algebra II," he replies.

"You're not even taking that class," Vincent says, forcing a polite laugh.

John laughs with his full chest. Vincent's lips twitch. He always crumples under the boy's euphoria. "Yeah, I know. He always forgets that I'm in pre calc."

"Always?" Vincent asks, trying to make his voice sound bigger than he feels.

JFK laughs again, shaking his head. "Yeah. He always needs help with some of the later problems in the lessons. I guess he's too scared to ask the teacher for help."

Vincent opens his sketchbook, and his stomach lurches when he flips past an unfinished drawing of John. He remembers the day he drew it -- he sketched it from a picture he'd taken. Kennedy is sitting on his bed in Exclamation!, his Colgate model grin filling up his face and his eyes crinkling with laughter. His hand is shielding his face, like he didn't want Vincent to take the picture. His hair is bigger than ever, perfectly styled with hair gel. His green eyes are glowing. Van Gogh had almost forgotten what genuine happiness looked like.

"Well, I guess you would be able to help him with the answers, considering you took the class last year..."

JFK shrugs. "I guess so, but I didn't really retain anything."

Vincent smiles at the boy with the corner of his mouth, but John doesn't notice. He's already lost in his book again. Van Gogh shakes his head and looks away. JFK isn't a cheater. He's not good with commitment, but he wouldn't get into something if he couldn't stay in it. But then again, they never really had the conversation about monogamy...

Van Gogh rests the sketchpad on his lap, the unfinished drawing of John still smiling up at him.

"Jack?" He asks, the smallest whisper of hesitation in his voice.

JFK shuts his book, his finger wedged in between the pages, keeping his place. "Yes?"

Vincent swallows. "I think you're beautiful."

Kennedy returns the boy's smile before casting his gaze down at the portrait of himself. "Can I see?" He asks, extending an arm.

Van Gogh hands him the sketchpad without a second guess. JFK studies the drawing, an affectionate smile painting his lips and a soft glow in his eyes. "Why'd you draw it in coloured pencil?"

Vincent shrugs. "I thought it captured your aura."

"What does green mean?"

Van Gogh shakes his head. "I wasn't paying attention to that. I just like the colour of your eyes."

JFK looks up at Vincent, a fire burning in his heart as a similar fire burns in the boy's eyes. "Is that what makes me beautiful?"

Van Gogh looks away, shrugging. "I don't know. I'm noticing a lot of things about you that I hadn't before."

Kennedy wants to ask what he means, what he's noticing, but the boy is turned away and his shoulders are hunched. He doesn't ask for the sketchbook back. JFK guesses the conversation is over.

***

Van Gogh wakes up in the middle of the night, the wind howling through the cracks in the dormer window and the loose latch banging ominously. JFK is sleeping on his back and Vincent was sleeping on his stomach, his left arm and leg draped over his boyfriend. He rolls away from Kennedy, rubbing his eyes against the darkness. Next to him, John grunts.

"Shh," Vincent says.

"Vinny..." He whispers groggily, reaching for the boy.

Van Gogh rolls back over to JFK, giving him a light kiss on the lips. "Go back to sleep, Jack. It's still nighttime."

"So why are you awake?"

"Shh..." Vincent says again before climbing out of bed.

He creeps down the stairs, hand trailing over the railing, his footsteps soft. He walks through the archway to the kitchen, trying to rifle through the junk drawer next to the stove as quietly as possible. His hand closes around the box of matches, and he lifts it out of the drawer, glancing over his shoulder every other second. He walks the box to the kitchen table, where the magenta tapers are still sitting. He strikes the match against the side of the box, watching as it sparks and fizzes before his eyes. He inhales the scent of the sulphur and the burning wood, letting it wrap around his soul. The warmth nestles in his heart, and he is one with the fire. He feels himself burning from the inside out, his internal organs the wick and his skin the wax. He lights the magenta candles after a couple of seconds, his mouth relaxed and his face resting. The flames reflect against the whites of his eyes as the wicks of the candles catch fire and the wax begins to melt.

"Burn," he whispers. "Down to the wick, down to the floor. Take the whole town with you, take the whole world."

The light flicks on, and Van Gogh whips around. Standing in the archway is a groggy JFK, his hair disheveled and the bags under his eyes dark. He wipes a hand across his puffy face, his vision blurry.

"Vincent?" He asks, his voice drowned in mucus.

Van Gogh blows out the candle and the match, and sits on his hands. His eyes widen when he turns to Kennedy, his face flushed and lips red.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?" John asks, and it sounds more confused than accusing.

Van Gogh shakes his head urgently. "I- I don't know. I just felt like I had to come down here. I felt too awake."

JFK squints, but doesn't make an argument. "Come back up to bed, Vinny. It's three in the morning."

Van Gogh nods, abandoning the matchbox and the candles. He follows JFK out of the kitchen, flicking the light off behind them. He grabs onto the boy's hand as they walk up the stairs, interlacing their fingers tentatively. John gives Vincent's hand a reassuring squeeze, pulling the shorter boy in closer to him. They climb into bed and assume the position they'd been sleeping in before, the left side of Van Gogh's body draped over JFK.

#clone high #clone high jfk #clone high van gogh #jfgogh #limitless

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mfingenius · 5 years

Text

College AU

“What?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised.

Draco’s cheeks turn red, but he clenches his jaw determinately. “You heard me, Potter.”

“I did,” Harry says slowly. His brain seems to have stopped working. “I’m just contemplating the odds of you having gone insane.”

Draco’s cheeks turn even redder, and he rolls his eyes. “I haven’t gone insane. If you didn’t want me to say yes-”

“No, no!” Harry says quickly. He licks his lips. “It’s just – why?”

“It was recently pointed out to me that you were trying to be civil.” He says primly. “And

that I was not reciprocating. I am – trying to be – fair.”

He sounds like it’s taking him great effort to get the words out, and Harry very nearly

laughs. He manages to bite it back, and he nods slowly.

“Alright,” He says. Honestly, when he’d asked Draco – the most gorgeous git Harry’s ever met – to model for his final sketches, he thought he was murdering their very, very fragile relationship. He never expected Draco to say yes. “I – when are you free?”

His brain seems to refuse to put more than a few words together at a time. He can’t help it; he’s had a crush on Draco for almost a year now, and with this project coming up, he knows a lot of people wanted to draw Draco. He can’t blame them; Draco is gorgeous, and a classical ballet dancer, and their sketches are supposed to showcase the beauty in human movement. He’s the perfect subject.

He can’t quite believe that Draco said yes to him.

“When is the project due?” Draco asks, instead of answering. It’s fondly infuriating.

“Two weeks.” Harry says.

Draco’s eyes snap to him, disbelieving. “Two weeks? You left what is the equivalent of your final exam for two weeks before it was due?”

“You sound like Hermione,” Harry says mildly. Draco scoffs, and before he can get angry at Harry and change his mind about letting him draw him, Harry continues. “It’s alright. I can do it. I just need a few of your free afternoons.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Fine. I need to practice for the presentation in June, anyway. I practice every day, from three to nine.”

“Apart from your dance classes? Aren’t you tired?” Harry asks, frowning lightly. Draco throws him a glare, and Harry holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright. When do you want me to drop by?”

“I don’t want you to drop by.” Draco says snidely. “I’m doing this as a favor, Potter.”

“I was under the impression that you didn’t do favors, Malfoy.” Harry shoots back. He knows it’s not the wisest course of action, angering his muse – and Draco is his muse,

has been for a long time now – before he’s drawn him, but he can’t resist. He’s never been able to keep himself in check when it comes to Draco, in any context or situation.

Draco merely glares at Harry and flips him off.

“You can come whenever you want to,” He says. “But text me before. I don’t want you to show up unannounced.”

And then he walks away.

“I don’t have your number!” Harry calls after him. “Figure it out!”

Harry gets Draco’s number from Hermione, who texts it to him with an eyeroll and a ‘kiss him already, will you?’. Harry thanks her and flips her off. He finds himself standing outside of the ballet building the day after Draco agrees, at 2:54. He doesn’t want to go in yet because he doesn’t want to be early, but he does, because it’s a building he’s never been in before and he thinks he might get lost.

He does.

“You’re late.” Draco says, when Harry finally finds the practice room Draco had set apart for this.

“Two minutes,” Harry huffs, dropping his bag and sitting on the only chair in the room. He takes out his sketchbook and a normal pencil. He’s just going to do some rough sketches today, trying to get as many moves of Draco’s dance as he can; he’ll sharpen them and redo them cleanly when he gets back to their dorm, and, if he needs to, he’ll be back tomorrow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Draco rolls his eyes at him. “I need to stretch, Potter, I don’t fancy pulling something.”

Harry watches as he puts on music and begins stretching. He’s in a white shirt, black tights, and ballet slippers, and Harry can see every line of his body as he warms up; he moves with a grace that Harry could never achieve; where he is messy and careless, Draco’s every move is done with elegance and a delicacy that might be natural or might be learned.

Whichever one it is, it seems like it’s in Draco’s nature.

He finds himself mindlessly sketching along with Draco’s every movement, fluid and purposeful. When he finally begins dancing, Harry very nearly forgets what he’s supposed to be doing; every move takes his breath away.

When he finally begins sketching, it’s a struggle against time; he sketches quickly, barely looking down at the paper, because if he does, he’ll miss Draco’s next move, and he’s unwilling to do that. Draco does the dance again, and again, and again, and every time

Harry finds new things to fall in love with, new moves his sketches could never do justice to.

Draco seems to lose himself in it, doing every dance move fluidly, with the familiarity of someone who’s done something a thousand times and loves it. Harry’s never seen him like this, lost in what he’s doing, relaxed, passionate, happy.

He barely even notices time passing. By the time he notices that it’s been a while, it’s dark outside, and he’s filled several pages of his sketchbook with sketches of Draco. He checks his wristwatch and curses.

“It’s nine thirty.” He says. “I lost track of time.”

Draco seems surprised. He checks the clock, and then hums mildly. He turns off the music and begins picking up his things.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Harry forces himself to say it before he can lose his nerve.

“I – alright,” Draco agrees, hesitantly. His cheeks are flushed, and Harry thinks they weren’t a minute ago, but they must’ve been, because it must be caused by the exercise. “Did you get anything good today?”

“Yes,” Harry says sincerely. “Your dancing is...” Enamoring. He doesn’t say it.

Draco’s cheeks go redder, and he looks down, eyelashes fluttering. Harry’s never seen him like this, embarrassed and shy. It’s endearing.

“Thank you,” he says, eyelashes fluttering as he looks around the room. “I – err. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Harry echoes. He doesn’t want to say goodbye yet. In a desperate feat, he says, “I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

Draco frowns lightly. “My dorm is all the way across campus. Isn’t yours right by here?”

“Know where my dorm is, do you?” Harry grins, and Draco’s cheeks turn scarlet. Harry enjoys that look on him.

“You’re rooming with Weasley, and if you’ve forgotten, her girlfriend is my best friend.” Draco says snidely. “I’ve accompanied her enough times there to have memorized it by now.”

“Sure,” Harry grins teasingly, elbowing Draco’s side lightly.

Draco glares at him – the effect greatly diminished by the color on his cheeks – but he allows him to walk him to his dorm. When they get there, Harry walks him to the door – which is definitely more than unnecessary – and they find a red post-it on the door.

“What does that mean?” Harry asks when Draco groans.

“It means Blaise is having sex.” Draco glares at the closed door. “And I’m supposed to stay out of the room.”

Harry says it before he can stop himself. “You can sleep with me.”

Silence.

Then, “Excuse me?”

Fuck.

“I don’t mean sex!” Harry rushes to say. “I – I mean that – Ron is always at Hermione’s

dorm, so I have the dorm to myself. You can sleep there.”

Draco hesitates.

“Potter,” he says finally. “Why are you doing this? We’re not friends.”

“We could be,” Harry says.

“But we’re not.” Draco stresses.

“But we could be,” Harry repeats.

“We’re not.” Draco says.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Can’t I just do something nice for you?”

“But why are you doing this?” Draco asks. “No one does anything without a reason.”

“Why are you modeling for me, then?” Harry asks. “I’m not doing anything for you.”

“We’re not talking about that.” Draco snaps.

“Why not?”

“Because I know why I’m being nice, but why are you?” Draco asks, exasperated. “And don’t tell me it’s your unbearable hero complex, because I-”

Harry kisses him.

-----------

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twit-moonstar · 4 years

Text

as long as we’re together - brian may x writer!reader

N/A: This is purely a self-indulgent fic I wrote mainly for myself, but I though it be nice to share and see what happens. First half of it it’s just y/n having a crisis, tho, and the second part is like domestic fluff. hope u enjoy! comments, reblogs and likes are greatly apreciated <3

As if being an adult wasn’t difficult enough, you had the dream of becoming a published author and, before starting to try to write, you hadn’t thought about the bohemian lifestyle you would have to face and embrace.

Your parents had pushed you—well, forced seemed a more appropriate word—to study Law, but after a few months after starting you dropped it. It wasn’t what you wanted, you were constantly stressed and unhappy by the prospect of the future that waited for you once you graduated.

Abandoning your career, though, meant the extra help your parents offered was snatched away from your hands. Rent wasn’t extremely expensive—you shared a little apartment with Brian and you only paid half of it—, but you still had to buy food and other necessary things.

Without your parent’s income, you had found work as a waitress at a restaurant and started to send your short stories to some newspapers and magazines to get a little extra money.

You had been suffering from a hard writer’s block lately, though.

Rereading for the second time the paragraph that you had already written five times, you ripped off the paper and made it a bun, throwing it on the floor. A new blank sheet confronted you and you decided to throw away your notebook and pencil with fury.

You were at the edge of tears. Not even that glass of cheap wine you swallowed half an hour ago had helped you to take off the feeling of utter desperation and defeat. If anything, it had only made you feel worse.

The words your father spate at you once or twice came to your mind. ‘All writers are just a bunch of alcoholics’. He had never appreciated your art, no one on your family did actually.

They wouldn’t probably support you until they had a properly published book of yours in their hands since your short stories on newspapers did not seem to impress them.

People have the impression that anyone can write but the truth is very few can manage to write words in a way that has any meaning something. Of course, you were starting to doubt you had that kind of talent.

You check the clock on the wall. 1 a.m. Fear starts to creep from your chest to your throat where it left a lump to settle on your head at this hour, usually, if you’re not sleeping.

These quiet moments at night are where you feel the most that you will never make it, that all your dreams are not more than a little dumb girl’s dream. The letter you received today just seems to fuel that thought.

It’s like running behind a car, you think. You can never be fast enough to reach it, no matter how fast you run.

You look at the notebook on the floor, just a few steps ahead of where you are sitting. You need to write something and send it to the newspaper tomorrow but nothing you wrote was good enough. You needed the money. You couldn’t allow Brian to pay again for your part, he was as short of money as you; especially now that his band was spending their money in their first album.

"What are you doing?" Brian asks with his arms crossed and his head resting against the wall, one of his curls falling over his eyes, but he doesn’t bother in push it away.

You don’t dare to look at him in the eyes, so instead, you keep your eyes down. "Just writing," you mutter.

He enters the living room, sitting next to you on the sofa. "Something is bothering you, isn’t it, my love?" Brian takes a lock of your hair and puts it behind your ear, then cupping your cheek.

You lean into his soothing touch with a heavy sigh that comes from the deepest of your chest.

"I- I just -" you sobbed and Brian hugged you immediately upon realizing it, his arms drawing you to his chest and one of his hands caressing your back in circles, comfortably. He shushed softly, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, but you couldn’t hear more than your sobs drowned against his shirt.

Your eyes land on the ripped envelope on the table. You could recite the words on the letter inside by memory by how much you’ve stared at it.

“What’s wrong?”

I’m a fucking fraud, that’s what’s wrong. What if I’m not good at writing? What if this isn’t what I was meant to be? If I’m not a writer, then who am I? But you can’t bring yourself to say that, the lump on your throat doesn’t allow you, so you just pull away and after taking the letter, you hand it to him. He starts to read with a careful expression. You recite it internally.

‘Dear Y/N Y/L/N Thank you very much for allowing us to consider your novel, which we have looked at with interest. However, I regret that we have reluctantly concluded that we could not publish it with commercial success…’

Did I waste all these years?

“This is bullshit.”

You don’t expect to hear him curse so angrily, but his brows are furrowed and his usually soft hazel eyes are sparkling with fury.

“You’re extremely talented and your book is amazing! You spent years working on it!”

“Yeah.”

“I think it would be a fucking commercial success,” he states but you bite your inferior lip to avoid the tears from spilling. The editorial doesn’t think that way and seems like the rest of the others who received your novel didn’t either.

At least you got a response. Most people don’t even get that.

“It’s the only response I’ve got, Bri. I don’t think I’ll ever get published,” you whisper and he throws the letter to the floor and kneels in front of you, wiping away your tears.

“Whatever. I’ve got to keep working,” you reply dryly, cleaning your face with your hands and picking up the notebook and the pen. Brian stares at you.

“No, you’re tired. I’ll prepare you a bath and then you can go to bed,” he states, taking away the notebook from your hands and you whine.

“Brian! I have to do this!” You say furiously, but he doesn’t even flinch to your elevated tone of voice. You, on the other hand, close your eyes with regret and breath deeply.

“Bri, I’m busy. Let me alone.”

You hate yourself for asking him that because you don’t mean it. Being alone is the exact opposite of what you need, but you decide the money is far more important than your emotional state at the moment.

You could always cry later.

“No. I know well enough to know what you’re trying to do. You’re overworking yourself while you drown on your self-pity.”

“I’m not doing that,” you say but the quickness on your reply gives you away.

“Please, take a bath,” he asks, taking your hand.

You shrug. “I guess I could drown in the tub.”

He laughs with little amusement and leaves to return for you after ten minutes. You would be lying if you said the hot water didn’t look appealing. Brian helps you to take off your clothes and you sit on the tub.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my oils and scents.”

“Uh, I did.”

“That was the last I had! I was saving them for a special occasion!”

“Drowning seems special enough,” he says with a shrug.

“Very funny.”

“What were you trying to write, anyway?”

“A story for the newspaper.”

“Why have you been selling your stories for cents? You know they have much worth than that,” he asks. He reaches for the shampoo, putting a bit on his hands and starting to wash your hair. You close your eyes and let him do it. Brian’s hands always find a way to relax.

“I need the money,” you reply.

“What for?”

“Rent and food.”

“Y/N, you know I can take care of it,” he says, almost reproaching you.

You feel a little uneasy before the idea of Brian paying for you, you didn’t like to ask money borrowed and less if you knew that he would be too gentlemanly to accept your money later, even if he needed it.

“We’re not a married couple in the thirties, Bri. I can’t ask you to pay for me. I don’t even know where did you get the money from last rent. I didn’t cover my part.”

“You don’t need to ask for anything, love.”

“Still, I don’t want you to do that”

“I know you just said we’re not a married couple but as long as we’re together, I’ll support you when you need me, y'know?”

Your eyes teared once again and you smiled as you tried to prevent crying again. How were you blessed with such a kind and considerate man like Brian? You were such a mess, lately, but he never backed off from being a firm yet gentle shoulder to cry on.

“Thanks. I promise I’ll repay you,” you say.

“You don’t have to. C’mmon, let’s get you out of the tube before you start to get too wrinkled,” he replies, helping you to stand out. As Brian leaves you to dry yourself, he gets you some comfortable clothes. Once you were dressed, you both lied on the bed, you on Brian’s arms.

“Tell me about your day,” you said and you felt him smile against your hair.

“We tried recording a new song today, I’m not quite sure if the name is good, though,” he commented, running his hand through your hair. You closed your eyes and let him ramble about the problems they had with today’s recording.

“You’re falling asleep already?” he asked in a whisper.

“No, I’m listening,” you mumbled but you felt yourself drifting away more and more.

“That’s okay, my love. Sleep.”

“I love you,” you mumbled.

“Love you too,” he replied and you finally fell asleep.

#brian may x reader #brian may x you #brian may x y/n #brian may fanfic #brian may fanfiction #brian may headcanon #brian may x female reader #brian may x male reader

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anoutlandishfanfic · 5 years

Text

Metamorphosis AU: Ch. 24, Pt. 1, Convalescence.

The AO3 link to this chapter was posted earlier, but I haven’t posted the text in full here yet. This is not a new chapter, simply adding it to Tumblr.

You can find previous chapters here or over here at AO3.

_______________________________________

Three Days Later; End of December, 1743.

“What’s your pain level, luv?” I murmured, brushing the curls off Jamie’s brow.

He’d been fever free for a solid forty eight hours now, but I still felt like singing the Hallelujah Chorus every time I found him as such.

“I’m fine, Sassenach,” he assured me with a weary smile, “Dinna fash”

As ironic as it might seem — what, with me being six and a half months pregnant with twins and him recovering from major surgery and an assault that brought him to the brink of death — sleep was at a premium these days.

Jamie was able to doze most of the day away, his body unable to keep slumber at bay entirely, but he fought hard against the tow of a truly deep sleep and the demons that accompanied it. I was haunted by nightmares of my own, each more terrifying than the last, but my body’s aches and pains trumped anything my hormone-riddled subconscious could concoct. Intense muscle spasms accompanied by nagging hip pain combined with persistent nausea and frequent trips to relieve myself made it nearly impossible for me to achieve a full night’s sleep… and so I often joined my husband in drifting off in the middle of the day.

I shook my head at his insistence, suppressing a grin at what I knew without a doubt was a complete bluff and patted his cheek patronizingly, “I won’t, but give me the number anyway.”

“Four.”

I rose a brow at this and his smile grew as he added, “And a half.”

I chuckled, leaning in for a kiss and he gladly obliged.

“Mmm,” he intoned, bringing me back in for another one. “A few more of these an’ you’ll have me down to a two, Sassenach.”

”I’m aiming for one,” I quipped cheekily as I sat back and took a good look at my patient.

The color was slowly beginning to creep back into his cheeks and the light back into his eyes. Jamie had endured the unthinkable — I knew he had — but remained silent about most of what had happened at Wentworth. It weighed upon him tremendously, stooping his shoulders and furrowing his brow…

While his body was healing rapidly, his mind and spirit limped far behind.

Jamie’s good hand brushed against my leg and I instinctively pulled it into my lap, curving it around the ever growing swell of our children. He jumped slightly in surprise — I mentally kicked myself, for I knew he startled easily these days — but he quickly recovered and responded in delight.

“They’re growing,” he murmured, his gaze softening.

You’re growing is what he means, I internally groaned. You’re bigger than a horse, Mother Goose.

Jamie was silent for a moment before he sat up more fully, lifting his injured hand to touch my face. His thumb stroked my cheek and I turned my face to gently kiss his palm as my eyes drifted shut, trying to mask my insecurities. He lowered his hand slightly, cupping my chin and waiting for me to look at him before speaking.

“Have I thanked you yet, mo chridhe?”

My brows furrowed in confusion as I asked, “For what?”

“For my children… for the lives you carry a’ the risk of your own.”

My face melted as tears rushed to my eyes. I kissed him, my lips trembling at his tender words as my arms slipped around his neck.

“Oh,” I uttered insufficiently, completely overcome.

I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him, filling my lungs with the anchoring truth of his presence. His arms came around me too, holding me close as my hot tears hit his skin and we both realized just how much we missed the others touch.

We clung to each other for many moments in reverent silence before I added, “It’s my pleasure.”

A low noise — not quite a chuckle and not quite in negation of my words — rumbled within him, making his chest vibrate deliciously against me.

“Aye, but I ken tis no’ always so… when you were so sick a’ the first, or when they make you change so… when your time comes?”

I shook my head against him, whispering, “Even then.” ... A few days after that.

While he hadn’t ventured far from the bed yet, Jamie was now officially up and about. He puttered around after me as I worked at my table and often followed me to my chamber and back, but today we were going on our first walk around the abbey.

His left arm was looped comfortably through mine, not so much for assistance but rather assurance, as we slowly wandered the halls. Murtagh trailed several paces behind us to ensure we didn’t get lost — the maze of passageways was far more complex than I’d realized — and I thanked my lucky stars that he had, for we rounded a corner and came face to face with none other than Dougal McKenzie.

“Good to see ye on yer feet, lad,” he sneered, his words entirely insincere.

A chill ran down my spine at the sound of his voice and I flinched involuntarily as he took a step closer. Murtagh was at our side in an instant and edged his way between us and our foe.

Jamie’s arm slid out from under mine and wrapped protectively around my waist.

I’ve got you, he promised with a squeeze. He’ll have to get through me to get to you.

“Tis good to see you too, uncle,” Jamie lied through clenched teeth, “but I’m afraid we must be returning to our rooms. I hope to speak wi’ you again before you return to Leoch.”

Dougal waved the notion away as if he were swatting at a pesky fly, scoffing, “Ach, I’ll be here for a while yet… too many redcoat patrols for my taste. Wouldna want to leave ye and have them swarm the place.”

A noise of shock and dismay left my lips before I could stop it and Murtagh sprang into action, all but shoving us in the right direction. Large black spots suddenly appeared at the edges of my vision, obscuring the sudden image of a hangman’s noose around my husband’s neck. My knees buckled beneath me and I latched desperately onto Jamie’s shirtfront.

“Easy, Sassenach,” he crooned as I sagged into him, trembling violently. “I’ve got you.”

“If ye’ll excuse us,” Murtagh growled as we sidestepped Dougal and continued guiding us down the hall, nearly pulling the both of us along behind him.

They wouldn’t, would they?

Religious sanctuary was irrevocable, our protection irrefutable so long as we stayed within the abbey walls…

Wasn’t it?

Father Anselm and the other elders would uphold our right to sanctuary here at the cost of their lives, I knew, but they didn’t stand a chance against an overwhelming military force with a legitimate claim of action. They were harboring not only an escaped convict, but a posse of murderous Highlanders besides. The religious laws and traditions of a Roman Catholic monastery — decidedly Scottish — would be tossed aside without a moment’s hesitation in order to capture the enemies of a mighty, entirely Protestant army.

Get a grip, Beauchamp. This is the seventeen-forties, not the fourteen-forties.

I had no recollection of the rest of the walk back to Jamie’s room, but suddenly blinked and found myself perched on the edge of Jamie’s bed, his pale face studying mine with marked concern.

“Are you alright, mo chridhe?”

“No,” I let out a shuddering sigh. “That bloody man scares the fucking daylights out of me.”

A decided snort sounded from the edges of my vision and I turned to find Murtagh all but bolting the door shut.

“He willna be layin’ a hand on ye, lass,” he vowed. “No’ if I have anythin’ to say about it”

I rather thought Murtagh would have quite a lot to say about the matter, should it be pressed, but I shoved the thought of that away.

Jamie is here.

Murtagh is here.

I am safe.

“You’re safe, Claire,” Jamie echoed my thoughts aloud, using the phrase I often reassured him with.

I nodded with an attempt at a smile, but knew I didn’t quite manage to pull it off.

“We’ll find a way to be out of here an’ his reach, aye?” He continued, tucking a stray curl behind my ear before brushing a tear from my cheek.

“To France, maybe? We’re no’ far from the coast… if we left soon, we could be to Paris or Le Havre a’ least before the bairns came.”

Murtagh seized this idea with an eager determination, “Aye, ye’ve many a kin who’d aid ye there… both Fraser an’ MacKenzie, come to that.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jamie pulled me into his arms, his lips moving against my neck as he announced, “We’ll leave wi’ the first ship tha’ll take us.”

…

One week later.

This proved to be a more difficult task than we’d anticipated, for travel across this area of the channel in the dead of winter was rare, and it seemed we would remain at the abbey for a good while yet.

“Any luck?” I asked unnecessarily as Murtagh entered the room, answering me with a decided shake of his head.

Jamie had dozed off and I’d hoped — in vain — to get some sleep while he did, but it was not to be. I’d found myself restless and the lives within me even more so, and so I’d given it up entirely… returning to his side instead and attempting to sketch out rough schematics for a Pinard horn.

I turned back to my paper, tapping the pencil impatiently against my drawing as I thrust the idea out into the open.

“Could you make something out of wood for me?” I blurted, not quite making eye contact with him.

“Hmm?” he intoned in grumpy confusion… perhaps this wasn’t the right time to ask him for a favor.

He grumbled, “What do ye need?”

I shoved the paper into his hands, explaining hastily before he tuned out entirely, “A Pinard horn… it’s a medical instrument in my time that lets you hear a person’s heartbeat more clearly… mostly used by midwives to hear baby’s within the womb.”

Murtagh’s eyes widened at this and then dropped to study what I’d given him.

“You can hear… them… wi’ this?”

“Yes,” I nodded eagerly. “I don’t remember the exact measurements… only that it’s shaped like this,” I pointed to curve of it.

“It might take a few tries to get it right,” I warned, but he shook his head.

“I dinna mind,” he assured me, then launched into a series of questions that left me without a doubt that we’d soon be able to hear my babies’ heartbeats.

I took hold of his hand, once he had all the information he needed, and squeezed it tightly, murmuring, “Thank you.”

A slow smile spread across his face as squeezed back, an acknowledging nod his response before he added,

“Tis just wha’ the lad needs, no?”

#outlander fanfic #Metamorphosis AU #chapter 24 #convalescence pt 1

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heloflor · 4 years

Text

The artist

AO3 link

While looking for papers her husband asked for, Elizabeth discovers that writings are not the only thing Alexander keeps in his office.

Note : The characters are based on the historical look, not on the musical (which is why Hamilton is told to have curly hair for example). Also I have no idea how to write the way these people used to so don't be surprised if I write with a mix of old and new slangs.

Betsey, dearest, there are some papers in my office that I will need in a few hours, but I am afraid to be too taken by time to care for it now. Could you find it for me ? It shall be on my desk.

It has been almost four hours since Alexander left, and Elizabeth knew he would be back soon. Now that she was done with most of her chores, and with the children in need of nothing, it was time to find these papers.

The office was the usual mess that Betsey had come to accept : papers scattered everywhere, on and around the desk, with also a few papers laying around in the rest of the room. Most of these few pages laying around were, as her husband put it, either unimportant or filled with outdated information. Approaching her husband's desk, Betsey started to look through the more prominent writings. Surely something important for today must be easy to see through the rest. , she hoped. Unfortunately, nothing came close to the description Alexander gave her. Hoping to avoid wasting an hour on this, she started to look for any other obvious place to put work.

Her gaze quickly fell on a display cabinet full of books and papers, and she quickly started taking each pile of writings one by one. To her delight, the papers were sorted with each pile containing a different topic, from Alexander's law studies to his politics to a few of his correspondences, including hers. After some unsuccessful rummaging, her eyes were set upon a drawing, laying atop a small pile. Said drawing was one of a flower, a pretty common one, although it didn't stop Betsy form admiring it. It was simply exquisite with every single detail visible, to the point where she could almost feel the softness of the petals as she traced the lines with her finger.

Looking back at the pile, she was delighted to see the next page being a drawing as well and, her task forgotten, she took the entire pile and sat at Alexander's desk, taking her time with each piece to admire this work of art. Who drew this ? The question kept floating in her mind. She knew her husband wasn't an artist. After all, she never saw him draw and knew that a man like him would have boasted about such skills the moment he started courting her.

As she kept admiring the art, she noticed that the pages seemed to be in an order. The drawings were, at first, pretty simple with most being plants, trees or flowers. Then, she found her hands full of different animals, from a worm to a rabbit, all as well drawn as the others.

Betsey started to find herself as excited as a child wondering what each new drawing would display. But suddenly, as she flipped to the next page, she came to a stop. The drawing now in her hands was one of a man wearing the uniform of the Continental Army, hunched over a table full of papers and writing something. But the way he was standing, the way he was holding his quill, the concentration on his freckled face as a few curly strands fell from his queue, it felt all too familiar, and it barely took a moment for Betsey to know why : It was a drawing of her husband during the war.

Trying not to let the drawing disconcert her too much, she quickly took the next one, only to be met again with a portrayal of Alexander. This time, he was lying on a bed, wrapped under the covers, with a candle on a table nearby giving light to the expression of deep fondness he was showing to the artist. No wonder Alexander decided to keep those among his important writings. Though the thought of someone drawing her husband in such domestic situations made her feel uneasy, she tried not to read too much into it and simply enjoy the beauty of the art. But who in the world made them ?

Betsey kept going through the pile, the pages now all displaying Alexander in different situations : him sleeping under a tree; posing with a sword; enjoying the warmth of a fireplace; or even one showing him play cards with another soldier. She had to admit, she was impressed by the ability of the artist to draw Alexander in such a precise and perfect way. Every trait, every line had a part in the bigger picture, portraying his every proportions with every curve, every strand of hair, every expression crossing his face at the moment.

Putting away yet another drawing of him, her eyes widened at the view of the next one, and she couldn't help but gasp. It showed Alexander emerging from what seemed to be a river, water splashing everywhere around him as he was standing with his head towards the sky and his hands on his loose hair. But what shocked her was his body, his nude body, drawn in the most precise way. Of course, she knew that the conditions of the war forced the soldiers to loose some intimacy, but the way she could recognize that it was her husband's body with a single glance deepened her uneasiness. Maybe whoever drew this had a talent with proportions ? , she tried to rationalize. But is it possible to be so precise while drawing such a short moment ? Or maybe...No. , she shook her head. Alexander would never let another man see him naked for other moments than when necessary. He would never commit the sin of having intimacies with a man. Besides, who is to say that it was made by a man ?, she tried to reason. After all, Alexander never hid his liking towards other women. Maybe one of the servants was an admirer who used her free time trying to gain his favors. And given this art...it seems she managed to get it...

Sighing, Betsey put the page and looked at the last one, bracing herself for what she may see. But, if this one surprised her, it was a different kind of unexpected. Is that...? Alexander was yet again depicted, this time peacefully sleeping on a sofa, but his head was on someone else's shoulder. It was a man, wearing the same uniform as her husband, sitting with paper and pencil in his hands; the paper showing a few drafts; and glancing at the sleeping man with an air of deep fondness. So this must be our artist... She tried to put a name on the man's face, she met a lot of Alexander's friends after all, but none came to mind. Whoever that man was, she never met him.

Resigned, she put the drawing on her husband's desk with the others and looked at the wider ensemble. She started to wonder if the artist made more of them after the war and if he would be willing to offer them. Especially, she wondered if he had more of Alexander, though at the same time, looking at the river one, a part of her couldn't help but hope that he didn't and feel better at the thought of that man staying away from her husband.

Suddenly, Betsey heard the door of the office open, revealing her husband.

“Betsey, my angel, have you found what I asked ?”, of course his work was still highly on his mind.

“I am afraid I have not.”, she replied, wanting to slap herself for forgetting. Alexander was always working so much, and relieve him of small tasks that took some of his precious time has always been something Betsey was happily willing to do.

“Is it not on the desk ? Have you tried to look inside the display cabinet ?”, while his tone was hurried, he looked mostly confused and his gaze was soft, making Betsey know that he wasn't angry about it.

“I did.”, she answered, taking one of the drawings and showing him. “But I am afraid I have gotten distracted by something else in it.”

Alexander's eyes widened at the view of the paper and, before his wife could react, he snatched it from her hands and quickly went to his desk, stopping short at the view of the scattered drawings.

“Alexander ?”, his lack of response and movement, along with his expression, made Betsey start to deeply worry. I should not have touched his belongings like that. , she scolded herself. But what is done is done. And who knows, maybe talking about these drawings will make him feel better about...whatever is upsetting him with them ?

“Where did you find these ?”, he finally asked as he started to grab the pages.

“The display cabinet ? I have to say,”, she said, trying to light up the mood. “I am surprised you never showed me those. They truly are beautiful !”, he didn't respond, which was enough for her to know he wasn't listening. Instead, he was arranging the papers back into a pile, seemingly in the same order as before. And, each time he glanced at a page, Betsey could see sadness flash through his eyes. “Alexander ?”, she called again.

“You shouldn't have touched those.”, he accused. His papers now orderly and against his chest, he seemed to relax.

“Why not ?”

“I just...”, he remained silent, clearly thinking about his words, which worried Betsey. Alexander never thought much before speaking, especially for such trivial things. “There are some things that I would rather...keep to myself. Without you having to even touch them.”

“...I see.”, she wasn't convinced in the slightest. Are they not simply drawings ?...Well, aside from one I suppose. “May I at least know who drew them ?”

“Oh ! Well, there were made by John, back when we were fighting in the war.”

“John ?...Oh you mean your friend Laurens ?”

“Yes.”, there was a hint of sadness in his voice.

“You never told me he was an artist.”, she tried to divert, hoping to cheer him up.

“Well, he sure was a man of many talents.”, he replied while fondly gazing at the drawings still in his hands. This let Betsey to have a certain page in mind and, knowing the strong bond her husband had with the richer man, she felt a knot form in her stomach. She tried to ignore it, reminding herself that of course men would be closer while facing dire situations together, but the thought of the drawing refused to leave her mind.

“I suppose...but I must say I am...surprised by one of them.”, she tried to reach out for the pile but Alexander stepped away, firmly holding it against his chest.

“Which one ?”, he quickly asked with an apologetic look.

“The one...showcasing you in a river.”

“...Oh !”, he picked up the second-to-last one; Does he know the order by heart ? Or maybe he considers this one as different as much as I do...; and let out a chuckle. “Yes, I suppose such a display would unsettle a lady such as yours.

“How was it made ?”, she couldn't help but frown, though it went unnoticed by her husband.

“It was when we set our camp near the Raritan, while we were allowed some time and decided to refresh ourselves.”, Alexander turned towards his wife with a sly smile. “John sure managed to capture what was important.”, he said, waggling his eyebrows. Betsey wasn't smiling.

“How did he manage to draw you like that ? I mean...”, with Alexander stepping away when she tried to reach out, she contented herself to wave at the page. “the moment was brief, was it not ? So how did he manage to portray your...body, so perfectly ?”

Alexander turned away. “Well, as you implied it yourself, he is a wonderful artist.” Is..., she felt a pang of sadness, remembering the grief her husband went through after learning the dreadful news. And seeing now the way he was turning his back on her, surely wishing to hide his sadness, she deeply hoped this talk wouldn't shake him too much. “Besides,”, he continued, still not looking at her. “when you share a tent or even a bed with someone, you have to give up on some intimacy. This, coupled with good memory and anatomy skills, get you to such a capture of an instant. And it was far from being his only skill !”, Betsey suddenly found herself trying not to laugh, knowing the tirade that was to come. Alexander always tended to do that whenever he would speak of the war. Whatever the story he was telling, it always came back to him speaking of Laurens' virtues. “I mean, have you seen these ? He is able to draw plants as still when confronted with the hardest winds, to find the perfect pose to depict wild animals running away, to represent every little shade of light in a room lit by a single candle, and even to make the reverse image of a mirror ! And le-”

“A mirror ?”, she didn't like interrupting her husband but she knew she would be stuck here all day were she to let him keep going. Besides, she was truly starting to get curious.

Alexander nodded, showing the last drawing of the pile, the one about him sleeping on a man's shoulder. “It was early in the morning and we were waiting for a meeting. I may have fallen asleep.”, he laughed awkwardly. “And there was a mirror not too far from us.”, he looked at the piece of art with a fond smile. “John made good use of it.”, he whispered.

“So this is Laurens ?”, Betsey asked, trying to get a good view of the page without making her husband cower again.

“Indeed.”, he replied. “Such a handsome man, is he not ?”, he proudly asked while showing her the drawing.

“He is.”, she replied without much spirit. She could tell he wasn't listening anyways. Whenever Laurens was on his mind, Betsey knew her husband would get lost into his own world.

“Honestly, I should have carried a piece of glass around, make him draw himself more !Although no piece of art will ever come close to portray his beauty ! But to think this is the only drawing of himself he left...”, Alexander's voice lowered as he seemed to be brought back to reality, his smile slowly faltering.

Silence fell between the couple, the air suddenly heavy, the only noise in the room being the crumpling sound from the papers Alexander started hugging again.

“...So...”, Betsey coughed awkwardly. No matter how much she hated not helping Alexander when he was upset, she learned that, when it comes to Laurens, her husband always felt better after dealing with his grief alone. “The children will probably start to wonder where I am, so I should better go downstairs. I apologize again for not finding your work.”, Alexander nodded, the only acknowledgment that he heard her. She sighed, hoping he will be in better spirits as soon as possible, and left the room.

With Betsey gone, Alexander found himself having the same thoughts over and over again. She shouldn't have found it. It belongs to John. She tainted it ! How dare she touch it ! I never let anyone have their hands on what she offered me ! It belongs to him ! It's all I have left of him !...I should have hidden it better... He sighed. Well, there is no point in dwelling on it now.

His gaze fell back on the pile he was still clutching in his arms, and he started to look at the drawings one at a time. They were always in an order, the same order. It started simple enough, showing the flora of the world, a display of the work of a talented hand, before showcasing animal patterns, the mastery of the artist shinning through each one. Then, Alexander could see himself, his eyes carrying in each page the love and adoration he felt for him, and, each time, he could feel warmth in his heart seeing how, to be able to portray such emotions, John must have seen the love in Alexander's eyes, letting John know how adored he was.

After some time, he arrived at the second-to-last one, the drawing of him in a river that his wife was so quick to point out. Though, he couldn't blame her, as he himself kept it at the end of the pile since it was one of his favorites, for the same reasons Betsey seemed to deplore it. Thinking how he ended up having it make, he couldn't help but laugh at the memory. It was a hot day, sometime around the battle of Monmouth, and the army was located near the Raritan. The now-president had given his aides an hour to rest and they all decided to go refresh themselves. Alexander could remember trying to be one of the first in the water, as most aides were undressing near it, and see how long he could annoy them by throwing water before one went in and tried to drown him. But, after his first jump into the water, as he resurfaced, his Jack, who was already in, suddenly hurried out of the river, grabbing his clothes while yelling about needing pen and paper. This left everyone to laugh in confusion. The next hour, as they went back to camp, Alexander found himself look for John, only to find him finishing a new piece of art that he was trying to hide from his lover. But the delight on Alexander's face after finally grabbing the drawing was enough for John to yield, though Alexander believed that this decision was regretted, as he often used it as a way to tease the blonde.

Alexander sighed as the memories engraved in his heart left his mind for the anticipation of the last page. Since the day it was given to him, he knew he had to look at it last, or else he could never enjoy the true beauty of the others when compared to this masterpiece. The Artist, portraying himself, even showing the drawing on his knees. But one of the things that really got to Alexander was how John drew himself. No matter how precise he could be, Jack seemed to have made himself look a bit thinner and less muscular than he truly was, with much more bags under his eyes. But what pained the redhead the most about it was how his lover drew his eyes with the never-ending fire that burned through them but also with all the passion he had for the smaller man peacefully sleeping by his side. This meant that John drew himself the way he saw himself, and it pained Alexander to see the self-loathing the blonde had depicted with a body that was never perfect enough for what he believed was expected of him.

Alexander put a hand inside his coat, searching inside the pocket he had closest to his heart, and retrieved the two objects in it. There were two portraits, one depicting his wife in all her beauty and the other, the one he was interested in now, depicting his lover in all his glory. Looking back at the drawing, he couldn't help but chuckle sadly. No matter how much time and colors were put into the portrait, it will never come close to the perfection from John's own hand.

Delicately, Alexander put the drawings back in their place. He then turned towards his messy desk and sighed. “I really should have arranged it earlier.”, he grumbled.

As he started to sort it, his mind lingered back on the drawings and the thought of his Betsey finding them. I should have hidden them better. Maybe I should buy a box ? And I should put his letters in it too. Keep it all safe and together.

At last, he found the document he was looking for, and as he exited the room, his eyes landed one last time on the display cabinet. I need to pry them away. It is already a luck that Betsey did not question me further or saw my blush when I mentioned the Raritan. But if it were to happen again...It cannot happen again.

They don't need to know.

...She doesn't need to know.

#Alexander Hamilton #Elizabeth Scuyler #historical hamilton #Hamliza #Past Lams #my fanfics #American Revolution

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bri-anne-not-neville · 4 years

Text

dancing under red skies - one

the wolf that waited at the edge

"I want everything back, the way it was. but there is no point to it, this wanting"

Margaret Atwood

In life there are these moments. These crystal clear moments where you knew without a doubt that nothing would ever be the same again. And all of that happiness you had once felt so intensely would be eclipsed by this tight darkness that wove itself around you, that pushed against you until you thought you might suffocate from the pressure. And there it would stay, a perpetual reminder of what you may never have again.

This was one of these moments.

When you stand solemnly, head bowed, maybe in prayer, as a body is lowered into the ground. And you only vaguely register the hysterical sobbing of the people that loved him. That loved him the same way you did, maybe even more.

And you'll grip your mother's hand tightly, perhaps, to reassure her because between the screaming and the tears she's definitely not breathing right, but maybe it's to make sure you can still feel things. Just to make sure that you're still rooted so irrevocably to this Earth nothing can steal you away. Not even this grief.

I hate crying in front of people, but today, I cry, and I cry, and I cry. I let the tears slide down my cheeks and I don't care who sees it. Because I will never see my dad again.

While my tears are silent, save for the sporadic breathy hiccups that force its way out of my throat, my mother's is the opposite. Nothing about her suffering is silent. She clutches at her throat like she can't breathe. She bends over lower with each wail like she can't believe the coffin is being lowered into the ground without her.

My mother wraps her arms around herself and grips the bare flesh of her forearms so tightly the little half moon crescent's left behind bleed. My aunt Emily's hands hover precariously above her shoulders.

And as I watch my mother come undone I know I will never forget this moment.

By the time my mother composes herself everyone is gone, save for my aunt, and her fiance. Emily clasps my mother's hands in her own, and Sam stands protectively behind her. Not for the first time I wonder how they ended up together, he's so much larger than her, and his face seemed forever stretched into a scowl.

I could only hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

"Come home… Eva, you know you aren't safe anymore…" Emily's usually pleasant voice came out in a harsh whisper. Her large doll-like eyes glistened with unshed tears. She was still so beautiful despite the large crooked scar that traveled from temple to chin.

Sam's voice came out in a low grumble, too quiet for me to hear, at any rate. My mother's head bobbed along to whatever they were saying lethargically. I knew what they were talking about had to be important, and that I should want to know more about it but I couldn't bring myself to care.

Instead I circled the freshly churned dirt.

Golden leaves crunched beneath my feet noisily. Parts of the soil were moist and while I was walking primarily on solid ground I couldn't fight the feeling that I was sinking.

The wind picked up and sent a swirl of red brown leaves spiraling. In the distance the horizon was an unbroken line of trees that twisted and reached unanimously for the sky. Save for a large dark mass of fur.

At first I thought it was a bear, and my heart dropped in the pit of my stomach. But on further examination it wasn't a bear at all.

It was a wolf.

However, It did very little to calm the incessant beating of my heart. My instinct was to run at first, to gather up my broken mother and finally go home, but the wolf wasn't moving. He sat there patiently, like maybe he was waiting for something.

I inched closer until I didn't have to squint to make out the details, the fur on his chest was a light brown that traveled down his back into a brown so dark it could have been black. His eyes were a burnt orange, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Its large head tilted to the side, akin to that of a dog. His ears twitched and large rounded eyes met mine.

Come closer, they begged. Come see what I'm hiding.

Without thinking I took a step, and then another. Forever inching closer to the edge. You're going the wrong way, my brain pleaded, turn around, turn around, turn around.

"Maggie!"

Like that the spell was broken, I whipped around so quickly it hurt my neck. Sam was glaring in my direction, at me or behind me, I didn't know. Emily watched cautiously; her face unreadable. Tears still fell freely down my mother's cheeks, but she was using her stern, I-am-your-mother voice.

"Don't go wandering off, you know better than that." Her words startled me, or maybe not her words but the annoyed undertone that punctuated the silence.

"I-I'm sorry… but…" the words were slow and apologetic, I pointed half-heartedly to the expanse of trees that stretched across the skyline in front of me. There's a wolf. I want to say, and I don't know why but I think he wants me to get closer. My mother's brows furrow together in confusion, and Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow as if to challenge my sanity.

When I look again the wolf is gone, trees spill across the horizon in uninterrupted waves of mossy green. Maybe grief was making me crazy.

When we get home that night nobody does much talking. Save for Emily's occasional idle chatter, Sam grunts out a response, but my mother is too heart sick to do even that, instead she picks at her food and stares blankly ahead.

"I think I'm going to head up to bed." My voice is a little hoarse from misuse, and I have to clear my throat to make the words come out clearly. Normally, I wouldn't be allowed to excuse myself, and I wait for my mother to say something, to call me back to the table. But she doesn't even flinch. I carried my uneaten plate of food to the kitchen, it was a shame I wasn't hungrier, Emily really was an amazing cook.

"Oh, sleep good Maggie." Emily gave me a sympathetic smile as I rounded the corner back into the dining room, my mother nodded numbly along with her. I couldn't blame her. I had never seen two people more in love than my mother and father. I lost a dad, but she lost something so much more.

My room was a mess, usually I keep it very clean, but the past few weeks had been a frenzy of crying and screaming and breaking things. As a result, my favorite belongings lay strewn across the floorboards. My latest sketchbook lay motionless face down underneath a few of my old stuffed animals and t-shirts.

I shrug off the black dress I'd been wearing previously and change into pajamas, I don't bother picking it up. I leave it on the floor and I let it rot. Hot tears prick at the back of my eyes but I force them down. I don't look at that dress, the dress that meant my dad was gone for good now.

I curl up on my bed and wrap the covers around myself, and for the first time since I heard the news I pick up my sketchbook and I draw. I've been drawing for what feels like forever. Since I could hold a pencil I was doodling. My father always doodled along with me. My fondest memories are of us painting together.. He bought me every single sketchbook I've ever owned.

"Don't know where you get that talent from girlie," He'd say, but he'd pick up his brush and he'd try anyways. His colors would be muddy and he liked to flick paint on me but every time without fail he'd set his canvas up to mine and asked what we were painting. "I sure as hell can't draw, and don't ever tell her I said this but neither can your mother. We're the same in that way."

"And how are we the same, Daddy?" I would ask, and even then I wanted so desperately to have something in common with him.

"Well, Maggie," He'd humm softly and glob a disgusting brown on his pure white canvas, he'd scratch his cheek and his lips would quirk up. His eyes crinkled at the edge and he'd make his voice soft for me, "we're cave dwellers you and I."

I didn't realize I was crying until the tear stained paper ripped. I pressed the eraser into the paper hard. And for a moment I have an insane urge to rip every single piece of paper out of my sketchbook. But this is the last thing my dad ever gave me; did I really want to destroy it?

Yes, a part of me screamed. A part of me wanted to split the book in two, I wanted to feel the resistance of something held together by more than glue break beneath my fingertips.

Instead I snap the book shut and toss it to the floor, out of sight, out of mind, right? I don't want to do something I'm going to regret.

I flick the bedroom light off and I put on my headphones, I press play and I turn it up to full volume. I let the music scream at me, at first it hurts my ears but slowly I become desensitized to it. The vibrations travel down my spine in ripples of magnetic shock waves. I let myself get lost in the music, in the loud screaming, in the rasp of the lead singer's voice. And for a moment I can almost pretend everything's okay.

I'm at the cemetery again, it takes a long time to register that maybe I shouldn't be. It's dark out now and the tombstones are bathed in shadow and moonlight, birds dance across the stone. A devastating tango.

I search for my father's grave; the stones stretch upwards for miles. A sense of urgency abruptly fills my bones, away, get away, my brain screams. I take a step forward, the mud gripping my shoes makes it hard for me to move. It's like wadding through water, but I force myself to take the next step. And then another.

I don't know how many steps I take until I finally crest the hill, but I make it to the top, sobbing and breathing and muddy but at the top all the same. And there at the end of all things was the dense wood. Shrouded in darkness, the watery moon shone directly on a dark mass of fur. A spotlight made of bone and blood.

The wolf took a tentative step forward, my heart hammered dangerously in my chest. I could feel every angry beat. The wolf took another step, and then another. Gradually his soft padding turned into a break-neck run.

I tried to take a step backwards, but the mud was working and winding itself up my exposed legs pulling my down. Angry music screamed in the background.

This is chaos.

Still the wolf angrily charges forward, not deterred by the music or the sinking even though the mud tries to take him too. He's so close now I can see every little detail I'd missed earlier.

Finally, he stops in front of me. Nose to nose we stand. He's so much bigger than I thought he'd be, and even if I wasn't sinking, he'd still tower over me. His wet nose presses against my cheek.

And it's enough. It calms the thump, thump, thump of my heart.

I bolt upright, the headphones are slightly askew and my head hurts from crying. I push them down until they rest around my neck and I press a firm hand to my chest. Be still, I pleaded. Each inhale is sharp, and it takes a long time for me to calm down.

My free hand twitches at my side, asks, no begs for me to draw the wolf. To try and capture him, even if it's only a small part of him. It doesn't have to be whole, nothing's ever whole at first.

My hand twitches again, and again until it's almost painful. I don't bother turning on the light, I rummage hap hazardously for my sketchbook, but for some reason I can't find a pen. I have more pens than I know what to do with.

I rummage through drawer after drawer slamming each one closed when I can't find what I'm so desperately looking for. I slam my fist against my desk in unfiltered anger and let out a cry.

Slowly, so slowly, a single pen rolls across the flat mahogany surface of my desk and I cry even harder in relief.

I snatch the pen up, and I clutch it to my chest tightly. My fingers tips turn white from the pressure, but I have to know it's still here, that it won't disappear at any moment. I plop on my bed and I get to sketching, they're scratchy outlines at first. But that's what every drawing starts off as. A line.

I chisel away at the details, I get it wrong multiple times. The leg is a little too large, the head's too small. I keep chipping away though, I think of my father's unfailing determination. Slowly it becomes the wolf that had waited patiently at the edge. For what, I would probably never know.

#paul lahote #this is a twilight fanfiction i swear #i don't know why im posting it in tumblr #i want attention #twilight bois #twiliiiiight #i should probably put some serious tags in here huh #HUH #wolf pack #i wanna be a wolf #no im not a furry #my grandma was supposed to bring me a digorno's pizza but it's been hours #i am probably going to starve #if this is the last thing i post #i love twilight #and i dont care who knows it #dermot kennedy could get it #and alex meraz #okay gn

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elisaphoenix13 · 5 years

Text

Spider Aunt

Peter drags his feet as he steps off the elevator and into the penthouse, barely putting effort into throwing his backpack toward the stairs. He was too upset to actually climb them so he could properly put his things away in his bedroom. The teen had a bad day. A really bad one. Every moment spent outside a class, especially at lunch time, bullies had picked on him. Tripping him, throwing food at him, stuffing him in the tall lockers...if they could think it, they did it. Of course there was never a single faculty member in sight when it all happened so Peter had to endure it like he always did.

He really needed one of his parents right now.

When he turned into the living room though, he didn't see either of them. Just Natasha, Steve, Bucky, and Vision. The android and Bucky were reading, the captain drawing, and Natasha had a tv show on that she was half paying attention to as she spoke quietly with Steve. Peter could have easily picked up their conversation from where he was standing, but that took effort that he didn't want to use.

"Where's Mom and Dad?" Peter asks hoarsely and clears his throat.

Steve looks up at him and frowns at the poorly hidden look of distress on the teen's face. "Tony was dragged away by Pepper for something SI related, and Stephen had some Sorcerer Supreme business to attend to."

Peter visibly slumps at the words and Bucky sits up from his resting spot against the arm of the couch. "What's wrong kid?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

The teen turns when he feels tears threatening to spill over, and then stiffens when he hears someone stand and approach him. Peter did not want to deal with anyone hovering. He childishly wanted the comfort of one of his parents, but neither were available. It made him even more upset. Sixteen years old and he was looking to his parents when he had a bad day at school? He didn't think he could get any more pathetic.

"Baby spider." Natasha says softly and makes him turn back so she can pull him into a tight embrace. "Bad day?"

Peter could only nod as his tears finally slipped free. It was no use trying to hide anything from the assassin because she would see though his lie in a heartbeat, so he just accepted the little bit of comfort she offered. Natasha wasn't nearly as cuddly as Stephen, but she led him back over to the couch she had been occupying earlier so she can sit down and pull him down with her so he could lay down and lay his head in her lap. Steve and Bucky kindly returned to what they were doing before to keep Peter from any further embarrassment (though Bucky periodically looked at him with a protective gleam in his eyes), and Vision had lain a blanket over him after getting a glass of water from the kitchen. He sets the glass on the coffee table in front of the teen as Natasha combs his hair with her fingers, and Peter releases a half-content sigh before closing his eyes.

The comfort wasn't from his parents, but it would do. Natasha's smell of leather and gunpowder threw the teen off since he was so accustomed to Stephen's smell, that he couldn't fully relax. Yes, Nat was safe, but she wasn't home. Stephen had a gentle smell that enveloped him whenever they cuddled, and Tony had strong hands that knew just where to kneed away stiff muscles. Either way, Peter relaxed enough to fall into a light doze, but with Nat he could at least relax and enjoy the fingers in his hair.

Peter focused on the scratching of a pencil against paper, the periodic sounds of a page turning, and whatever tv show Natasha had on. He didn't care enough to focus on it to figure out what it was.

"Nat..." Steve suddenly whispers and Peter picks up a growl from Bucky.

The captain must have pointed because Natasha's hand moved from his hair down to his chin to gently tilt it. "Mama Bear is not going to be happy." She says. "Who gave you this bruise ребенок паук?"

"Doesn't matter." Peter mumbles.

Natasha left it alone. She wasn't happy about the bruise either, but she couldn't force the teen to tell her who had done it. Even if he did, there wasn't much she could do about it.

"Perhaps some ice will help?" Vision questions but the teen keeps his eyes closed as he waves in the android's general direction.

"Its okay Vis. It'll heal in a few hours. Thanks though."

Everyone kept quiet after that, save for a protective growl here and there whenever (Peter assumed) Bucky looked back at the bruise. It was a good thing the rest of the bruises he got today were hidden by his clothes because Peter was pretty sure the soldier was one more bruise away from looking for the one responsible and wiping the floor with them. Bucky was like a protective older brother at times, which was a little weird in Peter's mind because Steve and Nat were like an aunt and uncle. Everyone was a collection of aunt's and uncle's, but Bucky and Wanda? They somehow were placed in the older siblings category. Bucky was very briefly an uncle but at some point Peter changed it, but he couldn't say when. It just happened.

Vision was different. He was just Vision. Not quite uncle material but not exactly sibling material either.

A couple more hours pass, and Peter was feeling a little better when he heard the unmistakable sound of a magic portal opening. Stephen's natural smell immediately settles over the teen when the sorcerer steps into the living room and closes the portal behind him, and Peter finally relaxed fully. He didn't bother opening his eyes until the man walked over to Peter and Natasha, and that was only when a gentle trembling hand brushes a loose strand of hair away from the teen's face.

"Bullies?" Stephen asks in his low baritone and Peter gives him a single nod. "Make room."

The vigilante lifts his head from Natasha's lap and sits up while Levi leaves Stephen's shoulders so he can sit where Peter's feet had been. Once the doctor settles, Peter instantly snuggles into his arms and tucks his head under Stephen's chin and Levi drapes over him, completely covering him and hiding him from sight. Natasha rolls her eyes when the sorcerer stretches his legs out over her lap, but says nothing as she returns her attention to her show and sets her own feet up on the coffee table.

It only took Peter a few minutes to drop off to sleep, his light snores a clear indication.

"He came home upset." Steve elaborates after a couple of minutes and Stephen glances at him.

"I could tell something was wrong the moment I got here."

Bucky snorts. "Mama Bear senses were tingling?"

Stephen sighs. "Barnes, if you start that--"

Natasha looks up from texting on her phone. "Oh...so I shouldn't have sent a group text about it?"

"I hate you."

Tony had arrived minutes later and made a beeline to the couch when he saw Stephen on it with a very identifiable lump on top of him. Whenever Levi was hiding the teen completely, it always meant Peter had been in distress. It didn't happen very often, not even during sensory overloads (when the cloak only covered him a little bit) because it was more of an emotional tactic. It was the teen's way of blocking out the world and seeking comfort from whoever he was curled against. He always managed to make himself smaller during those times.

"He's still clinging?" Tony asks as he carefully moves the cloak away to check on their sleeping son. He then glares at Levi when it smacks his hand away and covers the teen again. "Was that really necessary Stephanie?"

Stephen chuckles softly. "That wasn't me. The cloak issentient." He then motions toward Natasha. "Natasha was coddling him until about ten minutes ago when I got home."

"Nat doesn't mother hen. She's too cold hearted." Tony grins when the woman smacks his leg in retaliation.

"I'd threaten not to bother trying to help your kid next time but I like Peter too much. He's the baby." Natasha says with an indignant sniff.

"Any chance I can add to that cuddle pile? I've been in meetings all day and could go for some snuggling myself."

Tony shrugs off his blazer and throws it at Steve's face, who gives him an unimpressed glance as the billionaire sits on the couch when the sorcerer carefully makes room for him, and then sneaks a hand under Levi to massage the tight muscles in Peter's back. The cloak at first moved as if it were going to slap Tony away, but then it stopped and settled again when Stephen gave it a look. The doctor telepathically telling it to calm down. Levi liked Tony, but it liked Peter more and never had a problem with smacking everyone away to protect Peter. It had tried that once with its master and Stephen had punished it by locking it in the closet. Levi never tried that again. It actually looked sullen when the sorcerer finally let it out, and now Stephen was trying a more gentle approach regarding its behavior with Tony. It only lashed out at the engineer when it came to something emotionally serious. Levi thankfully stayed back when Peter was physically hurt because it knew it would be in the way. Unless it was asked to help of course.

"Is the glass of water still on the table?" The teen asks from under the cloak, and both parents roll their eyes when Levi grabs the water and gives it to Peter. "Thanks Levi."

Steve bursts into laughter when the cloak gently pats Peter's head as the teen drinks his water, and presses his fist into his mouth to stifle it as Levi returns the empty glass to the table. Even Bucky looked close to losing it himself, but was doing a good job of keeping it together. Vision and Natasha were unaffected. In fact, Vision didn't pay them any mind. He had also been one to keep an eye on Peter when the teen first got home and settled on Natasha's lap, but once Stephen got home, he put his full attention back on his book. If he was needed, they would let him know, but otherwise Peter was in good hands.

"Do you have homework cub?" Stephen asks as he gently cards his fingers through brown waves.

"Just some math."

"You wanna talk about what happened today?" The engineer inquires.

"No. There's no point talking to the school again either." The teen says when Tony opens his mouth.

Tony sighs instead. "If they draw blood again, I'm going in."

"...fine."

Bucky moves to his feet and hovers near the covered teen, knowing not to try and touch him with the way the cloak was reacting. "How do cookies sound kid?"

"Great. If you keep the peppermint out."

"I think I can manage something." The ex-soldier says with a smile and stalks off into the kitchen with Nat getting up to follow. She always liked eating the cookie dough.

"Feeling better?" The doctor asks.

"No." Peter wraps his arms around Stephen. "I'm comfy."

"I am too Underoos. Who cares about Mom."

Stephen glares up at Tony and pinches his thigh, only for Peter to yelp. "Sorry Spiderling. I thought that was your father."

#ironstrange #mama bear stephen strange #supremefamily #tony stark #peter parker #stephen strange #natasha romanov #steve rogers #bucky barnes #vision

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