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bookshelf-dust · 1 year

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hii! if you still take requests could you write a Gareth fic where reader is sad about failing a test but doesn't tell Gareth until he asks why they've been looking down lately. Thank you either way!!<3

something's the matter.

gareth emerson x gn!reader

word count: 976

warnings: swearing, allusions to anxiety, insecurities/self-doubt, kissing, fluff

a/n: hi aidan!! thank you for your request. i get excited whenever your name pops up. this was slightly self-indulgent just because of life right now, but i really liked this idea! i hope it turned out in a way that you'll like. enjoy!! <33

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As soon as your teacher stood from her desk, a stack of papers covering in red nestled in the crook of her arms, your heart started to race and your hands started to shake.

Suddenly the room felt much too warm and you found yourself shrugging out of your sweater. You sat up as she made it to your row, and she gave you a knowing glance as she passed you your paper.

It was your best subject, and you'd studied you ass off before this exam, but nothing seemed to be good enough. Your teacher had gone as far as to write comments in her scribbly handwriting, saying she didn't understand some of the points made in your open-ended responses. That you needed to look deeper. "More studying needed!" was even written under the slot where you found your grade.

But you had. You really had. You'd just have to try a new technique or take better notes, and you knew that. You knew you could improve.

But that didn't mean it didn't hurt. And you felt it everywhere. Like a dull numbing sensation that soured everything.

Gareth called a couple nights later and you didn't answer. You heard it ring and sat there until it stopped. You repeated the action the second and third times he tried. You knew it was him because he always called in the evenings, just to hear your voice or ramble about something or other.

One day, picking over your food, head bent so as to try and sink in on yourself, Gareth had knocked his knee gently against yours from his place next to you.

"You okay, sweet thing?"

"Fine, Gare." That was it. A two word response.

Then he noticed you'd been spending more time in the library, skipping out on lunch in the cafeteria altogether. He thought maybe it was just because it was exam season and you really did have a lot to do. Really it was because you didn't have the energy to even try and fake being okay at the lunch table--fake being okay in front of Gareth.

At the end of the week he cornered you in the hallway. "You coming to Jeff's for game night tonight?" You always came. It was your innermost pleasure to see Eddie win Clue an obscene amount of times in ways that were in no way moral. You couldn't be upset that you never one when he was so excited about each of his victories.

"I don't think so, Gareth. I've got a lot of homework, okay? You have fun. Don't worry about me."

But that was exactly what Gareth was doing and it was the exact reason that he had decided to cancel on game night and drive to your place. You were hurting, and he was determined to figure out why.

Your mom let him in, happy to see his curls in the entryway, unbeknownst to your turmoil down the hall.

A soft knock raised you from your stupor enough to see a flash of flannel before he plopped himself on your bed.

"Gare, what are you doing here?"

"This isn't studying, my love. Something's the matter. You've looked so down lately and I'm worried about you. You know you can tell me anything, right? I want you to tell me everything."

You sat up and he held out his hands for you to take. They were warm and you played with them gently while he sat still and quiet, allowing you to speak whenever you were ready.

"I bombed my test earlier this week." You moved to your desk, fishing out the paper to show him.

You picked at your nails while he flipped through, chancing a glance every now and then to see his brow furrowed, clearly a bit agitated.

He set it down and took your hands back, claiming them as his own. "I don't think this has anything to do with you. I think that bitch is just a shitty ass teacher who doesn't like anything that doesn't fall completely and utterly under their stupid academic umbrella."

You grinned, despite trying to blink tears away at Gareth's attempts to soothe you. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. I know you studied your cute little ass off for this, and it's your best subject, yeah?" You nodded shyly. "I think it's just her. You did your best. I know there's always room for improvement or whatever, but you've never had trouble with this subject before."

He kissed the back or your hand. "It's totally her. You're a badass and I know you did great because you always do. I can see that this has hit a nerve, but I want you to know that you can always come to me. We can kick ass together if it happens again."

You laughed lightly at him, but it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He waited for a moment before tackling you and pinning you beneath him, fingers dancing up your sides and at the crook of your neck, tickling the life out of you.

Your laughter was gleeful, and that meant the world to him, even if you were simultaneously panting and trying to kick him off. Just when you thought he'd let up, he got to that spot on your stomach and you squealed.

"Gare, no, please! I surrender!"

He let you go, only to plant his lips on yours in quite possibly the sweetest kiss known to man. It said everything you needed it to.

I love you. I believe in you. You're smart and you're the best thing in the entire goddamn world.

Before you knew it, you were settled between his legs, hands under your chin where they rested on the squish of his tummy, listening intently as he rambled on and on about Eddie's lunchroom antics from today.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

#gareth emerson #gareth emerson x reader #gareth emerson x gn!reader #gareth emerson x you #gareth emerson comfort #gareth stranger things #gareth emerson fic #gareth the great #corroded coffin #gareth emerson fanfic #gareth emerson oneshot #savannah’s fics

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intergalacticaquarium · 2 years

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more terrible no good headcanons for eddie disaster dreamboat munson

I said that if anybody made him too cool I'd have to add more and that's exactly what I'm gonna do babes because I had to scroll for way to long to find him making spagetti-os

(posting again bc it wasn't showing in the tag)

(first post)

-genuinely doesn't know what those stains are. Didn't even know it was stained bc he's had the same fitted sheet on it with one corner tugged off for 8 months and forgot about them since last time

-throws away Tupperware if the stuff in it is too gross

-he's pretty sure that green sour candy counts as a vegetable so he does eat at least 3 a day.

-just. Doesn't ever throw things away. Stupid shit like the backs of band aids and paper straw wrappers and napkins and hooooo boy this has turned into a callout post about myself

-sometimes horseflies fly into his hair and get stuck and he can hear them buzzing around and doesn't necessarily so anything about it right away until it stops

-no room for legs in the front seat of his car that space is reserved for old fast food bags

-buys new underwear instead of doing laundry

-hey why do I keep writing genuinely embarrassing things that I literally do irl. Is this really worth putting myself and the 4 huge bags of laundry I have in my tiny car and all my band aid wrappers on blast. Next I'm gonna write that every surface in eddies house is covered in stacks of hobbies and papers that feel like a goddamn archeological dig every time I clean

-psych he does that too

- ok things that I don't also do so that I don't start having a crisis that makes me a tidier person:

-feeds a family of raccoons that live in an abandoned hunting cabin in the woods

-one time he let one live in his closet for a bit and hoped Wayne wouldn't notice (this may explain some of the stains)

-this boy spills. Everything. He's a hand talker and it doesn't matter if he's holding something.

-the hand talking is also terrifying when in a car he is driving

-never drinks water ever and it stresses ppl out

-every single time he sees somebody he knows in public he will try and sneak up on them to scare them

-wears shoes inside bc he broke glass on the carpet months ago and he doesn't want to vacuum.

-the only place he has to actually sit and do anything I his room is his bed because everything else is covered in stuff

-everything is covered in stuff but every drawer he has is empty

-theres one category of things he owns that is organized absolutely meticulously and idk what it is but he's very proud of it and when he says he's "cleaning his room" it means organizing like band tees alphabetically or sorting minifig painting supplies and everything else stays trashed

-it's a perm and he did it himself in his bathroom 100%

-hair dye stains all over the bathroom from an ill advised look a while back. and maybe a few more times

-doesnt have a compulsive habit to bite his nails he does it bc he can never find the damn fingernail clippers

-notes and doodles. All over his arms

- yknow how when u were in school by the last day you'd have like one pencil and nothing else and u kept a hold of it bc you couldn't find any others?

- eddies been at that point since about half way thru his first senior year. He has one pencil and it is a stub (it is a d.a.r.e. pencil and he does find it funny) with no eraser and it's not sharp and it had a million bite marks on it

-has little stoner burn holes in all his clothes all his sheets his matress his sheets and the seats on his car bc he needs to be more careful and is gonna end up starting a fire someday

-wait that last one was a me thing

-maybe this is how I can embrace my flaws. make eddie do em too. it's cute when he's disgusting

-I no longer have improve myself at all

-puts random food in his pockets for later even though it will get linty. Gonna go ahead and say that I don't do this.

-isn't actually that good at guitar it turns out

-I gotta stop myself now because I know they'll just keep comin but add any you can think of or dm me because every time he gets worse he gets more of my love so like 2 give him a hug reblog 2 spray him with a hose

#eddie munson x reader #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie tag

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hazmatazz · 1 year

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in my head this is still the 80s…im saying 1987. there have been animal attacks in Hawkins, what everyone thought was a normal, quiet town. One night, when mike is biking home from Will’s, he’s attacked by and turned into a werewolf.

mike decides to keep it a secret ofc, trying to hide the changes going on with his body. his hearing improves, his scent improves (did Will always smell that enticing?). He can run a lot faster and for a lot longer. his reflexes become sharper—usually this manifests in catching something that falls (especially clumsy Will). Hes stronger, too—he doesn’t know his own strength and it’s constantly getting him into trouble (im thinking the beginning of disneys hercules). if he gets hurt, he heals quickly.

most notably, he’s protective of will. to a degree that really should scare will, but oh god, it doesn’t…

come the full moon, transformation is a slow & painful process. mike begins transforming as soon as the moon becomes full in the daytime and reaches his final form by dusk. Mike’s muscles become more defined on the day of, his nails elongating into claws, and his teeth sharpening into fangs. dark, coarse fur grows all over his body. we know mike is already suffering from being an Aries, his emotions are much stronger and harder to control—anger in particular. he finds he can’t control his temper as it nears the full moon each month—he begins to distance himself from Will after lashing out and hurting him.

after a MONTH of minimal contact, will has had enough. he shows up at mike’s house and demands to talk things through. he’s shocked to see mike looking…taller, stronger, creepier…sexier??? mike orders will to leave immediately but will won’t fucking listen!! it starts getting dark and mike is in so much pain and he’s begging will to leave. will is just not getting it. but then the final transformation begins to take hold, and will is forced to witness it.

suddenly everything is falling into place, everything makes sense. will tries to stay with mike and finds himself cornered by a very bloodthirsty werewolf with mike’s eyes. he knows mike is in there, and gives him a little speech (callback to You Said Yes speech in s2) which ends up saving them both because it turns out every full moon mike is a prisoner in his own body having to watch from the backseat as the wolf slaughters and devours.

will accepts mike and helps him accept himself. he does loads of research to try to figure out how to help mike tame the wolf and not remain a slave to it forever.

also theyre dealing with increased attraction to each other during all of this which is a little devastatingly inconvenient. not sure how to get them together tho

👀👀👀👀

very scrambled thoughts 👇

i'm imaging sooo much shit from when mike is just starting out and will doesn't know

like y'know in a lot of media peter parker accidentally breaks his door/sink/window/etc as soon as he gets superstreght? i'm thinkingggg. so many thinks in his room are broken </3

also i'm imagining, when you say he goes completely like an animal, that like he has to keep his window wideeee open at night so he doesn't jump through it in wolf form

i still stand by my idea that will gets attacked in the middle of the night by an animal or a person and mike comes out of no where and fucks them up in wolf form

hold on it reminds me of this one animation called dirty paws (ignore most things about it i last watched it when i was like idk 9)

i'll probably think of things to add but i just woke up </3

#byler werewolf au #byler au #stranger things #asks #jo yo tag

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awonderlandsystem · 1 year

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Morning Baked Thought Trains 🚂💨

Time moves fast when I'm not thinking about it. Then again I've been avoiding a lot of thinking. I think the reason I'm here this morning instead of the others is because they worked so hard the last few days under some really rough circumstances. I think R knows the end is coming, though I mean it really did a long time ago and we've just been going through the motions. If even that. Two more birthdays for the kids and then Easter and we're leaving. I don't want to tell him because I think he's any kind of good person anymore. I just, I don't know, don't want to pull the rug out from under him. Though he deserves it. He really does. As I'm typing this he's downstairs chewing me out over text.

We just spent two days without power and it was miserable. The first day he slept through most of it, which was great but sucked because it left Halo and Eva trying to take care of the kids. Everyone was doing everything we could to stay positive, come up with helpful ideas and keep the front calm. The second day he woke Eva up with SA threats. Kind of knew then that if the power was off still he was going to laser focus in on us. And he did. One thing Eva and I both really really hate is when he makes sexual comments about us in front of the kids. He claims they don't know what he means, they might not because most of what he says is really dumb and juvenile. That was all day.

The first day with no power he refused to let us leave to get food, charge phones, anything. He teased saying if we all got dressed he'd take us out, but then he didn't. Finally he went out and picked up frozen pizzas to cook and some fruit roll ups. Are you kidding me?! The second day he kept insisting we go out. Get our hair done, nails, shopping, whatever we wanted. The storm was over but most places were without power still and Eva was super worried about leaving the kids with him. But she really wanted to charge our phone and get supplies. As soon as we could get Zoe far enough away from the front for Eva to be able to drive we left. Went to the highschool to warm up and charge. I told Eva we should eat something but she said there were more important things. We went to the grocery store and Eva picked up flashlights, hand warmers, and lots of food. The flashlights were a great idea. I don't like the dark. And we'd went through a lot of candles already. The first night Halo and Eva stayed up most of the night keeping the kids covered and warm. Those two can stay up easier then me and Ikelos. We zonk out quick! We did lotsa writing too. Bare bones stuff cause it was dark. A Luna investigation story. A Trixie story. An Eva spicy story. Rawr. Now that there's power I can start typing them up! It was so dark because R doesn't like natural light. All of our windows have a different kind of blackout stuff over it. I couldn't even draw there was so little light. A crack that came through the living room that we all tried to stay in.

Definitely so thankful to have electricity again. It wasn't all bad. There was some great Mom moments from us. I think we did pretty good. We told scary stories by candlelight. We told them Bloody Fingers! The scariest story I could remember. Then some improv Goosebumps ones. The kids really like it when I use their names for the characters. Course Asshat wasn't around. He's never around for the good family memory moments. Prolly cause he's the source of so many bad ones. He screamed FU at the youngest. I thought Eva would fruit out but she just glared at him. Eva was a rockstar. I keep saying she's a superhero.

We taught the kids how to play Hangman. They thought that game was hilarious. Cept Eva kept asking if it was an appropriate game for kids. Without Alexa we couldn't look up an alternative so we started drawing smiley faces on Fred. Mhm we named our hanging man. Best on was when we told the middle kid a hint, "it's your favorite catchphrases" and he yelled out "EMOTIONAL DAMAGE!" I think that was the only one they figured out. Keeping three kids entertained in the dark was super hard, but I think we did alright.

Can't even finish my thoughts without more bombarding from R. Asshat. How do you explain to grown man how a relationship works? How sexual attraction works? Someone who keeps telling me how I need hypnosis to function. You say "eat a dick". Someone who keeps telling me "things were so much better when you did hypnosis." You say "eat a dick." He doesn't care who's out. I mean, no, we don't tell him. And by default survival purposes we don't make it obvious either. I don't know. I even tried to relent a little and talk about us but he didn't care. You said too much and Reya shut you down. I did. I didn't mean to. He just, he doesn't understand that he can't treat us all the same and expect a connection. He insults Halo and plays it off as humor. He says terrible things about Eva. He keeps looking for S but she's hiding and we're not letting him have her cause we're pretty sure she's an abuser sympathetic. I don't remember the DID term. We thought it was me that had the give up and give in feelings but that's not what I'm feeling at all and it took some time away from the front to figure that out. I don't feel bad for R, for leaving. I feel bad that it's going to hurt him and I don't like to hurt people. Even ones who have it coming. I really am not looking forward to facing the weekend with him. Power on or not. That's okay, we have lotsa writing to do and magical worlds to create and explore.

#baked thought trains #ikelos #zoe

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l-artemisia-del-secolo · 3 years

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Congratulation!! Could you write giving a piggy-back ride with Yelena?

Thank you so much for the request. Hope you enjoy

Piggy-back ride

everything's like in the request above. Yelena Belova x reader, cute and charming, just a tiny thing

Masterlist. 300 followers celebration. Survivor!nat

You never liked your team building events. Fun on paper but an aquarium with sharks in reality. But you boss was there and you had to make a good impression. Yelena promised to help you, to be charming and funny. She asked so many questions about your colleagues, that you started to suspect, she's forming dossiers. "Don't worry, I'll be your perfect partner." And the important thing was, you believed her words.

You trusted your woman, who chose to wear a dress and heels. Opted to get her hair styled and make up done.

When you arrived at the venue, Yelena turned on an affectionate glow around herself and you. Her accent almost disappeared and her usually raw and streamlined movements became softer.

Elegance was pouring through her and delighted others. Your boss, usually rough and a little rude, was entranced.

For a second, a fleeting moment you thought it wasn't your Yelena. It was a mask, a totally different persona, who was never yours.

Especially, when you were at the bar and she was accepting all the attention and compliments. But your uncertainty quickly faded with only one look from her. Full of devotion and loyalty. She was doing it for you.

"You're enjoying the party?" Your boss interrupted your silent communication with Yelena.

"Thank you. I do."

"After the fiasco of last year it's definitely an improvement. Can you imagine a broken heel, a fall. Fascinating."

Her screechy laugh didn't amuse you. You knew that story, they didn't tolerate anything less than perfection.

As the night was progressing you noticed changes in Yelena. Subtle one. Painted in what you thought was impossible.

"Excuse me." You stole your girlfriend from another pack of admirers. "Is everything OK?"

"Sure." Yelena smiled and grabbed another pair of champagne flutes. "This evening is charming."

"And you're the star of it." You took the offered glass. "But I've noticed something. Someone bothers you, or something?"

"No, no. I'm perfectly fine." She pointed at the guy in the corner. "You should talk to him. He doesn't know, that you were responsible for the latest successful campaign."

You talked to him and the next person and the next. You searched for familiar eyes to get you out of this whirlpool of people. But Yelena vanished and you felt it even before, because the room became dimmer.

You found her in one of the empty corridors, leaned against the wall and breathing heavily.

"Lena, what's going on?"

"Nothing, I needed a break." She tried to straighten herself. "Твою ж мать."

You knew she was cursing in Russian and you already knew what was wrong.

"Why didn't you tell me?" You lowered herself and carefully took off her right jimmy choo. It was her ankle. A little too red, a little too swollen.

"I didn't want to ruin it for you. You waited for this opportunity for so long." She leaned on your shoulders and you felt her nails digging into your skin.

"I don't care about anything, when you're like this." You kissed her calf and stood up.

"What..." Yelena didn't expect that and almost lost her balance.

"Come on." You turned your back to her and were ready to grab her hips.

"No, no, no. Don't even think that you're giving me a piggy-back ride." She groaned. "I worked too hard to craft a perfect persona."

"Come on, perfect persona. It's either this or you won't be able to walk for days afterwards."

"But your dress, those people..." And her accent appeared again.

"We're going home. Come on."

You felt familiar perfume and warmth enveloping you and her hands grabbing your attention. In that moment Yelena felt that she was your

greatest concern, your only priority. Both of you didn't care about weird looks and whispers as you were leaving that evening behind.

Join the celebration

#black widow 2021 #black widow fic #marvel self insert #yelena belova #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you #300eventsentences

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captainkurosolaire · 3 years

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Prompt #20 ~ Counsel

A distant nerve inducing clock pendulum swung. Sharp vibrant nail's and a pen teetered on a clipboard. Incense's of lax inducing scent burned through a coral aromatherapy diffuser. Lounging was a discomforted Seeker struggling in giving confession impulsively wanting to bail. A melancholy sweet-voice on the other-side of the board in supervising, "just relax. We don't have to get into anything too traumatizing. The first-step, was to get help... How is the relationship with your daughter fair?" Patiently exhibiting a soothing sound the part of the ship accompanied in aquarium's and sea. Gentleness echoing in trance. The Eyelids of the patient shuttered, "Dandy... Assuming our last conversation went with a few quip's and a skirmish yells, think she made it stated, vividly clear, she quote 'hated me' so I feel that's a feeling ov' endearment." Sarcastically speaking aloud, it was like dealing with an angsty teenager. Her frustration came to him when hearing about him losing control, furthermore, participating in a deathly battleground she didn't approve of his coddling or protective nature, but also, she also, was protecting him too.

Writing down, "Did it give you pain?" Asking to elaborate and make him feel confined to open up, "If being earnest, I prefer it. I'm not th' type of long-term consistency, I'm a fleeting breath ov' enjoyment. I even bought this book, 'How to be a Grand-Standing: Father as a Vile Bastard.'" He'd waver up with a young journalist documenting some poor choices of parenthood from the Garlean culture, or otherwise less than stand-in, models to follow-after. Effort existed although surprisingly. "...I... wasn't far from th' same. What I dislike is how old I feel around her. All of a-sudden, I have urges t' be... responsible." Disgusted and almost wanting to vomit from the uttering. He grabbed an assortment of snacks of lobster sized bites, packed in perfect temperature. While not only being a therapist of the sea-vessel, it was practically important, to also stabilize and emotionally have a mental-safe place. The allured voice of a Sea Wolf, also served as the Chef aboard. "Does it make you see perspectives differently, now in the presence of someone who was identically like you? Rebellious and strong-willed?" The fairest maiden asked with a siren-tone. A crude loud exhale came. "Maybe, cutting off the arm ov' my old man, was a bit too drastic... Compared to her reasoning, is above anything of mine. Her potential b' like sea, an infinite abundance. Although her remaining n' my orbit spells, unfortunate taint to that water. I don't want her t' get caught into me, or even dare suffer, I'm th' baddest example, idol's lie especially pirate ones outmatch all wrong. I see more appreciation now, though fer my ole' man... Perhaps, I should reach out again and get them convened." This open-room to talk gave clarity, allowing him to rediscover. Her entire presence and empathic nature, made everything feel adjusted to her patient's allowing them easier to connect, only up to them to allow their bottle to be uncapped. "Why don't you offer to share a hobby with her, or exercising a training course, Captain? Or try figuring out what her interests are, and support them. Though, I believe it wouldn't be terrible for her to learn about her Grandfather either. It may awake much for you too." Giving implore to idea's of sparks. Scheming idea's came to the deviant, he was clearly an escapist personality. Though by his lighter-nudges, it was obviously recently he was on a path of growth; change of maturity. Remaining silent into the reflection, worth absorbing. Sat up from his lounge, "Aye... aye..." Scratching his stubble. This was another venture and exploration too, attempting to seize understanding and communicating. She shared in blood, but also now was Crew too. Angling things like that felt a lot less complicated and stressful. "Everything is never how it seems. There's always more isn't there? Just cause we know th' Depths exist, doesn't mean we know what lurks... I was wrong about ye too. I violently came after you believing only instinct alone, you were an incarnation of evil, I went to war against in the past... That whole event served less than delightful n' colorful..." Remaining vague and between them. "Here we are now." She paid presently, with an earnest smile. Despite Captain's sensational irrationality of once, he wasn't wrong from the marker, she was also more to than what represented before him currently a sign of petrichor. He couldn't allow the weather of strictly his intuition or ego, nor instinct to jeopardize what could be, more. This individual person, showed a matron like kindness, aboard who had self-sacrificially unconditionally loved, cared or provided for not just him, but everyone with listening alone. Although few Crew had little trust of it, she still didn't sway before them, with a pleasant aura, control, and consistently unwavering.

He couldn't forget was indeed above all others capable of being strictly; wrong. It was time to give Klethera, his estranged daughter, a harder gander, of entrusting her into and accept the outcome, she wasn't him. Wanting to believe, she was indeed supremely better. As many others on this Crew proved. "I'll see you like this n' seven suns." He'd grumbled out, showing his effort to routinely return despite dreadfully uncomfortably not being used to this, definitely something he could find and improve on continuously doing this, discovering and reaching out. His open-mindedness and charting the often unexplored, was something that he hadn't yet done enough, it was a process to feel and be real -- maintain normality while being condoned and cursed to his seas. Maybe, he could salve forgiveness with himself. The future had many stone's.

#Prompt - Petrichor #FFxivWrite2021 #FFxivWrite #-Captain Kuro Solaire #Matron Seas #Creative Writing #Steering for Better #Different individualistic relation's with Crew bringing more sides #Emotionally anchor #The Chef #Slafhota Guhtgeim #Being father is hard #Being daddy is his flare #Maturing yuck

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invisibleraven · 2 years

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#10 Teach me how to play. Reggie teaching Luke one (or more) of any of his instruments.

Luke would be the first to admit that his entire life revolves around music; he's been playing since he was a young kid, writing his own stuff for almost as long. But even he can concede that he isn't musically multi-faceted, he sticks to the genres and instrument he knows. Not like Reggie.

Reggie who can play like five different instruments in a multitude of genres, who can pick up any song by ear and lay it down. Luke is sure that if the Peters ever gave a care, Reggie could have been toted around as some sort of prodigy. But they didn't, so Reggie is actually kind of humble about his talents, always downplaying them, never cocky like Luke is.

However, Luke is also open to learning, so when he gets an assignment to perform a piece on an instrument that's not his own, he kind of panics. Luke is competent enough to pick out a tune on a bass, but he doesn't think Mrs. Harrison will let that fly. So he foolishly picks the piano, and immediately runs to Reggie.

"Dude, I need a favour. I need you to teach me how to play the piano."

Reggie looks at him, confused, "Me? Also why?"

Luke explains the assignment, showing him the simple piece he's supposed to learn, and Reggie agrees, though Luke has to concede to at least reading some of Reggie's country songs beforehand. That afternoon he meets Reggie in the practice room, smiling at the piano keys covered in sticky notes so Luke knows where everything is.

What follows is almost torturous, as Luke's normally nimble fingers seem fat and clumsy when it comes to the piano. He keeps having to double check his positioning and the sheet music, making him at least two measures behind. Yet Reggie never loses his patience, keeps encouraging Luke until the janitor all but kicks them out.

The rest of the week follows suit, though Luke is slowly improving, at least according to Reggie. Reggie who guides Luke's hands with his own through the piece over and over again, bodies pressed together on the uncomfortable stool as the notes ring out. When Luke finally nails the piece on his own, his face lights up, Reggie beaming with pride beside him.

"Knew you could do it."

"Not without you."

Reggie blushes at that, ducking his head, and Luke, in a fit of boldness leaned in and pressed a kiss against his burning hot cheek. Reggie's eyes fly to his at that, looking shell shocked, but not disgusted. Luke grasps his hands in his own, and smiles softly. "I-I don't want to do anything without you. We make pretty good music together, and I would like to see what else we be... if you'd be okay with that."

Reggie rushes in and kisses Luke, hands pounding down on the keys, sending out a discordant note, but neither care as they ease into a gentler kiss, the music of their souls drowning out everything else.

#filled prompts #ficlet #ruke #peterpatter #julie and the phantoms

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years

Text

COSMIC - S1:E1; Chapter One, The Vanishing of Will Byers - [Pt. 2]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘖𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥.

|| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕 ||

The boys and I finally make it to school; my legs are always exhausted by the time we reach the student drop off.

I hear the bell ring when we park our bikes.

"That's weird. I don't see him." Mike finally says what we've all been thinking. 'Where the hell is Will?' Personally, I'm starting to get really worried.

As if catching onto my growing worries, Lucas chimes in.

"I'm telling you. His mom's right. He probably just went to class early again."

I always admired how Lucas can always be so optimistic with stuff like this; always thinking logically. He's really good at keeping the party level-headed. I tend to worry a lot so it's nice to have a friend like Lucas to keep my feet on the ground.

"Yeah, he's always paranoid Gursky's gonna give him another pop quiz."

"Well, I don't blame him. Gursky gives me pop quizzes all the time, and it's exhausting. Never knowing when you will be put on the spot" I say.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen."

'Oh just perfect. Troy and his goon'

"Step right up and get your tickets for the freak show," Troy says smugly.

I click my tongue and shake my head in a mocking tone.

"Oh, sorry guys but we actually can't make it today. By any chance, can we catch your act tomorrow?" I bat my eyelashes at them in innocence, the comment earning a few chuckles from Lucas, Mike, and Dustin.

Troy's face scrunched up in anger, clearly offended by my comeback.

"Hey, no one asked you, shithead!"

I roll my eyes at his cheap insult. However, the boys were having none of it, especially Dustin, as usual. They get into a threatening stance, while Dustin tries to lunge for them, but I put my arm out to stop them before they can even do anything.

"Guys, just ignore them. It doesn't matter to me. They're not even worth it."

Troy and his puppet James only seem amused.

"So who do you think would make more money in a freak show anyway?" Troy continues.

"Midnight," he punches Lucas. I clench my fists, my chest already burning with anger.

"Frogface," he punches Mike, and my jaw tightens so tight it threatens to lock.

"Orphan" he punched me. I took a deep breath trying to control my anger.

"Or toothless?" He shoves Dustin.

It's taking everything in me not to tackle him right now. I've always been like this. Whenever someone insults me, I'm able to brush it off, but as soon as someone goes after the people I care about, I lose it. Big time.

His goon sighs and holds his hand to his chin as he pretends to think about it while he looks at all of us. He then stops at Dustin and singles him out, in a voice that's clearly supposed to be Dustin's.

"I'd go with Toothless." My nails are probably drawing blood from my palms at this point.

"I told you a million times, my teeth are coming in. It's called cleidocranial dysplasia." Dustin says.

"I th'old you a million th'imes" he continues.

"Screw you," I shout, lunging for him. But before I could ever actually reach him, Dustin pulls me back, stopping me as I had him.

"Y/n, you were right. They aren't worth it."

They just laugh smugly in response. I grit my teeth and cross my arms.

"Do the arm thing."

"Do it, freak!"

"OH, I swear to GOD," I go to charge at him but Mike pulls me back and pats my back trying to calm me down. I glare daggers at the boys in front of me. I swear I'm seeing red and it feels as if my blood is literally boiling in veins.

"Y/n it's fine. Look, here," he sighs tiredly, putting down his backpack and taking off his jacket. He then extends his arms out and you can hear his bones crack. He then looks to the bullies pointedly and says, "There, I did it. Will you leave us alone now?"

The bullies groan in disgust and Troy says, "UGH. It gets me every time!" They laugh, shoving us aside roughly and walk away.

"Assholes," Lucas beat me to it.

"I think it's kinda cool," Mike offers, looking at Dustin. "It's like you have superpowers or something. Like Mr. Fantastic."

"Yeah, except I can't fight evil with it."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

{Trigger Warning for Anxiety Attacks}

Troy and his friend had just left us alone, so the four of us began making our way to class. As we walk through the hallways, the three of them end up side by side by side next to each other while caught up in their conversation which at this point, had drifted to planning our next campaign. Normally I'd be all over it but I found myself drifting back and keeping to myself, my thoughts wandering to Will.

'I really hope he's okay. Ya know what? No, Lucas is right, as usual, he's got to be at class by now. He has to be.'

I try to push all the negative thoughts to the back of my mind as I try and focus on getting to the classroom as soon as possible just to prove to myself he's okay and I'm just overreacting. The four of us approach Mr. Clarke's room and I run ahead, no longer able to wait another second. I pop my head in the door and to my great dismay, he is nowhere to be seen. I take a deep breath, and stumble back, that familiar viscous feeling of a pit in my stomach. My anxiety is kicking in.

The boys look to each other in silence, all thinking the same thing.

'This is bad. Will would never skip. And he's not at home, so something must be very wrong.'

Before the boys get the chance to say anything, I slip away and walk quickly down the hall to the bathroom, my arms tucked into my sides defensively while my head is down. I always run to the bathroom to be alone when I have an anxiety attack. I can't be around people when it's this bad so I usually end up sitting in the stall, trying to calm down. The guys know I have anxiety attacks like this sometimes and I know they want to help, but they don't know how and that's fine.

When I reach the familiar stall, I slam it shut and sit on the edge of the seat and put my face in my hands as my elbows are propped up on my knees. My breathing is ragged and my eyes become soaked in tears as panic takes over my body. That familiar feeling of nausea returning. The endless 'what ifs' begin flooding my mind.

'What if he got hit by a car on his way home?'

'What if he got kidnapped?'

'What if... he's dead?'

Just the thought of never seeing my best friend ever again makes me wail. I'm rocking back and forth hugging my torso when I remember I have to take deep breaths or I might pass out. I try to remember to tell myself that I don't have all the information and that there has got to be some sort of explanation for all of this.

That it's just my anxiety talking. It's just brain noise. I just need to learn how to manage it.

I spend the next few minutes focusing on taking deep breathes, and after what feels like hours, I am finally breathing normally again.

I grab my bag which had been thrown to the ground during my attack and exit the stall. I stand in front of the mirror washing my hands and I look at my eyes which are now totally swollen from crying.

I reach down and splash some water on my face, and rub my eyes. Getting the remainder of the water off with a paper towel. As I look at my slightly improved reflection I take another deep breath and head to class. Pretending everything's normal and I hadn't just had a meltdown in the bathroom, as usual.

I pick up my pace as I shrug my shoulders to secure my backpack so it doesn't fall. I was lucky I was able to come down from my attack as quickly as I did because it seems I wasn't late like last time. It looks like I made it with just a minute to spare. I walk over to where the party and I usually sit. I think twice before sitting down next to Dustin.

I know at this point the boys are aware of the state I'm in judging by the looks of sympathy they are giving me. The state of my eyes and the fact I didn't take my normal seat next to Will's probably gave me away. I decided to take the seat in front of my usual so I don't have stare at Will's empty seat and be worrying all class. So as they say, out of sight out of mind. While waiting for class to start I try and think of different things to keep my mind off of Will, and my mind wanders the new Heathkit ham shack that was supposed to have come today.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

❥ Let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist! ❥

#you'll float queue #stranger things #will byers x reader #reader insert #cosmic #m!cosmic #y/n henderson #will byers #dustin henderson #lucas sinclair #mike wheeler #stranger things x reader #stranger things x male!reader #x male!reader #the vanishing of will byers

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www-artforoddballs · 3 years

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Alright, so notice. Most of you probably know this, since you're following me for the Autistic Levi stuff (thank you, we're closing in on 100 followers!!!!), but people with autism can have "tantrums". I've kinda touched on this in a previous post (it's a full meltdown, but you can see that post here https://www-artforoddballs.tumblr.com/post/644803780958879744/autistic-levi-angstkinda-i-guess-this-is-him). For those of you who DON'T know, an autistic tantrum is not the same thing as what you'd think of in regards to a toddler or kid, it's just the word used for it. This is a mistake my mother and I made when getting the paperwork done while I was going through testing that later got cleared up lol

I had a tantrum yesterday, and so I figured that I could post about Leviathan having a tantrum, since it's still ready on my mind. I don't care if anyone else is proud of me for coping with it as well as I did, since it's a major improvement from last time I had one, but I am proud of myself!...with that in mind, here we go!!

There will be some angst in this post, like the last post in relation to this one, but like the last post, it turns out fine.

However.

Trigger warning for things such as self harm, both physical and verbal. If you or a loved one is self harming, either reach out to someone for help or reach out to that person to help, yeah?

OK on with the post.

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

First of all, Levi's autism is part of why his brothers always agree to help when there's a raffle for tickets or something like that on the DDD messages, because he can get overwhelmed if they don't at least help, even if he doesn't win in the end.

They figured out that his autism was the culprit for this shortly after his diagnosis.

Now when I'm writing for Levi, I like to think that his diagnosis was around the early 1990s since, while autism was a separate diagnosis in 1980, it didn't really start becoming fairly accepted and expanded upon until 1987. Hence why everyone is mostly used to it by now, but are still sometimes off put by his odd behavior; for them, as beings that have been around since...the beginning of the universe, pretty much as far as we know, but for at LEAST since humans were around (so at VERY least 2.5 million years now, but potentially up to around 7 million years (if they haven't been around since the beginning of creation)), this would be like...I dunno, give me a second.

Waiting

Waiting...

Okay, so from 1990(earliest year I have in mind) to 2019 (the year it was released) is 29 years. That's a minimum of 1/86,206.89th of their lifespan, and a maximum of 1/475,862,068.96th of their total lifetime.

So this is a VERY recent development for them on the grand scheme of things, but I digress.

So they're still figuring everything out, especially as the human race continues to learn about the condition itself.

So the first time Levi threw a tantrum and they recognized it for what it was...it was certainly interesting.

What had happened was exactly the situation described; Levi had wanted to go to a concert in the human world and they were raffling off free tickets. Except, unlike now, his brothers hadn't offered their support. They hadn't in the past, why would this time be any different?

Except now they viewed it through a different light. Leviathan had an image in his head that he desired so badly and had asked his brothers to support him, hopeful, only to be rejected at every turn. That he was used to, but it was still upsetting.

He put that to the side, though. He really wanted to see this band, and these were VIP tickets where you got to hang out with the band for a few hours after the concert! They'd cost a LOT of human money, and while they COULD afford it, he knew Lucifer would be bringing hell down upon him if he used that amount of family funds on a concert. And his anxiety was already somewhat raised, so he decided to enter the raffle on his own.

He sat there for hours, waiting for the results to come in. He'd hyped this up in his brain the entire time; He'd win, go to an amazing concert, have dinner with the band, maybe even make some friends....!...and then the results came back. He hadn't won.

As per usual, our snek boi went into one of his rants about how unfair it was, but instead of going on a rampage or something like that, locked himself up in his room and cried, hating himself for getting so excited over nothing.

As I mentioned before, I've made another post about a tantrum/getting too overwhelmed slipping into something even more dire, as that's almost always what happens to me. This would be in the 90s, so this would be their first real incident with one of these moments where they had the proper diagnosis, so bear with me, there will be some angst here, but like the other post, it'll be fine.

So Mammon ends up feeling bad for rejecting his little brother, and, not knowing it was too late, decided to go to his room and offer his support. It was almost Leviathan's birthday anyways, and Mammon knew how rejection felt and how much it sucked. So, he knocked on Leviathan's door.

No response. He knocked again...still no response, but a quiet sob.

Right away, Mammon switched from semi-carefree to worried. "Levi...?"

Again, no response. He decided to just go in and check on his brother...

The door was locked. And he smelled blood.

"Leviathan, I need you to open the door," Mammon said with a half hearted chuckle, his voice now becoming slightly strained. "Because if ya don't, I'm gonna have t' break the door down."

"Just go away!" Leviathan cried from inside his room. "Just leave me alone, you jerk!"

"I ain't goin' anywhere. Either open the door or I'm gonna break it down. Those are your two choices."

A moment of silence, before Mammon sighs, stretching, as he transforms into his demon form.

"Alright, option two it is."

He rammed into the door repeatedly, before the wood finally splintered and fell to the ground with a loud thud. Mammon quickly looked around, eyes widening as he saw Leviathan digging his own sharpened nails into his arms, multiple raked wounds, made by the same culprit, carved into his skin.

"Levi...look at ya..." Mammon said, voice faltering, tears welling up in his eyes. "I...how long has..."

"Just shut up! Don't act like you care about me, I'm the freak of our family, remember?! I'm the one whose brain isn't right, I'm just a shut-in, good for nothing, re-!"

He was quickly cut off by Mammon going to him and hugging him.

"I don't care who you are. You talk about my brother like that again and I'll kill you. Alright? You're a little off, but you ain't a freak, and your brain works just fine as is. You're perfect just the way you are, and if anybody else says any different, I'm gonna beat them the fuck up. Including you. Got that? So what if you've got that fancy lable on ya now...? Labels like that matter, but it didn't change ya. You're still my cringe, annoying as hell little weirdo of a brother...and I wouldn't have ya any other way."

Leviathan fully listened to Mammon talk, before clinging to him, breaking down sobbing again, and trying to explain what happened through his tears, the older demon gently rubbing his back and allowing him to cry it out, making sure no more harm was done.

A while later, once Levi had calmed down, Mammon ruffled his hair.

"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah? Lucifer is already gonna kill me for breaking your door, but he'd be even more pissed if I just left you here with those wounds."

So they did. And Mammon, after telling a VERY angry Lucifer what had happened hours later, had surprisingly NOT gotten chewed out by the eldest brother. Instead, that day, the entire family had a long discussion, and they all agreed that if it was something as small as entering a raffle, or even if it was bigger but not an inconvenience to anyone in the slightest, they'd all help out from then on. It's not like it was hard, and it would save Levi from hours of stress and negativity toward himself and others around him.

They also made a plan for if a tantrum were to happen while someone was around, or if he became too overwhelmed and started to spiral...because, as annoying as he could be, Leviathan was still family. And they loved him, oddities and all.

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

Alright, so...that was the post! I hope it was okay. I know I've written about this type of thing before a little, but different situations can end up with the same negative outcome, like being in an overwhelming situation, or not being able to change your thinking and not easily being able to get over your expectations. I've personally suffered with both, and it's a regular thing for me, so I like writing about it, because maybe, just maybe, it'll help someone out, or help someone that isn't autistic understand a friend or relative or classmate or employee better. And I love these characters, I really do. The only ironic thing is that I see so much of myself in Leviathan, but I adore him and despise myself. Go figure 😂

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed, and if there's anything you guys have questions about (in regards to me and my experience), or any specific writing requests, asks are fully open!

Thanks so much for being here to support me, you have no idea how much it means to a little oddball such as myself.

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me leviathan #obey me belphie #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #autism obey me #obey me autism #obey me neurodivergent #neurodivergent #leviathan autism #autism #headcannons #obey me hcs

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

*slides in quickly before requests close* howdiddlydo person of unknown gender, may I request sum frustrated Yandere Vil from Twisted Wonderland with him trying to become the fairest of them all, Reader is prettier than him, but only because he's in love with them ... however he doesn't know that? Also, please take care of urself during these trying times!

Chapter Five isn’t out, yet, but I’d like to think he’d be the type to only occasionally handle a challenge to his position with grace. It’s very much an ‘indoctrinate or eradicate’ mindset, and I think it’s clear which direction I chose to go in, this time.

Title: Eye Of The Beholder.

TW: Minor Acts of Violence, Possessive Mindsets, and Unhealthy Relationships.

The worst part was, you didn’t even want to be in Pomfiore.

You could live with it, if you had to. You admired the Beautiful Queen’s cut-throat determination, but that kind of adoration was universal, nowhere near the idolization most students placed on their dormitory’s patron. If you had a choice, you might’ve preferred somewhere a little more fun, like Scarabia, or Diasomnia, if only because of the respect that came along with their reputation. You were neutral towards Pomfiore, you tolerated Pomfiore, but Vil must’ve interpreted your lack of enthusiasm as a gentle loathing, he must’ve thought your disinterest was poorly veiled disgust. That, or he didn’t like your skin-care routine, or the way you wore your uniform. Maybe he had a problem with your attitude. For all you knew, his issue was with your hand-writing.

His hatred seemed sourceless. It could be sourceless. It could be because of everything. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. It didn’t really matter, if you were being honest with yourself.

Vil hated you, he hated you more than you’d ever seen him hate anything. And he never hid it.

He didn’t even try.

“What were you thinking?” His tone was harsh, the kind of brash, ugly pitch you’d never hear out of him if anyone else was around. If anyone he respected was around. But, they weren’t, and he was free to tangle his fingers in your hair and drag you into his personal suite, the door shut and locked as soon as you were thrown inside. Your scalp throbbed, and a ring of bruises was forming around your wrist, where he’d dragged you out of your clubroom, never stopping to ask questions, never hesitating, never batting an eye when it came to humiliating you like a child that’d gotten away from their sitter. You could only be glad he hadn’t chosen to scold you in the common room, this time. You were still living down the embarrassment from his last public lecture. “I try to take you under my wing, I try to be a good mentor, and what’s the first thing you do? Ruin it. You go and ruin it.”

“I was just joining a club,” You mumbled, your voice just low enough not to interrupt Vil’s disjointed rant. You kept your posture straight, your arms held stiff at your sides, but the urge to curl into yourself, the temptation to make yourself small was still there, your common sense warring with your instincts of self-preservation. “It’s not a big deal. Rook said it’d be--”

“Rook couldn’t have known which hellhole you planned on sealing yourself inside of,” He spat, unwilling to hear you out. You weren’t sure why you’d expected him to, he’d never really cared what you had to say. He’d never really cared about you, not unless you were doing something he deemed ‘unbefitting’ of a Pomfiore student. “Honestly, it’s hard to believe you were chosen to be part of my dorm. I’ve never met someone so ungrateful, so ungraceful, it’s like you don’t even want to belong here--”

It was your turn to interrupt him, now, even if your declaration was less confident than his own. “I don’t.”

It was barely a mutter, little more than a whisper under your breath, but Vil fell silent in an instant. Going quiet as he went stiff, his posture turning so rigid, you almost couldn’t recognize him as the man millions chose to worship. “You… you what?”

“I don’t.” You’d tried so hard to hold back your irritation, to swallow it down before it could start to spill out, but it felt good to let your voice dip into something more hostile than what Vil deemed acceptable, to let your features scrunch and your hands twitch as you resisted the urge to wipe away the frustrated tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “I don’t, I never wanted to be. If I had my way, I would’ve transferred months ago.” You paused, setting your jaw with a new sense of perseverance. “I will transfer, actually. Anywhere would be an improvement, as long as you’re not there.”

You finished, and a second passed in silence. Then another, and another, and you began to hold your breath as you waited for Vil’s response. He closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and only after he’d regained an ounce of his composure, he moved.

You heard the blow before you felt it.

It was a sharp, sudden crack, quick enough and loud enough to catch you off guard, setting your nerves on-edge before the pain kicked in, bright and burning and blinding as his open palm collided with your skin. It only took a moment, but the briefness of it didn’t stop your lips from parting in shock, your own hand rising to cradle your reddening cheek as you stumbled back. He watched you in faux-apathy, for a moment, his stare cold and his expression stoic, but his anger was undeniable, a fire flitting in his eyes, the same one he’d always tried to smother in yours. “You won’t,” He said, calmly, melodically. Taking the time to make sure you were listening, but not giving you the luxury of a full minute to recover. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You didn’t know what he was talking about. If anything, you were only more sure you had to leave. Fuck, you’d drop out of Night Raven all together, if you had to. He’d humiliated you, demeaned you, policed your wardrobe and your speech and your life, but this was the first time he’d done something physical, something violent. Something that’d leave a mark for days, weeks, if you weren’t lucky. “You’re insane--”

“I’m doing what I have to.” This was usually the part where his irrationality faded into exasperation. Where he dug his nails into your shoulder, tilted your chin up, and told you to stand straight, lest you tarnish his reputation any further. But, if any of that tired, familiar resolution was present today, you couldn’t seem to root it out. Rather, he just seemed poised. At ease, but not relaxed. Firm, but not forgiving. “You’re not transferring, you’re not leaving, you’re not taking a step I don’t approve of, not if I can help it. If you get away, you’d win, and I’m not about to lose to you.” His hands balled into fists at his sides, his upper lip curling back. His self-imposed image splitting and shattering, if only in front of you. “I’m not about to lose you.”

You grit your teeth and glare. You didn’t lash out, not as much as you wanted to, but you doubted Vil would let you get away with anything more blatant. “And if I don’t want to live in someone’s shadow?”

At that, he broke into a smile, the perversion of a proper grin painting itself across his expression for the first time in your short companionship. He didn’t reach out, didn’t touch you, didn’t even shift his tone away from the stern delicacy he was so skilled at employing, but he didn’t have to. Not when his joy scared you more than his anger ever could. “Oh, sweetheart,” He sighed, shaking his head so sympathetically, anyone else might’ve believed he was the mentor he was so fond of masquerading as.

“Clearly, no one’s taught you how futile it is to run from a Queen.”

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mutogamingco · 2 years

Note

[hospital - luckyredeyes] It doesn’t even occur to Joey to lie to Yuugi, not after all this time, not even to reassure him. “No, and I’m about to head down to the canteen and eat everything that isn’t nailed down. But I don’t wanna be the only one.”

@luckyredeyes

Whatever gentle scolding Yuugi may have had for Joey for ignoring his own needs is abandoned when two people walk through the door already talking.

"Ah, Mutou, Yuugi-san it's good to see you're awake."

It's the doctor and Yuugi's father. There's some bustling as they gather in discussion and the patient is given a once-over. Again, the excuse of over-work and strain from the solid vision system working to cover up anything close to the truth. Nobody would suspect a shadow game or whatever game of darkness brand of magic Marik used on him.

"It doesn't seem like you need an extended stay, but I would like to see your BP readings to improve before I approve of you checking out. We'll have some food brought up for you and that should help. You're to rest in bed for the next few days, keep your fluids up, and no use of that game technology until you're fully recovered. Honestly, why does a card game have to be so physical?"

That last bit was muttered more to himself. It seemed Kaiba's new update had caused more than a few ER visits...he'd have to try mentioning that to Kaiba sometime.

Some mild painkillers were also prescribed just in case Yuugi needed them, and the Doctor was out of the room. At least the prognosis was good. Yuugi turned to Joey.

"I'll be okay," he smiled, "Please go eat, we can catch up after okay?"

Grandpa gestured at the bag, "We'll keep him company, I'll guard those card packs so he doesn't go opening them without you," he winked.

"WHAT?! Card packs? You don't mean--"

"Shhh! Yuugi, people are trying to rest."

"Ah, sorry."

Renju spoke for the first time since he stepped in the room, "I don't think we can tear those two away from this bedside, so I'll go to the canteen with you," he says to Joey.

He's well aware of the reactions around him and that he is far from Joey's ideal choice in company. But there are things they had to discuss.

#luckyredeyes

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bibliocratic · 4 years

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Been thinking about Martin being sad about/hating the way he looks bc he looks like his dad, and he tries to talk to Jon abt it, but he's Too Vague so Jon thinks he's worried that Jon doesn't like that he's fat and consequently comforts him about the wrong thing

This took so long, anon, sorry!

Because of the subject matter, there are content warnings in the tags

The first time Martin sees his own face, limp-eyed, flat and drained in the feeble straining light of the bathroom, he starts shaking. A stretching in his chest, like he's swallowed a swelling balloon that is pushing all the air out of him, bunging up his lungs and throat and mouth. That's how Jon finds him, tears sprung to his eyes as he sucks in scant and skittish breathes, his fingers clenching the lip of the sink and wondering why he can't be stronger than all this.

After that, Martin takes to avoiding mirrors while he's in the safehouse.

It's not hard. He's had lots of practise recently. The Lonely had displayed many double-edged poisons in its folds disguised as furtive blessings. His reflection had been one of them. Martin had counted it as a grateful novelty, to walk past glass shop fronts and the over-stark bathroom mirrors in the staff toilets and see the refusal of light to grant his image returned to him. Even his exile to the seafront, the rock-pools vacant of crawling life or stubborn salt-encrusted fronds of lichen, had shown him only the eddy of tide, the ripples that his steps barely disturbed in the landscape.

It had been a kindness of sorts, to take his image from him. The mirror had never shown Martin anything but things he hadn't cared to see, his own neurosis writ large and backwards.

The morning is not unusual. The birds had woken him, piping shrill even through the double glazing, and Jon, still dozy and drooling his words into his pillow, had cursed and moaned indignant at the vocal wildlife. Martin had dropped back off for another twenty or so minutes, a smirk raising the sleep-dry corners of his lips, waking up when the bed creaked and Jon had stood and stretched and made all sorts of horrendous cracking noises like some sort of human castanet.

This morning though, Jon is in the bathroom, shaving, and making a worrying racket doing so, and Martin is still in that sort of headachy realm of not quite awake yet, where he still gathering the components than make him functional as he shuffles around in his boxers and waits for the shower to be free. Martin's not sure why today, but he finds himself opening the wardrobe. Inside, on the back of the left-hand side door, there's a full length mirror, pocked a little with age and smeared with dust.

Martin's not sure why he feels strong enough today to look.

The thing he expects to see first: his hair shorn down, just shy of a buzz cut. Martin's been doing it himself for years, every month or so hunching over the sink and bathroom mirror in his old flat in Stockwell and uniformly mowing his hair down to a prickly ginger fuzz.

His mum never liked his hair when he grew it out. Snapped and sniped about how long it was getting whenever it started to bend in a curl, encroaching over his ears, and he'd not always had the money or time to go into town and go to the barber's. When he got his first job, scrimping aside the little he'd left over at the end of the month, he'd bought clippers from the nearest Boots, attached the first guard he'd picked up and ran it over his scalp until the up-scrub was spiky and even. The first time was a bit of a hack-job, lopsided and uneven, but he's improved his technique with time. The method and cut was cheap and basic and he wasn't fond of the way it made his ears look stuck out, but it was one less thing he had to worry about, one less thing his mum could disapprove of.

His hair now hangs, uninspired, slightly greasy and knotted over his ears. Shaggy-dog over his forehead until he swipes it back, a small curl down to the nape of his neck.

He looks like his dad. Sees the man he barely knew staring back, the image lost that Elias had so viciously returned. Studies his snubnose struck centre, a wide jaw that rounds out his face, ruddy cheeks with sparse and spotting freckles. Some of the hairs of his eyebrows are starting to grey. His eyes seem suspicious, washed out, unhappy. He wonders if this is what Jon sees, a man whose closed-off expression does not appear to trust the world nor its motives.

The sort of man who might just up and leave if the going gets tough.

Jon pads into the room, though Martin doesn't turn round. He puts all his weight on the front of his feet, always has; even in the Archives, Martin could place Jon's footsteps next to Sasha's sturdier stride, Tim's faster tread.

Jon plants his face against Martin's back, grumbles through a good morning. He's smooth jawed again, his skin baking from the shower, his hair not quite towelled off properly, still dripping.

“Lookin' handsome,” Jon mumbles, throwing out a hand to gesture at the mirror, at the twin men standing awkward and self-conscious opposite each other.

Martin observes at his own hands cast back at him through the mirror. His thick arms, the round and pasty pale of them. He has big hands, he thinks to himself. Broad, weathered palms, the skin cracking dry, short and stubby fingers. Hair starts to grow sparse on the back of his hand close to his wrist and only gets thicker and denser up his arms. Jon slumped standing immediately behind him isn't visible in the reflection; Martin's body takes up too much room, wide and solid, even when he wants to secrete himself smaller. He's tall, like Dad was, he guesses, though he stoops and hunches in his shoulders to try and negate it. Martin thinks he looks like the sort of man that plays rugby and drinks too much. When he's walking home, trudging through the residential streets between the tube station and his flat, people passing him sometimes scrunch their body in away from him, and every time that hurts. In the dark, without his stumbling words and over-eager expression and his clumsiness, something about him looks like it could turn nasty, and Martin doesn't know how to take that.

He went drinking with Tim and Sasha once in Lambeth. They'd had four or five and Sasha had bought them obnoxiously coloured and overpriced cocktails before dragging Tim over to the pool table, Martin sitting out to the side amiably, sipping his sugar-heavy drink and tapping his feet to the music someone put on the jukebox. Two men came over ten minutes later, drunker than them, arguing that they'd been there first, and Sasha had been fired up enough to snap back. It had looked like a scrap brewing, so Martin had put his drink down and stood up, anxiously ready and willing to urge Tim and Sasha away just to keep the peace. The two had looked at him, eyes roving up before they held up their hands, backing off, saying they'd come back when they'd finish.

“No bother, ey, big lad?” they'd slurred at Martin. “Didn't mean anything by it.”

Sasha had beamed as they left, and called Martin a lucky charm. He hadn't felt very lucky. He'd felt sick at the reminder.

The problem as he sees it, is that everything about him is big.

Inside: too big heart and too raw-open soul. A great vast reservoir where he keeps every bubbling expression of fear and grief and rage that he's never expressed with his body.

Outside: big stocky arms, an over-hanging stomach matched with a tall spine and the sort of footsteps that announce his arrival well before he enters a room.

Martin's dad never hit his mum. He assumes that's something Elias would have glibly enjoyed sharing. But sometimes he'd stood too close when they'd been fighting, looming, deliberately crowding in her space, and she'd noticed how much taller he was, how much stronger. She'd thought she saw something mean and nasty in his eyes, the way he clenched his fists that meant he wanted to.

She'd imagined she saw that look in her son sometimes too.

Martin worries about that. Worries what other poisoned legacies his dad left him with.

“Mart'n?” Jon says. He's encircled his arms as far as he can around him, though they don't link up, scratching his nails through the hair on his chest. His hands long-boned but smaller, slighter.

Jon is not a small man nor a tall one, average in appearance in most ways if not for the scars, if not for the way the composite of his image makes Martin's heart something stronger in his chest. But Martin is bigger than him when they lie together, Jon's side of the bed made less by default, shunting him further over to the corners. Martin is stronger than him, because Martin has lifted him bodily to hear Jon's laughing protestations as Martin manhandled him onto the sofa and kissed the veins down his throat, the blush risen in his cheeks.

And Martin's angrier than he used to be. Or angrier than he used to admit to being. His mood pinballing from flat to frustrated as everything the Lonely dulled ploughs back into him, all of Martin's mechanisms, the checks-and-balances he built within himself gone ruinous. Martin can be so angry these days, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

Martin doesn't like the way that worry fizzes under his tongue.

“My dad had big hands,” he says out of nowhere. “He wore some rings, I think, and he had to get them resized to fit his fingers.”

“You making plans to get us rings already?”

Jon's joke is shy and nudging, but Martin doesn't feel like raising the corners of his mouth in a smile.

Martin moves a hand to squeeze the flesh that bunches around his upper arms, pats his stomach.

“I've definitely got his belly,” he says. “His arms. Prob'ly end up with his hair to boot, he was receding a bit.”

Jon's hands stroke palm down over what stomach he can reach.

“I like your stomach,” he says, and it's not that Martin doesn't believe him, because he's getting better at not doubting people, at allowing himself to trust they might like something about him. It's that that wasn't the point.

“Hmm,” Martin says noncommittally, and glances at his own hands again. Square chewed nails and the small bumps of veins.

“You don't look happy,” Jon says.

“What? No, I mean, it – it's fine, it's...”

“Do you... not like looking in the mirror?”

Martin sighs.

“Not particularly.”

“Because you have a problem with how you look?”

“You don't have to spell it out like that, Jon.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're a – my therapist or something. I don't want to – to be questioned o-or psychoanalysed about it. I just, no – I don't like looking at myself. That's all.”

Jon's arms don't unhook from around him. Martin exhales and feels the frustration like sediment build up.

“I look exactly like my dad,” Martin says finally, bitterly.

“You don't,” Jon replies quietly, into the meat of Martin's shoulder.

“You can't know that,” Martin says, although the words are empty of meaning and they both know it. Jon both can and does, whether he means to or not.

Feeling his Adam's apple bob, he continues: “Elias, he showed me. When I was – er, when we needed him distracted.”

Jon's arms clench around him.

“Elias showed you what he wanted you to see,” he says after a careful moment.

Martin shakes his head, because he saw what he'd known already, what his mum had seen, the trickle of memory gushing torrential. That he has his dad's big fingers, big hands and big anger, and he is frightened of what sort of a man that makes him.

“I could....” Jon's fingers flex and skate over the skin where Martin's stretch marks root down to his hips. “I could look? If you wanted? Tell you if Elias was... if what he showed you was true.”

Martin thinks about it, but Jon feels the silence of his refusal and presses his nose against the freckled handful of skin where Martin's shoulder blades are.

“I'll tell you what I see then?”

“See see, you mean?”

“No. Normal seeing. With my own two eyeballs.”

“I am being blessed with the originals today, what a gift.”

Jon headbutts him with his forehead, and the small laugh and a 'Jon!' is pushed out of him as a scarred palm is held up near his face, an eyelid opening in the skin to leer at Martin.

“Put your bloody Pan's Labyrinth eyeball away,” Martin grouches, and he can feel Jon grinning mischievous as the disconcerting eyeball winks before being sunk closed back into the skin.

“Better?”

“I am never going to get used to that.”

Jon makes a noise of agreement. He unplasters himself from Martin's back, and takes a tugging hold of his wrist.

“Look at me?”

Martin lets himself be turned round. Weak-willed, soft-spined to the last wherever Jon is concerned.

Jon looking up at him now, fringed with damp locks seaweeding down his face. Martin brushes them back out of the way, and Jon captures his hand, meshes their fingers together slowly and precisely.

“Tell me?” he asks quietly. “What you've been thinking about? And I'll tell you what I see.”

“My hands,” Martin says after a moment and Jon nods and hums and holds Martin's captured palm in front of him.

“Bigger than mine,” Jon says, demonstrating, holding the two of them as imperfect reflections of each other. “You've got short nails because you bite them. The cold's making the skin dry, but they're soft, usually. Sturdy. Even when – even when we were leaving the Lonely, I knew once you took my hand we wouldn't get separated.”

“My – er, my arms,” Martin says after a while, prodding with his free hand at the loose flesh at the undersides of his arms. “Well, my bingo wings.”

Jon frowns, reaches up to encircle his grip around them.

“You've got muscle under there,” he says. “You can lift me, no trouble. The first time you did, I, um, couldn't help but hope you'd do it again.”

Martin finds it in himself to meet Jon's gaze.

“Yeah?” he says, pleased.

Jon is starting to blotch with blush, but he carries on, fingers stroking Martin's upper arms.

“Even if you weren't strong,” he says. “You've got – your, um. Freckles. There's no pattern to them, of course, but I like seeing if I can find one anyway.”

“You're a big softie,” Martin chides roughly, dry-mouthed and watery eyed.

Jon doesn't deny it.

“What else?” he asks delicately.

“I'm – I'm heavy,” Martin says, the words shrivelling quiet on his tongue. “I-I don't mind – I'm not ashamed of being, you know, not the smallest guy, I've never had a-a problem with it, not exactly, but I-I'm bigger than you. I'm stronger than you and I take up more room and, my dad, I look so much like him s-s-so what if – ”

He trails off. Swallowing. Unable to finish.

Jon's arms embrace him and he allows himself to be bent down, the angle uncomfortable and Jon on tip-toe, his face mushed into the side of Jon's throat.

Jon rubs at the broad expanse of his back.

“You'd never hurt me,” Jon says, fiercely. “Whether you look like your father or not. You're not him, Martin. I can't, I know I can't convince you, but it doesn't matter if you've got his arms or his eyes or his hair. He's never been where you've been, or done what you've managed. I bet he doesn't – doesn't write poetry, or whistle the Archer's theme tune, or I dunno, is completely useless at catching things.” Martin gives a wet attempt at a laugh. Jon's hands move comfortingly up and down.

“You're not your dad,” Jon continues after a moment. “You aren't responsible for the man he was, or the man your mother thought she saw in you. That's not – it's not your burden to carry. Fuck whatever shadows Elias showed you. You're not him. It's – I can't make you like what you see in the mirror, but when I look at you, I don't see any of the things you're scared of.”

“You can really just, know all that, huh,” Martin says after a minute, lifting up his head, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

“I don't need to,” Jon replies.

Martin's hugs are crushing and enveloping but Jon clings back as tightly.

Martin pulls back after a minute, wiping his eyes again though he knows they've gone red and puffy, already feeling the crimping heat of self-consciousness in his chest. Jon leans back in to kiss him, first his lips, and then his cheek, quick and affirming, as he trails his fingers through his hair.

“You'll be wanting this cut soon,” Jon says, although he seems disappointed at the thought, combing his fingers through the tangle self-indulgently.

“I might try growing it out.” Martin tests the water of the idea, and Jon looks approving at this, nods and hums and runs his fingers through again.

It's been a long time since his hair was longer. Martin thinks he might suit it.

“What would you say to a beard?” Martin follows up, just to see Jon try to valiantly quash his dissatisfaction and keep a neutral expression. He almost succeeds.

“If you... If you think it best,” Jon manages stiffly.

Martin's laugh is a free and booming thing in his chest.

#the magnus archives #tma #cw self esteem issues #cw discussions of domestic violence #cw body image #cw mild body horror #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #fic

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hauntedelation · 3 years

Text

You

Gif found on this blog, I couldn’t find the original poster :(

Description: You weren’t sure about him, this melancholy paramedic who you met through a close co-worker. Yet from the start, everything felt right. Several months stretched by with you growing closer and closer to Evan. It was pleasant, sometimes more than that. For a while there you could say that you were in the most bliss you had ever experienced.

Except, something called to you. A feeling in your gut that transpired during a long-awaited reunion on the night of Valentine’s Day.

Pairing: Gender Neutral Black Reader x Evan Marshall

A/N: I recently watched Blood Creek and again, I really liked Henry’s character. Evan is a sweetie and of course this doesn’t follow the plot of the movie. I don’t really know where this came from, I didn’t mean for it to end so...puzzling?

I wrote this with gender neutral pronouns and with a Black reader in mind. This was supposed to simply be sad and angsty but, I liked how it went. I still mean for this to be a sad romance, hopefully I portrayed that well enough. The man just needs that affection in his life. (Proofreading happened, sorry for any errors.)

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: fluff, hint of smut at the end (18+), cryptic dialogue, and a dash of angst

~Please enjoy guys! <3

➽─────────────❥

When Walter Marshall told you that he had a younger brother, you purely rolled your eyes and sent him a snort. For as long as you knew the stoic detective, he never mentioned a hint of having any other family in his life—other than his daughter and his ex-wife.

The man uttered it with a shallow weight like it had been a musing about the weather, "Oh, when you come over this Sunday, I can introduce you to my little brother, Evan."

With a turn of your head, you made a face that resembled a scowl; but, you weren’t irritated. Walter had caught that look and hid his amused smile behind the lid of his coffee mug.

You both had clocked into your adjoining shifts and sauntered side-by-side down that long, fluorescent hallway. Walter's comment emerged the moment you reached that left turn into your office. When the words finally soaked in, you paused.

"Wait, you have a brother?"

That was the detective's cue to turn and continue walking a few doors down to his office. He possessed something of a smirk under that dark nest on his face. And, with your frantic, "Walt? Walt how come you never told me—"

He only replied with, "You never asked."

➽─────────────❥

You recall the mystery brother standing by an old grandfather clock in Walter's living room. His eyes were fixated on the television screen in front of him, his body subconsciously leaning toward the thrill of the game.

There was a beer in his hand, and he took a long swig from the glass rim before letting that hand drop and adjusting his stance to rest against the wall. He wore a soot-colored canvas work coat with a light grey hood below. From what you could see, under that hood was a dark navy uniform.

Within the loud commotion of another touchdown, the detective abandoned the traditional method of gaining his brother's attention and settled on placing a hand on his back.

Evan was in the middle of another swig. Upon turning around, his brows raised and his fatigued eyes shined at the sight of Walter standing behind him. In a pleasant greeting, Evan pulled the beer away from his lips, placed the bottle down, and greeted his brother with a big hug.

"Walt! Hey, sorry I couldn't catch you when I came in."

Once the two stepped away from each other, the air between them was light and affable. For the first time with knowing Walter, you heard a buoyant laugh fall from his lungs.

"Don't worry about it," he waved away the apology, "I wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

Walter stepped back and gestured his hand to you.

"This is Y/n, a dear co-worker and someone who has been with me through many hefty cases. They haven’t annoyed me too much, so that’s why I figured it was time to introduce them to you.”

You clicked your tongue at Walter's comment and took a step toward the stranger. With a soft smile, you shifted your hold on a glass and held your hand out toward him, "It's nice to finally meet you, Evan."

The look in his eyes was curious and they drifted over Walter's for that short moment. A grin crept on his stubbled face. When those eyes slid down to you, they straightaway lost focus and softened.

Without breaking his gape on you, Evan removed his free hand from the confines of his jacket pocket. He encased your digits in his and shook.

You remember distinctly, how the warmth from his hand enveloped yours, almost like it chased the lines in your palm.

➽─────────────❥

It was a little over five months ago, five months from first shaking Evan Marshall’s hand, from observing how he would stop and let his eyes glide over your face, from listening to his steady voice and wondering exactly how it was that he didn't have an accent like Walter.

'We don't share a Mother,' he said.

Evan was American and was living in West Virginia for a while before he decided to move back up to Minnesota. He told you he was down there to take care of his sick Mother while studying to become a paramedic.

You remember leaning against the kitchen counter, and watching how the low light illuminated his face. Evan was an average man, not as broad and mountainous as his older brother, but, he still towered over you.

He was incredibly gentle, albeit hesitant, but throughout that night you could see him slowly unfurl before you.

Where are you from?

What do you like to do? He asked you.

While taken with his interest, how you spoke induced many smiles and responses from the man. Eventually, you asked him the same.

He was currently a paramedic in town. He doesn't get very much free-time due to it but he seemed to enjoy cooking, playing the piano, or listening to music whenever he could.

Evan pointed to a large bowl containing some sort of pasta salad to the right of you.

'I made my own dressing this time, I wanted to see if it would improve the recipe.'

You took a closer look and saw how the bowl was just about empty. When you thought more about it, you recalled having a sizable helping of that pasta much earlier, and couldn't help grabbing more.

Under the kitchen light, you could have sworn that you witnessed Evan's ears burn when you pointed that out.

➽─────────────❥

You made it a goal to learn as much as you could about him. There wasn’t many things that you could hold on to, but you had a handful.

He liked to listen to the old rock songs sometimes, the grunge and garage sounds. He listened to just about every band with that vibe but, he seemed to enjoy the ones from way back when the most.

Every time you heard that music from his truck radio, it brought you back to being younger, where you would watch the T.V. and see teens in acid wash jeans with cigarettes between their fingers.

You could just see him when he was younger: hair long, unkempt, his ears holding silver earrings, and black boots on his feet with words etched into the side that probably meant something to him at the time.

Evan shook his head at you and hid a smile behind his hand, ‘You were close...I was more into sneakers, but I still wrote dumb stuff on the sides of them.’

You were close, the photo he showed you that day did show a young man with his curly hair in his face, the look of a perfectly misguided youth. Now, Evan was an upstanding man, he didn’t wear those same clothes that he used to.

Still, he liked to keep that part of himself, to remember who he used to be, and to hear those songs that his younger self hung onto. You decided to as well.

You memorized everything that seemed to make him the happiest: going for long rides in his truck, holding his hand and walking with him with the night air surrounding you both, even dragging him to the grocery store just to buy your favorite bag of chips.

A recent one was laying in the sunlight and watching him play his piano.

You never knew that Evan was as talented as he was until he sat down one early morning and decided to play. He was awfully timid when his fingers first grazed those keys, but, your kind words, your encouragement shooed away his apprehension.

After that particular morning, Evan only wanted to play when it was just you two.

The Marshall brothers shared a similar woe in their blue eyes, it had to have been in the blood, but Evan possessed a more quelled spirit within him. You noticed from the way that he handled himself, how he would always cross his arms around his body as if he was shielding everything away.

You could see the way that the man drank in your touch during the close moments you spent together, how those very eyes seemed to never want to leave your body.

He was completely enamored with you.

Those times you observed him, your teeth chewing at your nail, you would question to yourself:

How come Walter never told me about you, really?

➽─────────────❥

"Get in the tub with me, please?" Your lips tickled the collar of his shirt and smoothed up over the swell of his throat. Below your mouth, and through his thin skin, you could feel the vibration of a hum crawling its way out of his body.

You did a lot for tonight, the 14th of February. Like some sort of fanatic, the bathroom was littered with red shiny balloons with images of cupid on the surface.

He took in the condition of the heated room, drifting his attention from the candles sitting near the rim of the tub to the burgundy and cherry rose petals dotting every surface. There were towels, fresh soaps, and oils shelved on top of a rack. Next to those items were a change of clothes for the both of you.

You even purchased chocolates. There was a container set on the countertop, it was unopened and showcasing various flavors and coatings through the clear casing. They were tempting, though, in the back of your mind you knew that those packages would remain intact.

When he came through your front door, you had a plate full of his favorite food hot and ready. You had a feeling that Evan would be ready to eat, but you didn’t expect him to be as starving as he was.

He had shoveled large bites of meat into his mouth, and while he did stop to enjoy the taste, you ended up returning to the table with his third plate.

Evan never failed to appear weary or to eat like he wasn’t deprived. During his worst, his skin was dusted pale, seldom words fell from his lips, and a shadowy curtain hung under his pretty eyes. The weight on his shoulders was heavy and you knew he would constantly fight to keep those lids open.

Tonight was no different for him.

You hadn’t seen Evan in a little over two weeks. Your schedules, unfortunately, did not align and he happened to work the same grueling 24-to-48 hour shifts. When he first explained his lifestyle to you, it was rather strange and difficult to understand.

‘You work a day or two at a time? Is that even humane?’

It was a standard though, at least with the small town that you all lived in. Evan was used to it and a large part of the time was him sitting at the station and waiting for the next 911 call. The silver lining brought him three days off after those long shifts.

Tomorrow would mark the first of those three days with him.

So you called him earlier that afternoon, you had the holiday in the back of your mind and you planned to make it special. You asked him to come over once his shift ended, and he didn’t show an ounce of protest.

It had been over 2 weeks.

While you were putting everything into place, laying down those velvet rose petals and candles, you worried. What if you were doing too much? This kind of thing would easily borderline sappy and romantic. You weren’t sure what you were aiming for while decorating that bathroom.

But, you reflected, and you knew one thing.

Your heart was in the right place. Every dollar you put in on the colorful balloons, the bouquet, the food, you knew that it was well spent. As you looked to each item in the bathroom, you only wish you could have spent more.

It was all for him, it couldn't be that silly.

There you were, holding him in your arms, standing by a filled tub, and coaxing him, "I promise it will be relaxing. Please, let me take care of you, Ev.”

Though he was stiff when he first saw all of the decorations, the uncertainty layering his face slowly fell away. Evan let you grab hold of the hem of his shirt. You slipped it over his head, following after was the rest of his clothes.

The garments were discarded to a pile in the corner of the bathroom. In return, Evan guided your clothes off of your body.

No words were added from either of you. The touches lingered and, as if you two were afraid, they were lighter than air. He gazed at your fingers working along the goosebumps on his chest and his stomach.

Evan had a fascination with your ability to ostensibly paint those bumps on his skin. It was your gift, and ever since that first time you did it, he did not want anything else.

➽─────────────❥

Steam filled the entirety of the bathroom, smudging the mirrors and leaving beads of water to drip down the tile on the wall by the tub. The surface of the water met just under the rim and was littered with bubbles and rose petals.

Evan’s legs stretched along the length of the tub, his knees bent at a slight angle and provided some space for his body. He leaned against the edge of the tub, his head resting against a folded towel. Under heavy lids, he watched how you rinsed the washcloth and folded it over the chrome water spout.

After helping each other wash off, you decided to soak in the water with him. There was no rush for the two of you and the aroma of the oils in the water had begun to soothe you both, Evan more especially.

His lids were fluttering as his head laid more weight on the makeshift pillow. You lounged back on the opposite side of the tub, with a tender smile on your lips. Your feet shifted to sit in his lap and you felt his hands move to gently grasp at your ankle.

Evan peeked through his lashes and began to massage from your heel to the sole of your feet with his fingers. You leaned your head into your palm and took in his movements. While he continued pressing the tips of his fingers, wonderfully deep into your skin, you mused out loud,

"Shouldn't I be the one doing this for you?"

He cocked a lazy brow at his hands and glanced to your face, a boyish grin pulling the corners of his mouth, "It's alright, and plus, you know how ticklish I am."

Your fingers crept under the surface of the water and toward the side of your torso, where his foot was resting. Evan's expression was soon morphing into alarm and he pulled his legs up with a light-hearted chuckle.

His hold on your ankle was released and a teasing curl pulled on your lips. You began to shift your body to move closer to him, careful to not disturb the water and spill any over the rim. Evan fell quiet as he watched you close the distance between the both of you. Your thighs surrounded his hips and your hands moved to rest on the side of his neck and his shoulder.

He sat up more and followed the weight of you on top of him. You felt your chest press against the soft hairs on his and those wet palms smooth up your back. Evan looked up at you with a particular expression on his face, still not saying a word but simply filling his vision with you.

It was too long. You studied his stubbled face, the dots of freckles on his nose. Your fingertips were brought up to brush around his lips up to his cropped hairline.

You wiped at a remaining spot of shampoo near his temple from when you washed his hair. He titled his head and caught the pearly suds on your fingers, inquiring, "How come I couldn't wash your hair?"

Evan met your eyes and you slid your hands to his nape and his jaw.

"It isn't wash-day for me, that will be tomorrow," you chuckled.

You figure that he would enjoy helping.

He bit at his lower lip and his arms tightened around your middle, pulling you closer. Between your legs, you brushed against Evan’s stiffening length. And kicking your hips into him drew hushed noises from both of your lungs.

Two weeks.

You don't want to sound dramatic, you don't want to sound clingy, but you almost forgot the feel of his body. Those calluses on his palms, the rhythm of his breathing in his chest, his scent, and how it blanketed you. It was all him, Evan, each little detail was renewing in your mind.

He was longing as he traced your face, he always had, but tonight you could see something pulling him lower.

You decided to pry, "Is everything okay?"

Evan released a sigh from the depths of his body, his dark brows drew together and brought a look of shame on his charming face. He dropped his eyes to the bubbly water around you.

"I...I'm sorry we haven't seen each other."

He followed the other decorations around the room and lingered his stare on the balloons, "It's been really busy at the station, so many calls came in and, fuck...I forgot about today."

You shook your head and cupped his jaw in your wet hands. Your thumbs massaged his facial hair and over his lips. Evan's eyes fell back to yours, regret highlighting them and his contempt slipping away more.

"Ev, it's alright, you know that I understand."

Your lips brushed over his, still gently stroking his face, still holding onto him. His eyelids fluttered as your hands slid down below the water, grabbing a hold of his erection and caressing.

"Don't worry about all of this, I did it for you. Just let me..."

His hips were latent, they shifted to pressed into your palm. You broke contact with Evan and watched your knees position to sink onto him. Just passing the ridge of his head, the rest of him continued to stretch into you. From his lips, he breathed out a sigh against your cheek.

Evan slid his hands down to the side of your hips and there they remained, those same calluses brushing against your smooth skin. The candlelight flickered and shone near the corner of his eye, reflecting a warm amber on your face.

Again, there was something unreadable behind that reflection, you couldn't place your finger on it. He was looking at you like you were some sort of beacon, but it didn’t seem to reach too far in his lidded eyes.

"Just let me feel you, let me feel that you're right here with me."

Your forehead nuzzled into his the instant he settled fully inside you. It was honeyed, a thick pressure that burned away every other worry. The kind that worked through your muscles and broke every knot apart. You could feel it the moment all of him nestled inside. While you listened to Evan’s breathing, and how it began to pick up in pulses, you curled your arms around his shoulders melted into him.

➽─────────────❥

The moon was out by the time you laid into bed. Your curtains split and allowed in the cool blue light into your bedroom. It covered your shelves, your family pictures, and the dark screen of your television.

And, it fell upon your bodies, kissing the back of Evan's head, his cotton clad shoulders, and legs. You watched from your position on the bed, you hand bathed in some of the soft light, only if you lifted it from the surface of the covers.

You didn't move much though.

His breaths warmed your neck, the weight of his body not crushing but anchoring you there on your bed. You knew that he would be out as soon as you left that bath, and you let him slump on top of you. You let his lips slant against yours and his words slur into something incomprehensible. He tried so hard to stay afloat and to talk with you all night, but—

...but it could wait.

He laid his head in the crook of your neck, his clipped hair tickling your cheek and the side of your jaw. You wrapped your arms around his back, and you shushed his throaty sounds. He fought it until you rubbed your palms against his back, and soothed your fingers through that short hair of his.

You watched the moonlight on the items of your bedroom, on his body that was slowly rising and falling, on his arm that was tucked around your middle.

It had been two weeks.

Your mind raised that question, long ago that you never seemed to find an adequate answer to, How come you never told me you had a brother, Walt?

You remember the way he looked at you and his brother. You remember the fond expression behind his beard when he saw Evan laugh at your jokes, and how much Walter asked about him while you two talked. What did you miss?

Evan began to minutely fidget in his slumber, his arms securing around you and his face burying more into your neck. You closed your lids, shifted your head on the pillow, and breathed him in for the first time in two weeks. For the first time in that long while, you felt Evan’s weight seep clear to your bones.

That damn answer, it remained prodding,

Because you never asked.

➽─────────────❥

Taglist: @mansaaay @hope-to-hell @thetaoofzoe @feralrunaway @inlovewithhisblueeyes

I really didn’t know who else would like to read 😅 if I missed you I apologize!

➽─────────────❥

#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill fanfic #Evan Marshall #Blood Creek #henry cavill x black reader #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x black!reader #evan marshall x reader #henry cavill x you #evan marshall x you

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killemwithkawaii · 3 years

Text

Goretober 2021 Day 27: The Do-Over

D.S. and I had spent the whole day together on the couch, chatting and answering all the asks that had piled up while we lazily tortured L.S.S. at our leisure. We were surrounded by our scattered tools- the contents of D.S.'s well-stocked toolbox, my toiletry kit, the cutlery I'd brought to the cabin, D.S.s sewing kit, lighters, and other miscellaneous items we thought we could get creative with... We had managed to use just about everything.

L.S.S. was a mess. Hogtied on the floor in front of the couch, its mouth sewn shut, my old bunny sleep mask covering what were now empty eye sockets. It was bleeding, drooling, burned, cut, bruised. Toward the end of the night, it was blacking out when we gave it a moment of peace, and moaning and weeping and retching when we interrupted it again. It had been almost too easy to reduce it to such a state over the course of the day. Now, it was getting late, and D.S. was starting to get bored. He gave L.S.S.s head a half-hearted nudge with his mud and blood-caked shoe. It didn't respond at all.

"...I think we've fucked it up enough for today. If we keep going, it'll go into shock, and then it'll be REALLY boring to play with...."

"Okaaay.... I guess we should patch it up so it doesn't bleed out, huh?"

"Oh, I can take care of that. I gotta change the bandages on its hands and feet, too- wouldn't want the limbs to start turning."

"True...."

I thought for a moment.

"Say, Sally..."

"Hm?"

"I was thinking....~"

I leaned in closer to him, then drew little circles on his chest with my fingertip and looked up at him through what remained of my eyelashes. He tilted his head, interest perked.

"Welll.... in the spirit of 'the Do-Over,' I was thinking... maybeeee you could give me a second viewing of your gorgeous artwork....?"

D.S. chuckled.

"You want to see ‘The Knock-Off Messiah’ again? I mean, it takes some setting up, but I can if you want me to."

"Oh, really, will you~?!"

I swung my leg over his lap and straddled him, bouncing with excitement.

"Eee!! Thank you so much!! I really didn't give it a fair chance the first time.... Ooh, ooh, can I watch you do it? I can help you lift the cross! It looks really heavy...."

"Ah, sure! If you want, you can watch... And yeah, that thing is already a bitch to lift without the dead weight on it..."

"Oooh, will you wear the horns and tail this time? Pleeease? You know how much I loved it when you wore those last year, but it's gonna hit so different this time...~!!" Begged as I bit my lip.

"Yeah, I'll wear them for you, if I can find them."

I giggled with delight. "Aaahhh, you're the best!! Oh baby, I have SO MANY ideas for how to spice up the whole scene, I hope you don't mind a critique....!"

"Oh, no, there's always room to improve- I'm living proof!" He laughed and put his hands on my hips. "What did you want to add? I'm all ears~"

I traced my fingers along the edge of his mask, down his neck, over his chest.

"Welll, I know you worked really, really, really hard to make it look perfect, and don't get me wrong, it was absolutely stunning! But, I just feel like something was missing..." I pouted.

"The horns?"

"Yes, but.... oh...." I leaned back from him, cupping my jaw in my sweater paws as I thought.

"I just can't put my finger on it! It looked like it had everything, but... hmm... let's see... You have the cross, of course... the nails, the loincloth, the tape, the cuff, the mask, the cuts in its side, the crown of needles, which was a great touch, by the way...."

His eyes wandered, going over the mental list. He shrugged.

"With me in the demon getup, that sounds like just about everything... maybe you just want more blood? I know I do."

"Well, that goes without saying, silly..." I playfully scolded. "...... ugh, that's gonna bother me....!"

"Hey, it'll come to you. We still have four days before the 31st, that's plenty of time to spitball some ideas."

"Yeah, you're right.... We should just relax. I'm tirrrred..." I groaned and slumped onto him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into his neck.

"It has been an eventful day! We got a lot in. We can always pick it up again tomorrow."

"mmm... we didn't get in everything I wanted...." I held him tighter to me and grazed my lips and tongue against his neck, hoping he would catch my drift.

"Oh... ahah..." He trailed his hands up my sides. "I think we can fix that..."

"Yeah...?" I started sucking and nibbling at his flesh, clinging to him to draw him even closer, if that was possible. He cocked his head to the opposite side, giving me a little more access, and I took full advantage. He leaned back against the back of the couch, eyelids slowly drooping shut.

"Mmm… oh! Sweetie…”

“...hm…?”

“I think I... remembered.... what you.... forgot…~." I whispered against his neck between wet kisses and playful bites.

"What's that...?" He breathed out

I opened my mouth wide and clamped down on the skin I'd been sucking on, digging my teeth in with all the force my jaw could manage and locking it in place. He flinched away from the sudden jolt of pain, but had nowhere to go with my bodyweight pinning him to the couch. He tried to pry me off, tugging at my hair and clothes, but it only caused the delicate flesh to tear in my grip, blood gushing over my chin and tongue and down his collar bone. I thrashed my head, working the chunk free. His hands left my sides to clutch at the wound and shove me backward.

I kept a grip with my legs, but used the momentum to throw my arms upward, freeing my hands from my sweater and bringing them together over my head to clutch the utensil I'd hidden in the sleeve, the business side down and poised to strike.

I glowered down at him, lip curled upward in a sneer over my gritted teeth, relishing the panic and confusion in his eyes for a fraction of a second.

It felt so familiar. It reminded me of my first honeymoon with Sally. I’d been so afraid then, so hesitant to act. I had flip-flopped and chickened out and counted to three dozens of times while Sally slept on that same couch in that same position, thinking that I could prepare myself completely before attempting the blow, waiting for a perfect moment that would never come. I was only able to strike when I saw him look up at me, and realized that it wasn’t about a perfect moment- it was about now or never, a pounce- a one-time, calculated gamble, spring-loaded by adrenaline and hunger, over before you realize you’ve moved or can taste the blood in your teeth....

If I waited, I would never be ready. I just had to do it. And if I failed, I would do it over and over and over again, how ever many times it took, until I got it right... just like my Sally had done for me.

"You forgot the fork, Dumb Shit."

I plunged my weapon downward with every ounce of strength I had left, and in true do-over fashion, it pierced straight through his sclera, making the most sickening, satisfying ‘pop’ that I had ever heard.

#the Do-Over #K.E.W.K. draws #goretober #goretober2021 #sorry steve #tw cannibalism #tw torture #tw delusion #tw degradation #tw violence #tw blood #tw weapon #tw unsanitary #tw eye trauma #tw vomit #tw organs #tw needles #meet the fishers

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