#spark master tape

[spark-master-tape]

Recognize

[cincinapolis]

https://youtu.be/DnQVmYZW4ck?si=OJYaf6k4euZ4v4gE

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Two

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, are we soft for them already?

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Maths was a unique kind of enemy.

Harper stared at the page, where a tangle of numbers mocked her in perfect, immovable silence. Quadratic equations. Graphs that looked like abstract art. Somewhere in her notes, her own handwriting had turned against her.

Jane was no help. "Look, I'd love to assist, but I operate strictly in the humanities. You want me to write an essay on why algebra is a metaphor for emotional repression? I got you. Solve for x? That's between x and God."

Harper sighed, banging her forehead on the desk.

Which is exactly how Oscar found her after his endurance run, still in his hoodie, hair damp and cheeks pink from the cold.

"You okay?" He asked.

"No," she mumbled into the table. "I'm dying. Death by numbers."

He peered over her shoulder. "Those are easy."

She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. "You would say that." She glared at him.

Oscar laughed and slid into the seat beside her. "Alright. Come on. I'll show you."

At first, it was just him. Patient, steady, explaining with short, clipped phrases and pencil taps. She wasn't sure if it was his teaching style or just the fact that he wasn't condescending that made it slowly start to make sense.

But by the next evening, word had gotten out.

Somehow.

The dorm common room turned into a weirdly specific academic support group. Oscar's roommate Sam pulled up a chair. Then Cal (Oscar’s engineer) FaceTimed in "for moral support"; and then casually mentioned that he has a masters degree in quantum physics.

Then two boys from Oscar's algebra class wandered over with snacks and just so happened to linger.

By the third night, someone had drawn up a "Harper's Maths Survival Schedule" and taped it to the common room door.

It read:

Monday: Oscar Tuesday: Sam Wednesday: Oscar Thursday: Alfie Friday: Matt

Harper laughed so hard when she saw it, she nearly cried.

And weirdly, somehow — it helped.

Not just the maths—but everything. The pressure. The loneliness. The constant feeling that she was a visitor in someone else's life. Here, she wasn't her mother's daughter, or the less-than-perfect student, or a problem to be fixed.

She was just Harper. And they liked her enough to stick around and actually put effort into helping her get better at maths.

One night, after everyone else had trickled off, Oscar hung around a little longer. She was almost too tired to think, her head tipped back on the sofa, eventually lolling over to rest on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you did it," she murmured.

"Did what?"

"Managed to turn maths practice into something I look forward to."

He laughed lightly. "You just needed to stop being so hard on yourself about it."

She looked over at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks, Osc."

He paused for a second too long. "Yeah. You're welcome."

She didn't respond. Just blinked at him, soft and warm.

And when he kissed her, it wasn't shocking.

It just felt... right.

—

Oscar wasn't supposed to be here.

Technically, he could be permanently expelled from the school. Lose his scholarship.

Not that he seemed particularly worried about that as he ducked beneath the low dorm window Harper had jimmied open earlier that week with a pen and a high level of angry rebellion.

"You're late," Jane said from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, dabbing highlighter onto her cheekbones. "Harper said you'd be five minutes."

"I had to wait for your prefect to leave," Oscar replied, swinging a leg inside. "She was sniffing around like a bloodhound."

"You're lucky you're cute," Jane muttered, not looking up.

Oscar took in the room; two mismatched duvets, makeup scattered across the long desk, fairy lights tangled above a heart shaped mirror. The air smelled like vanilla body lotion and expensive shampoo and some kind of spice he couldn't place. Cinnamon, maybe.

Harper was perched on the windowsill, brushing her hair into a ponytail with one hand, holding a lip balm in the other. She was wearing a navy jumper over leggings, ankle tucked under her thigh like she hadn't even noticed he'd arrived—even though the pink high in her cheeks suggested otherwise.

"I feel like I've entered another dimension," Oscar said, warily eyeing an eyelash curler. "What is that?"

Jane brandished it like a weapon. "Beauty, my darling. Don't question the process."

"You're both unwell," he muttered, but he was smiling.

Harper rolled her eyes at him, but had to purse her lips to hide her smile. "You're the one who insisted on coming over."

"Yeah, and now I regret it," Oscar said, perching awkwardly on the edge of Harper's bed. He knew it was hers because her pillowcase was monogrammed with a cursive H. "What are you doing?"

"Makeup," Jane said, blending concealer with terrifying precision. "You should try it."

Harper handed him a compact mirror with a sly smile. "Want some mascara, Osc?"

Oscar caught his own reflection and made a face. "No. I'll stay ugly, thanks."

Harper rolled her eyes at him and nudged him. He noticed that she'd painted her fingernails a glittery pink. He liked them.

Jane tossed an empty crisp packet across the room and it landed somewhere close to the bin.

Harper held up two near-identical shades of what was apparently lip gloss and demanded that Oscar choose.

Oscar chose the darker pink and Harper beamed at him.

Eventually, Jane pulled her riding boots on and announced, "Right. I'm going to grab some water bottles. Don't kiss until I get back — I want to watch."

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — anything, but she was already gone.

And then it was just the two of them, the room suddenly quieter, more tense. Harper turned toward him, one knee bent on the chair, her face lightly painted with makeup, her cheeks flushed from the laughter.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks for coming, Osc. I missed you this weekend."

He stared for a second too long. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I wanted to come. I missed you too."

She didn't look away, and suddenly he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

He pushed off of the bed and walked over to her, leaned down and cupped her face in his hand and kissed her. Long and soft and perfectly minty — from his gum or her lipgloss, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Teamwork.

When they pulled apart, she exhaled shakily."Okay," she said, so softly it barely existed. "That was nice."

Oscar looked at her for a long moment, his thumb brushing a smudge of mascara off her cheekbone.

Then Jane banged back through the door with a flourish, freezing mid-step at their closeness.

"Oh my God, did you—? You did, didn't you. I missed it again!"

—

Half term at Harper's house felt like walking around in someone else's skin.

Every day was a new performance: a crisp outfit, polite laughter, perfectly timed nods in rooms filled with too-white teeth and names she was supposed to remember. The dining tables were long and silent, the smiles were sharp, and the wine flowed never-ending.

Her mother paraded her through charity galas and luncheons like she was a debutante being rebranded.

"Stand up straighter, Harper."

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"Do not mention anything to do with your schooling. God forbid they ask about your grades."

So Harper swallowed herself down, tucked her sarcasm into her clutch bag, and became exactly the daughter her mother wanted. For six days.

By the seventh, she'd become brittle.

When the train pulled back into the station near school, Harper had barely spoken a word for almost five hours. The Uber to the gates was quiet. Her mother didn't even look up from her phone when she said goodbye.

And then the building appeared—stone and ivy, wind in the trees, the faint smell of grass and cafeteria food.

Home, almost.

She hadn't texted Oscar. So she just walked straight to the common room, her bag still digging into her shoulder, hair pulled into a too-tight twist, like a fingerprint that her mother had left on her.

He was there, leaning against the radiator with his headphones half on, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up once and blinked like he wasn't sure she was real.

"Hey—"

She dropped her bag before he could finish. Crossed the space in three quick steps.

And then she was in his arms, burying her face into the curve of his neck.

No words. No warning.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms sliding around her, his hands settling at her back like they'd been waiting. He held her tightly.

For a long time, they didn't say anything.

Just her fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie. His chin tucked gently over her hair. The low hum of the radiator and the quiet outside, and the way she was shaking, not crying, not quite, but trembling with the pressure of having to be somebody else for too long.

Eventually, he whispered, "Was it that bad?"

She nodded into his chest.

"I missed you," he said.

She didn't answer; just held on tighter.

It was the first time she'd ever let herself lean on somebody like this. Not perform, not pretend—just be held. And she didn't care who saw or what anyone thought.

Oscar had quietly become her anchor. Her soft place.

And maybe that was terrifying.

She was only fourteen, Oscar fifteen — but God, his arms felt like safety. And warmth. And something else that she couldn't bear to even consider yet.

—

Harper's fifteenth birthday wasn't eventful.

She didn't tell anyone. Not because she didn't want them to know—but because birthdays in her world had always come with strings. Lavish luncheons, social climbing events, gifts that felt like bribes.

She just wanted this one to pass through quietly. Like a train through a tunnel.

Jane, of course, knew anyway. She left a pastry and a glittery crown on Harper's bed with a note that said, "You are legally required to feel loved today. I don't make the rules." The crown had little fake gems and kept slipping off Harper's head, but she wore it anyway during breakfast.

Oscar wasn't there.

He was in Italy. Or Belgium. Somewhere with a name that tasted foreign and exciting. Somewhere chasing corners at 120 miles per hour while she spent the morning trying to translate her messy English notes into a coherent essay.

Her and Oscar still weren't... official.

No labels, no silly promises.

Just soft looks and secret smiles, warm palms pressed together in the dark of the common room. Kisses that stretched time. Late-night texts that made her stomach twist in ways she still didn't know how to name.

But still. It was her birthday.

She didn't expect anything.

Which is why, when Jane dragged her back to their room after dinner, she nearly tripped over the package sitting on her desk.

There was no name on it. Just a strip of tape across the top, and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to the paper.

She tore it open slowly, heartbeat ticking louder with each pull.

Inside: a hoodie. Worn-in, navy blue. She recognised it immediately—it was Oscar's. The one he always wore over his racing suit, with his initials inked inside the collar. It smelled like him. Like soap and sun and sweat.

And tucked inside the folded fabric, a card.

H — Happy birthday. Sorry I'm not there. Don't let Jane make you wear the crown all day. Put this on instead. I'll be back before the end of the week. Save a birthday kiss for me. Osc x

She stared at the messy, awful, hardly eligible handwriting for a long time.

Then she pulled the hoodie on and let it swallow her whole.

Later, when they'd crawled back into the common room to watch a movie and everyone was pretending not to watch her phone light up every three minutes, Jane nudged her.

"You know he's basically your boyfriend, right?"

Harper rolled her eyes. "He's not, though."

Jane shrugged. "Oh, puh-lease. You're always wearing his clothes. You look at him like he's the moon and you're the stars. You guys kiss all the damn time — like you've got nowhere else to be."

"I don't need a label." Harper said.

"No," Jane said, smiling. "But you'll have one soon. I'd put money on it."

As if on cue, Harper's phone buzzed.

A photo. Oscar, in his race suit, grinning with helmet hair and grease on his cheek, holding up a little cupcake with a candle in it.

Wish you were here. Celebrating for you anyway. Happy Birthday, sunshine.

Harper didn't reply right away. Just closed her eyes, let the warmth bloom under her ribs, and whispered, mostly to herself, "I wish I was there too."

—

The night was cool and quiet in the early spring, the kind of night where the world seemed to be holding its breath for a warm day.

Harper waited near the edge of the astro turf, shadows stretching long under the floodlights that were turned off but still gave the field a faint glow from the nearby streetlamps.

Her hoodie was too big, but it felt like a shield—and it smelled like Oscar.

She heard footsteps before she saw him, and when he appeared, the grin he gave her was full of all the things words hadn't managed to say.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey," she replied, stepping closer.

They settled on the edge of the turf, legs stretched out, the grass synthetic but soft beneath them.

For a while, they just sat. Quiet but close. Hands finding each other like magnets.

Then Oscar broke the silence. "So... uh, us," he started, voice hesitant but steady.

Harper turned her head toward him, watching the way his eyes caught the light, shadows flickering like secrets.

"I don't want to mess this up," he said, his lips curled awkwardly. "But I really like you, Harper. Like... so much."

She took a breath. "I like you too," she whispered. "More than friends."

He grinned, that slow, real smile that made everything else fall away. "So—you want to be my girlfriend?"

She stared at him, her stomach warm and twirling, her lips twitching into a fond, sweet smile. "Yeah, Osc. Yeah. I want to be your girlfriend."

—

The track in Essex was wet. Not just damp — soaked. The kind of cold, miserable damp that clung to your bones and turned the air misty around the edges.

Harper stood at the edge of the paddock with Mark, a steaming takeaway cup with hot chocolate cupped between her hands, the sleeves of Oscar's team hoodie pulled down over her wrists. Her boots were already muddy. Her nose was red. She didn't care one single bit.

Because out there — helmet on, eyes narrow, engine growling beneath him — was Oscar. Fast, fluid, terrifyingly good.

Mark watched silently, arms folded, one eye on the stopwatch. "Final lap," he murmured.

Harper didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was in her throat.

Then he crossed the finish line — just ahead, by a fraction of a second.

A cheer broke out across the team tent, someone throwing their arms in the air. Mechanics pounded backs. One of the younger juniors swore loudly in delight.

Oscar skidded into the pit lane and yanked off his helmet. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed, wild-eyed, grinning.

Harper barely waited. She ducked under the barrier and ran straight into his arms.

He caught her mid-stride, lifting her clean off the ground with a muddy laugh.

"You did it," she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying.

He held her tighter, nose brushing her temple. "I did it."

Their kiss was messy and cold and perfect.

A few feet away, Mark shook his head with a smile and muttered, "Teenagers."

Later, after the podium and the trophy photos and the engine checks and the interviews he barely paid attention to, Oscar found her again — sitting on a folding chair, wet hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her boots still caked in track dirt.

He dropped down in front of her, ignoring the mud. His hands slid around her knees.

"You cold?" He asked.

"A bit."

He peeled off his jacket and tugged it over her without thinking.

She let her hands drift to his collar. "You really are the best boyfriend ever, aren't you?"

He shrugged. His cheeks flushed a little. "I try my best."

They sat like that in the growing dusk, a boy covered in sweat and rubber and a girl who didn't belong in this world — but somehow fit in it perfectly anyway.

They still hadn't said the words.

But everyone around them already knew.

They could see it.

"Bloody young love, eh?" One of the mechanics said to Mark, giving him a friendly grin.

Mark stared at his protege and the girl he was wrapped around. "Yeah. Young love. A hell of a thing."

—

The Monday morning after Oscar's karting championship win was business as usual — at least for everyone else.

The cafeteria stank of burnt toast and unripened bananas. Someone's rugby kit had been left to rot in the corridor again. Teachers were barking about mock exams and how important breakfast was for concentration.

Rain pattered against the high windows.

The whispers had started the moment they walked in — not mean, just curious. A mix of respect and amusement. He's the karting kid who actually did it. And she was the girl who'd been there.

They didn't hold hands in front of everyone, they were both too awkward for that, but they walked close. His bag brushed hers. Their shoulders kept touching. She caught him glancing at her more than once, and she blushed every damn time.

They sat at their usual table; Jane joined them, already mid-rant about the biology quiz, and Oscar slid into the seat beside Harper like it was instinct. A few of his mates clapped him on the back, one of them tossing out, "Bloody hell, Piastri. Gonna forget us little people soon?"

Oscar grinned but didn't rise to it. His hand brushed Harper's knee under the table.

After breakfast, Harper slipped away early. Sometimes, the morning noise was too much. She wandered toward the astro, the damp still clinging to the edges of the pitch, her trainers leaving faint impressions on the stone pathway.

A minute later, she heard footsteps behind her.

"You always going to run off without me?" Oscar's voice, soft, teasing.

She turned and squinted at him. "I wasn't running," she said.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You okay, babe?"

Babe.

Babe. Babe. Babe.

"No," she said. "Yes. No. I don't know. I just needed to breathe."

He stepped up beside her, both of them facing the empty turf.

"You think my mum's going to be pissed when she finds out?" She asked after a minute.

He glanced sideways at her. "About you going to the race?"

"No. Yes. But I meant more about us."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. She probably will."

She looked at him; saw the mud-streaked, medal-wearing, boy-who-won-the-thing him. The one who kissed her under floodlights and held her on her worst days. The one she'd never trade for any high-brow, suit-wearing finance guy in any universe.

"You really aren't going anywhere, are you?" She whispered. "

He shook his head. "Not unless you're coming with me."

She stepped into his chest and sniffled a little, then looked up and lifted onto her tiptoes to let him kiss her.

—

It started as a joke.

One day in maths, Harper made a face so violently pained at the sight of a clock diagram on a worksheet that Jane nearly fell off her chair laughing.

That evening, Oscar mentioned it to the guys — just casually, in that offhand way that somehow made them all very invested in Harper's educational redemption arc.

By the weekend, there was a printed-out worksheet titled "MISSION: TEACH HARPER TO READ A CLOCK" taped to the common room wall.

It escalated quickly.

Now, every Tuesday evening, the boys' dorm turned into a chaotic, loving, entirely misguided tutoring group.

Like an off-brand of the maths tutoring program they'd thrown together for her — but with more interest.

There was Oscar, naturally, trying to be the patient one. Then Alfie, who thought yelling was teaching. Ethan, who brought snacks. And Matt, who had made a papier-mâché clock face out of a pizza box. With arrows.

Harper sat in the middle of them like a hostage.

"I'm telling you," she said, pointing wildly at the pizza box. "That one's ten. I swear. It's a ten."

Oscar, sitting cross-legged beside her, gently rotated the cardboard. "Harper, the big hand is on the two. That means it's ten past the hour. Not ten o'clock."

"Okay but how am I meant to know which hand is the minute hand? They're both just... hands."

Alfie groaned. "The minute hand is the longer one! Like, always! What do you mean 'just hands'?"

"They're not labelled!" She cried. "If someone handed you two spoons and said one was for soup and one was for jazz, would you know the difference?"

Everyone stopped.

Matt blinked. "Why would I have a jazz spoon?"

Oscar covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

Ethan passed Harper a cookie. "Here."

She took it. "I'm just saying — numbers on a clock move. They're not meant to move." She grumbled and gave herself a frustrated forehead tap. "God, I'm so stupid."

Oscar leaned his shoulder gently against hers. "No you're not. You know that you're not, Harper. You know you're brilliant at a million other things."

She glanced at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"You have perfect spatial memory. You memorised my whole kart setup after watching one session. You've mastered a million different coding languages already. You're good with people. You know how to read a room faster than anyone I've ever met. And," he added, deadpan, "you've successfully confused four teenage boys into thinking teaching time is a fun group activity."

She laughed then, warm and tired. "Well. Can't say I'm not a good influence, can the?"

"You're just a bit of a lost cause when it comes to clocks," Alfie muttered, re-taping the pizza clock for the fifth time.

But Harper didn't care about clocks. Not really.

Because she was surrounded. Because they kept showing up — Oscar with his soft corrections, Alfie with his shouting, Jane peeking in with popcorn halfway through every session. They all knew. About the dyscalculia, about the clocks, about her brain doing loop-de-loops over simple sums.

And none of them ever made her feel stupid for it.

Just... loved.

Even if she still couldn't tell the difference between three-forty-five and quarter past the hour (because what the hell did that even mean?).

—

It happened on the following Wednesday.

Halfway through the day, Harper was pulled from class. A quiet word from a teaching assistant, a murmured excuse. No one offered a reason why.

She thought it might be something small. Maybe Jane had accidentally set off the fire alarm again.

But then she stepped into the front office — and saw her mother sitting there, spine straight, legs crossed, lips pursed in thin, unimpressed silence.

Harper's stomach dropped.

"Come," her mother said, standing. "We'll talk in the car."

⸻

The car was parked on the far side of the lot, a sleek black town car that looked like it belonged outside a private gallery in Mayfair. Not a school car park.

Harper slid in, cold air brushing her ankles, heart thudding in her chest like it already knew what was coming.

Her mother didn't speak until the door shut.

"A karting race?" Her voice was like glass. "Karting, Harper?"

Harper blinked. "How do you—?"

"I got a call," she said, cutting her off. "From someone on the board. They saw photos. You, standing in the dirt with oil on your jeans. Smiling like you'd won the lottery. Holding hands with some, boy, in a racing suit. Do you understand how humiliating that was for me?"

"It's not—"

Her mother turned, eyes sharp and glittering. "Do you have any idea how much I've done to protect your name? Your future? And you're throwing it away for... boys who drive go-karts and call it a sport?"

Harper's hands curled in her lap. "He's not just a boy," she said quietly. "And it is a sport."

"Oh," her mother sneered, "is he your boyfriend now? Do you want to bring him to your cousin's wedding in Vienna next month? Shall we seat him between a baroness and a venture capitalist and see how long he lasts before talking about gear ratios?"

Harper flinched. "Stop."

But she didn't.

"You are not one of them, Harper. You are not some muddy little pitlane girlfriend who throws her life away for some boy with too much money and a ridiculous dream. I will not let you become a story people whisper about."

"I'm happy," Harper said, voice rising. "For once in my life, I'm actually—"

"Enough." Her mother's voice was like a slap. "We're withdrawing you at the end of term. I've already spoken to Madame Viard. There's a place for you at Lausanne International. You leave for Switzerland in January."

The silence after was suffocating.

Harper sat frozen, winded, as if someone had punched all the air out of her.

Her mother adjusted a glove, calm again. "You'll thank me someday."

But Harper wasn't listening anymore.

Her mother's jaw was clenched so tightly that a vein twitched in her temple.

"Fine," Harper said, voice low but steady.

The word dropped like a weight in the space between them.

Her mother blinked, surprised by the ease of her surrender.

But then Harper looked up — and there was fire behind her eyes. Her voice was calm, controlled, but every word burned.

"But you should know," she said, leaning forward just slightly, "that when Oscar's driving in Formula One — not if, when — and he's one of the most successful athletes in the world, I won't look back. I won't give you an inch. I'll let you sit in your wrongness and stew in it forever."

Her mother went bright red. "Do you think you're making this better for yourself?"

Harper laughed — a bitter, tired sound. "No. I know I'm making it worse. I'm very aware of how this works, Mum. I step out of line, and you slam the gates shut. But what else can I do?"

She paused, chest heaving slightly now.

"You don't listen to me. You never have. You just tell me what my life is going to be. What I wear. Who I talk to. Where I study. Who I sit next to at dinner parties like I'm some sort of accessory you place on a chair next to a financier's son. You talk through me like I'm not a human being. Like I don't have wants and desires and dreams of my own."

"Harper—"

"No. You don't get to talk now."

She didn't raise her voice — didn't need to. Every word sliced clean and deliberate.

"The worst part? The part that actually makes me want to scream? Is that I know Dad would be so happy I found someone like Oscar. That I found someone who likes me in the quietest, most awkward, most real way."

Her breath hitched — not from tears, but from the pressure of keeping them in.

"He's so bad at it. At being romantic. He blushes when I look at him for too long. He stammers when he's nervous. He opens doors and fixes my hair without saying a word. He doesn't like PDA. He frowns when he's concentrating and forgets to drink water and spends more time worrying about everyone else's lap times than his own."

She looked her mother dead in the eye.

"And yeah — he races karts. But he moved all the way here from Australia on his own at fourteen. He trains his body every single day for hours on end. He's braver than anyone I've ever met. Can you name one of your friends' sons who would've had the guts to do that? Or who would sit with me for an hour to explain how to read an analogue clock without laughing at me? Or who lets me cry without asking questions because he knows I hate explaining myself?"

Silence crackled in the car.

Her mother's lips parted — but nothing came out.

So Harper filled the space.

"You raised me to care more about perception than truth. To be polished. Obedient. Photogenic. And I'm done."

She reached for the door handle, voice like steel. "You want to send me to Switzerland? Fine. But you'll have to drag me there. Kicking and screaming."

She opened the door, letting in the sharp slap of cold air, and turned back one last time.

"Because I've finally found something that's mine. And I'm not giving it up for you. Not this time."

Then she stepped out of the car and walked back to class.

NEXT CHAPTER

[growthhyp]

Hello! Just wondering if the garage sale might have maybe a tape measure? Not that there's anything much to measure, except maybe around the midsection (haha) but I was told measuring regularly would be good for tracking progress at the gym.

The Measuring Tape

As you stroll down the quiet suburban street, the vibrant chirps of birds and rustling leaves serve as the morning's soundtrack. You spot the garage sale, a beacon of hope amidst the mundane. Your eyes light up, not for the potential bargains, but for the Adonis-like figure standing guard over the assorted knick-knacks and forgotten treasures. The muscular man's physique is a stark contrast to your own lanky frame, a silent testament to the hours of sweat and toil he must've invested at the gym.

You've been religiously adhering to your New Year's resolution for the past two weeks, pumping iron and pushing your limits, but your body seems to be playing a cruel trick on you, refusing to budge from its familiar skinny confines. The sight of the garage sale is a serendipitous gift, an opportunity to seek guidance from someone who's clearly mastered the art of sculpting their body. As you approach, the muscular man's eyes meet yours, and you feel a sudden wave of self-consciousness, your hand instinctively reaching to cover the slight bulge of your belly.

Without missing a beat, you spill out your frustrations to this stranger, the words tumbling out in a jumbled mess of insecurities and hope. The muscular man nods in understanding, his eyes never leaving yours, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. He reaches behind the counter and pulls out a dusty, slightly bent measuring tape. "This might help," he says, his voice a smooth rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. "It's all about tracking your progress. You wouldn't believe how motivating it can be to see those numbers change."

You take the tape from him, your fingertips brushing against his, and you can't help but feel a spark of something electric. He winks, and you blush, feeling both embarrassed and thrilled by his gesture. "Take it," he urges. "It's only a dollar. It's practically a steal." You fish out a crumpled bill from your pocket and exchange it for the tape, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as you do so. It's as if he's peering into your very soul, seeing the raw desire to transform into something more.

Once home, you strip down to your red shorts, eager to begin this new ritual. The notebook lies open on the bed, the pencil poised and ready to record every inch of progress. You start with your weight, stepping onto the scale with a deep breath. The needle wobbles before settling at 120 lbs. You scribble it down, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment. Then, you move to your height – a solid 5'9", not too shabby. But as you wrap the tape around your chest and arms, you can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at the initial measurements. 36 inches for your chest, 12 inches for your biceps – it's clear you have a long way to go.

You continue measuring, each number etched into your notebook with a mix of excitement and determination. Your waist is a slim 28 inches, your legs a lean 29. But it's when you get to your neck and calves that the tape seems to tighten around your skin, revealing the beginnings of what might be considered 'gains'. 12 inches around the neck, 13 inches around each calf – not bad for a newbie. And then there's your cock – a modest 4 inches in length and 3 in girth – something you've always been a little self-conscious about, but maybe with the same dedication, you could see some growth there too.

The measuring process becomes almost ritualistic, a sacred pact you make with yourself every week. You document your stats with a fervor usually reserved for a gym enthusiast's workout log, the numbers whispering sweet nothings of potential into your ear. Each day at the gym, you push a little harder, lift a little more, all with the image of the muscular man's nod of approval in your mind's eye.

Six weeks, you've given yourself. Six weeks to carve out the body you've always desired. The first few days are a blur of pain and sweat, your muscles screaming in protest at the unaccustomed exertion. But with each ache and burn, you feel yourself inching closer to your goal.

Week 1 passes, and you eagerly strip down to compare the new you with the old. The scale reads 130 lbs, a solid 10 pounds heavier, and you feel it in your muscles, which seem to have swelled with a newfound life. You stand a proud 5'10", having gained an inch in height, and your body fat percentage has dropped to 12%. The measuring tape confirms your suspicion – your cock has indeed lengthened to 5 inches, and thickened slightly to a girth of 4 inches.

As you flex your biceps, you're thrilled to see they've bulked up to 14 inches around. The veins in your arms are more pronounced now, a sign of the hard work you've been putting in. Your chest has ballooned to 38 inches, filling out your shirts nicely, and your calves have gone from 13 to 14.5 inches. Your legs have filled out too, now a solid 30 inches around. The waist remains at 28 inches, a testament to your discipline in keeping the fat at bay. The neck measurement surprises you the most – a full inch thicker at 13 inches. It's a powerful look that screams 'alpha male'.

Your confidence is soaring, and it's not just in the gym. You've noticed that you're holding yourself differently – shoulders back, chest out, and chin up. You've started to command attention when you enter a room, and it's not just because you're taller. It's like the extra muscle has pumped life into your very essence, turning you into someone who can't be ignored. You catch yourself staring at your reflection in every mirror, admiring the way your newfound muscles ripple and dance in the light.

And the jerking off…it's become something of an obsession. Every night, after a grueling session at the gym, you can't wait to get home and let your hand do the work your exhausted muscles can't. The sensations are more intense than ever before, and you've discovered that you have a knack for edging – bringing yourself to the brink of climax, then pulling back, only to repeat the process over and over again. It's a sweet torment that leaves you gasping and your cock begging for release. Sometimes, when you're feeling particularly wild, you'll sneak into the gym's shower and let yourself go, the hot water cascading over your shoulders as you stroke your now 6-inch length to a powerful orgasm.

Two weeks have passed, and you find yourself back in front of the mirror with the measuring tape. The numbers are in, and they're nothing short of astonishing. You've packed on another 30 pounds, shooting up to 160 lbs. You've grown another inch, now standing tall at 5'11". Your body fat has dropped to a lean 10%, making every muscle pop out in sharp relief. Your chest has blossomed to a massive 40 inches, your biceps are thick slabs of meat at 16 inches around. Your calves have bulged to 15 inches, and your legs are now a sturdy 31 inches of pure power. And your neck? It's a thick, unyielding column of muscle at 14 inches.

But it's the last two measurements that really get your heart racing. Your cock has grown to a proud 6 inches in length and a hefty 5 inches around. The girth is what really gets you – the way it fills your hand, the weight of it hanging between your legs. It's not just the size, though – it's the feeling of power and virility that comes with it. You can't help but stroke it, feeling the newfound sensitivity that seems to come with every workout. It's as if your entire body is waking up to new possibilities, and your libido has gone through the roof.

You've started to feel an insatiable hunger, not just for food, but for attention. You strut around the gym, flexing in the mirrors, watching the other guys steal glances at your bulging biceps and thickened neck. You've even started to catch the eyes of some of the girls who frequent the place, their gazes lingering just a bit longer than before. It's intoxicating, this newfound allure, and you find yourself craving the gym more and more, not just for the gains, but for the way you feel when you're there – powerful, desired, and in control.

Week 3 rolls around, and you're eager to see what the tape has to say. You've been pushing yourself to the limit, your workouts now a blur of pain and pleasure. You're up to 180 lbs, a full 60 pounds heavier than when you started. You've shot up another inch to 6'1", towering over many of the people you used to look up to. Your body fat has plummeted to a mere 8%, leaving every muscle stark and defined. The numbers on your notebook's pages are a testament to your transformation – 42 inches around the chest, 18 inches for your biceps, and a neck that's thickened to a formidable 15 inches.

But it's your legs that really get you going now. They've gone from twigs to tree trunks, each one a monument to your dedication. Your waist is still a respectable 30 inches, but your cock has outdone itself – now a stunning 7 inches in length and a thick 6 in girth. It's a weapon of pleasure that you can't help but admire in the mirror, your hand almost trembling as you wrap the tape around it. The sight of your swollen package sends a bolt of excitement straight to your core, and you realize that you're not just getting more attractive – you're becoming a beast in every sense of the word.

You've started to notice changes in your appetites, too. Your hunger for food is insatiable, your fridge groaning under the weight of protein shakes and chicken breasts. But it's not just food that fuels your desires. Your thoughts are consumed by sex, the need to claim and conquer. It's a primal instinct that's been awakened. You've found someone who appreciates the new you, a gym buddy who's more than happy to help you burn off some steam. You've been hooking up after your workouts, sweat-drenched and pumped full of endorphins, pushing each other's bodies to the limit in a different kind of workout.

Your voice has transformed into a velvety bass that seems to resonate with every word you speak. You command the room when you speak, your words carrying an authority that wasn't there before. It's intoxicating, the way people hang on your every word, eager to catch a glimpse of the new you.

Week 4 has come, and with it, a new set of measurements. You're now a hulking 200 lbs of solid muscle, the kind that makes other guys at the gym look like they're playing dress-up. Your height has stretched to a towering 6'2", and your body fat has dropped to a minuscule 6%. You flex in the mirror, watching your chest balloon to an unbelievable 44 inches, your biceps swelling to a ludicrous 19 inches around. Your waist has filled out to 30, not with flab, but with the kind of muscle that makes your abs look like they've been chiseled from marble. Your legs have become a pair of sculpted pillars, each one a work of art at 33 inches around. And your neck? It's a thick, powerful 16 inches that screams 'don't fuck with me'.

But it's not just your body that's transformed. Your cock has become a thing of legend among those who've seen it – 8 inches of throbbing power, with a girth that could make a pornstar weep. It hangs heavy between your legs, a constant reminder of your newfound masculinity. You've started to enjoy the way people look at you now – the awe, the envy, the lust. It's a drug, and you're addicted. You spend hours at the gym, not just working out, but parading your body for all to see. You've become the poster boy for physical perfection, and everyone wants a piece of you.

Your experiments in the locker room have become more frequent and more daring. You've discovered that with great size comes great opportunity. You've had your pick of the gym's most attractive members, each one eager to feel your newfound girth inside them. The whispers and glances have turned into outright propositions, and you've found that saying 'yes' to every offer has only made you crave more. You've become a sexual god, and the altar is wherever you happen to be at the moment.

The echo of your deep, commanding voice reverberates off the cold tiles, sending a shiver down the spine of anyone within earshot. It's a sound that demands attention, a siren's call that no one can ignore. You've noticed that people listen to you more, your opinions hold more weight, and when you speak, everyone seems to lean in, as if eager to soak up the very essence of your power.

Week 5. The moment of truth has arrived, and with it, the promise of unbridled growth. You stand before the full-length mirror in your gym, the chilly air causing the hairs on your chiseled body to stand on end. You're a monolith of muscle, a testament to your unyielding dedication. The scale groans under your weight, the needle settling at a staggering 300 lbs. You're not just fit; you're a force of nature. The measuring tape stretches and constricts around your Herculean form, each number whispering sweet nothings of triumph into your eager ears.

Your height has shot up to 6'6", making you the giant in every room you enter. Your body fat is a mere 3%, so low that it's practically non-existent. Every inch of you is pure, unadulterated power. Your chest has ballooned to an astounding 50 inches, a monument to your relentless bench pressing. Your biceps are now a ludicrous 22 inches around, bulging like boulders beneath your skin. Your calves are a marvel at 17.5 inches, each flex a silent declaration of your lower body's might. And your waist, a tight 31 inches, is the envy of every man and woman who dares to look your way.

But it's your cock that truly sets you apart. 12 inches long and a staggering 9 inches in girth, it's a beast that could make even the most experienced adult film star quake with trepidation. The mere sight of it has become the stuff of legend among the gym rats and the whispers of the regulars. It's not just the size that's changed; the way it feels is different too. The veins pulse with a newfound vitality, and the head is now a dark, swollen cap that demands attention. The feeling of power it brings is intoxicating, turning every encounter into a conquest waiting to happen.

As you flex in the mirror, the muscles in your neck and jawline ripple, a sign of the testosterone coursing through your body. Your deep laugh fills the room, the sound of it echoing with a newfound authority that sends a shiver down the spine of anyone nearby. You've become the embodiment of lust and desire, and the gym has become your playground. Your eyes scan the room, seeking out the next challenge, the next willing participant in your quest for physical dominance.

The whispers of the other gym-goers reach your ears, a symphony of envy and admiration. You revel in it, knowing that every pair of eyes on you is a silent affirmation of your power. You've started to crave the hunt, the thrill of the chase that comes with being the biggest, baddest wolf in the pack. And oh, the places you've been. The locker room, the sauna, even the benches outside – you've left your mark on every inch of the gym, each encounter more intense than the last.

You've become a legend, the kind of guy that newbies whisper about in awe. The kind of guy who could bend steel bars with his bare hands if he wanted to. The kind of guy who could make anyone – man or woman – beg for mercy. You've learned to wield your new body like a weapon, and the effect it has on people is undeniable. You've had flings with the most popular girls in the gym, leaving them breathless and trembling with every thrust of your massive cock. You've also found that some of the guys have started eyeing you with a mix of admiration and something else – something you're more than willing to explore if they can handle it.

Week 6, and you're eager to see just how much more you can grow. You stand before the mirror, the cold light of day caressing your colossal form. The numbers on your notebook read like a fantasy come to life – 320 lbs of pure, unbridled power. You've shot up to a towering 6'8", making even the basketball players look up to you. Your body fat is a minuscule 2%, so low that it's practically invisible. Your cock has reached a mind-boggling 15 inches in length and a monstrous 11 inches in girth – a beast that could make even the most seasoned pornstar quiver in fear.

You flex your chest in the mirror, watching the muscles swell to an unbelievable 55 inches around. Your biceps are now a ludicrous 25 inches of bulging, veiny steel. Your calves have ballooned to 18.5 inches, each flex a testament to your tireless work ethic. Your waist has remained a tight 32 inches, a stark contrast to your massive thighs, now a staggering 39 inches around each. And your neck – oh, your neck – it's a thick, unyielding 21 inches that could crush a watermelon between your colossal traps. And your feet – a size 17 now – have grown to accommodate your newfound bulk, the very ground seeming to tremble with each thunderous step.

Your cock has become the stuff of myths, a 15-inch monster with a 10-inch girth that would make even the most seasoned porn star quake with fear. It hangs heavily between your legs, a constant reminder of the power you wield. The locker room whispers have turned into full-blown conversations about the legend of your size and stamina. You've become the gym's resident Casanova, the man everyone wants a piece of – and you're more than happy to oblige.

As you strut through the gym, your voice booms with a deep bass that could rival the sound system. It's a sound that commands attention, and everyone seems to hang on your every word. You can't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all, your teeth gleaming in the fluorescent lights as you flex your 28-inch biceps. The veins in your arms pop like a roadmap to pleasure, a stark contrast to the lean, veiny forearms that had once been your only source of pride.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and can't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards that muscular man at the garage sale. His simple advice had sparked a transformation so profound it was almost unbelievable. The measuring tape had become a symbol of your growth. Each week, as you measured your progress, you felt a newfound respect for your body and the power it now wielded.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Screams, S’mores, and Summerween

A/N: Today is Friday the 13th, which I’m excited for because I planned a summerween party. I am a huge Halloween lover so I just had to write this idea! I hope you enjoy my silly fic no one asked for this but my heart and brain lol

There are a lot of things in this world Bob Reynolds doesn’t understand. Tax codes. TikTok. Why would anyone voluntarily eat candy corn? And now, apparently, Summerween.

==================

“Friday the 13th is in June this year,” you explained a week ago, sitting cross-legged on his lap while showing him a Pinterest board filled with plastic bats, eyeball cake pops, and something called ‘Boo berries.’ “It’s like Halloween, but warm! We’re doing it. You, me, the team. Mandatory fun.”

He had nodded then, mostly because he liked when you got that excited, but also because the idea of you smiling in a room filled with cobweb decorations and rubber spiders sounded a lot better than another evening of pretending the team liked each other. 

Now Bob’s not afraid of much. He’s fought off a lot of enemies, overcame addiction,  and contained the Void. He could punch holes in space-time. But right now? He is afraid...of glitter. Specifically, the metric ton of glitter currently coating your kitchen counter, your floor, and somehow—his eyelashes. “Sweetheart?” he asks gently. “Is it supposed to... sparkle this much?”

You’re hunched over a glue gun like a woman possessed, eyes wild with craft-induced power. “It’s not done until it looks like a spirit Halloween and a haunt Michael's exploded.” He nods slowly. “Of course. Haunted Michael’s. That’s a quantifiable goal.” You hand him a half-finished garland of skulls wearing sunglasses. “Here, can you string the rest of these? I already cut the twine and pre-punched the holes.”

Bob takes it carefully, like it’s fragile cosmic glass instead of plastic party decor. “On it.”

He doesn’t question the task. Doesn’t even ask why one of the skulls has rhinestone eyebrows. He just sits beside you, golden energy sparking faintly at his fingertips as he ties perfect little knots on each one.

“Bob,” you say suddenly, not looking up, “do you think the team is going to hate this?”

“They’ll live,” he says easily. “You’re sure?” You ask more timidly now. He glances at the Summerween Master Plan taped to the fridge—color-coded by activity type, with a danger level rating system. “You’re throwing a party with themed snacks, nostalgia games, and a fake eyeball piñata,” he says. “Worst case? John trips over a fog machine.” You groan and lean into him. “I just want it to be fun. I want it to become like... a good memory.” He presses a kiss to your temple, fingers still carefully looping twine. “Then it already is.” You glance up at him, misty-eyed. “You’re sappy.”

“I’m supportive,” he says, deadpan. “And possibly covered in googly eyes.” You look—and sure enough, two plastic eyes are stuck to his bicep like they’re trying to wink at you. You cackle. He smiles at the sound, then he leans over and grabs a glitter-covered witch hat from the table.

“Do I wear this like... forward-facing witch, or jaunty side angle?” You blink. “Wait, are you volunteering a costume?” He nods completely seriously, “Witch-husband. For morale.” You beam. “Bob Reynolds, destroyer of voids, king of my heart.”

“And part-time party intern,” he adds, sticking the hat on completely backwards. You let him keep it that way.

When you invited the team to the party they looked confused. Alexei cheered and talked about how glad he was to not be the only one planning team bounding anymore, Bucky shrugged and mumbled “Just tell me when to show up” But Ava questioned it. “Let me get this straight,” Ava says, “You dragged us all in here to celebrate… fake Halloween?”

“It’s Summerween,” you correct, taping a paper bat to the wall. “Friday the 13th in June. It’s spooky season’s off-brand cousin. Horror movies, themed snacks, vaguely cursed backyard games. It's a total vibe.” John shakes his head and mutters, “You fabricated a holiday.” 

“It’s totally a thing now” Bob shrugs from the couch, already wearing a black tank top that says Camp Crystal Running Team and his witches hat. He gives you a soft smile. “Besides, she made mini pizzas shaped like jack-o’-lanterns.” He could tell the team was hiding their excitement, especially when Yelena asked “...what kind of pizza?” 

====================

Now Bob is sitting on a couch that smells vaguely like burnt marshmallows, watching Ava stare down a bowl of gummy worms like it’s a threat, he can confidently decide that all this work was absolutely worth it. You float by carrying a tray of what you proudly call “mummy dogs”—hot dogs with croissant rolls wrapped around them and offer him one with a wink.

He takes it. He eats it. It tastes like joy and effort and at least six Pinterest fails you didn’t let him see. “Hey,” you say quietly, crouching beside him with your hands still full. “Is this dumb?” He shakes his head instantly. “No. Not at all.” You look over at him unsure, “You sure? I think Barnes is plotting to set the candy bowl on fire.” Bob gave you a look, “Princess…He would do that on normal days.”

You smile, and that’s it. That’s the reason he’ll sit through two more slasher movies and let John throw fake blood at him during ‘Serial Killer Freeze Tag.’ Because when you smile like that, like the world is soft for once, Bob feels grounded. Not like the Sentry. Not like the Void. Just... Bob. You’re curled into his side as the opening scene of Cabin in the Woods plays. Your heartbeat ticks against his ribs. The team is arrayed around you—Yelena already halfway through a candy apple, Alexei asking if zombies or vampires count as “enhanced threats.” Bob’s not paying much attention to the movie. Not really. Every time you flinch, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to stop the movie?” he whispers after a particularly gory scene.

You blink up at him. “Why?”

“I could fly the DVD into the sun. Easily.” You snort. “Bob, sweetie, I made a schedule. We’re watching four movies.” He nods solemnly. “Then I will endure.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “That’s very romantic.” He chuckles, “Well I do try.”

It’s humid outside but you two are still sharing a plaid blanket. You’ve strung up lights across the backyard and organized an obstacle course of inflatable gravestones, glow sticks, and rubber axes. Bob had to tiptoe around carefully just to avoid stepping on a chocolate eyeball.

You’re running around, officiating Serial Killer Freeze Tag with the intensity of a commander, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. Hair a mess, shirt slightly smeared with fake blood, clipboard in hand. Bucky trips John so he ends up in the kiddie pool full of glow-in-the-dark skeletons. Yelena is chasing Alexei with a water gun that looks like a chainsaw. Ava phases through a tree and wins again. Bob watches you laugh and clap and cheer, and thinks, I could make a star, and it still wouldn’t be as bright as she looks when she's this happy.

=================

After the movie credits roll, after the eyeball piñata explodes in a cloud of sour dust and shitty candy, after the team half-heartedly promises to “never do any of this again,” it’s just you and him on the porch. Bob wrapped his arm around you and laid his cheek on your hair before muttering “That was… surprisingly fun.” You hummed, “You didn’t think it would be?” You could feel him shrug against you, “I thought you were messing with me.” He grins. “The scary part was how fast Yelena got competitive.” You laughed at the memory before cringing “She bit someone during Freeze Tag.” Bob nods. “Might’ve been the most terrifying part of the night.”

The string lights are still glowing. The paper ghosts are drooping. You’re leaning on his shoulder, warm and soft and smug. “Thanks for playing along,” you whisper. “Thanks for letting me.” You look up. “You liked it?” He nods completely content. “You were happy. I like you happy, it makes me happy.”

“You really got into everything.” You commented with a soft smile while threading your fingers through his.  “I could feel the spirit of Summerween flowing through me.” Your laugh danced through the air and brought a bigger smile onto his face. “Next year: matching costumes?” He pretends to groan. “Do I have a choice?” You tilt your head. “No.” With a very dramatic sigh he shrugs “Guess I’ll just have to be your ghost pirate husband.” You beam. “You do love me.” He kisses your forehead. “With my whole, undead heart.”

Thank you so much for reading my work! As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

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[hippiegoth97]

Where Is My Mind?: Eddie Munson x Reader

Collage by me :)

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Description: It's your two-year anniversary with Eddie, and you both spend the evening exchanging 'gifts'...

Content Warning 18+ Only, Minors DNI: Smut, female reader, fingering, oral sex, squirting, consecutive orgasms, embarrassment, crying, overstimulation

Word Count: 4.8k

divider by @firefly-graphics

Where Is My Mind?

"Oh, God, Eddie!" You cry out as an overwhelming orgasm rocks through you. Your hands are tangled in Eddie's hair as he's been going down on you for the last hour or so. You’ve already cum three times, but he refuses to let up. You're soaked in sweat, your body sparking as he keeps licking and sucking on you to build you up again. "Baby, haven't you had enough? Your tongue must be getting tired." You whine, feeling your insides tighten in preparation for yet another orgasm.

He stops for a second to answer you. "Not at all angel, you taste so good. I could do this all night, and I love hearing you scream my name." He immediately dives back in, sticking his tongue inside your soaked cunt. His cock strains against his jeans, but he manages to get a little friction from kneeling against the side of his bed as he works on you.

Earlier tonight, the two of you had been celebrating your two-year anniversary. Eddie made spaghetti for dinner, and he gave you a beautiful bouquet of your favorite flowers. He also made you a mixtape, one he said was perfect for eating you out. Eager to test it, he popped the tape into the portable stereo and pounced on you. You hadn't even had the chance to give Eddie his gift, he was too preoccupied stripping you of your clothes and kissing every inch of flesh on your body.

Eddie has managed to keep all of his clothes on, he knows he'll get what he desires from you soon enough. But he wants to show you just how much he loves you. You're his whole world, a queen ruling over his cynical heart. Until he met you, he'd never truly believed in love or romance before. He thought those things were just make-believe bullshit made up by The Man to force people into model nuclear families. But he swears the moment he laid eyes on you, everything changed for him.

Funnily enough, you'd met him in a land of make-believe, so to speak. A Renaissance Faire in Indianapolis, to be exact. You'd gone with some friends, the lot of you were highly obsessed with medieval times and the mythology surrounding it. Eddie went by himself, unable to convince anyone to go along with him. He figured this was the only way to experience anything resembling Lord of The Rings and D&D in real life. Neither of you had high expectations, you assumed it would be pretty cheesy or mostly meant for little kids.

Once you'd arrived however, what you saw before you blew your minds. The entrance to the Faire was a giant castle, with a moat and a drawbridge. Everyone was dressed up, and all the employees were deep within their characters. It was a fantasy nerd's paradise, you thought you'd died and gone to heaven. And you hadn't even stepped foot inside the fairgrounds yet. But once you paid the admission and walked through the gates, your brain exploded all over again.

There were stalls of handmade jewelry, wands, swords, leather-bound journals, costumes, tiaras, fairy wings, the list went on endlessly. A field was blocked off for the knights to joust on massive horses, and rows of games lined the other side of the grounds. There were fortune tellers, face painters, people dressed as fairies and elves and royalty. A regal food court boasted giant turkey legs, popcorn, many sweets and treats, and more than enough booze to knock you on your ass. It was all so much to take in, but in an odd way it felt like you'd been waiting to find a place like this your entire life.

You and your friends explored every inch of the Faire, unable to resist buying the cute trinkets from the little shops. You watched the noble knights joust for the honor of marrying the fine princess, the winner giving her a big kiss for everyone to see. It was surprisingly romantic, sending your heart aflutter. You've always loved mushy things like that, waiting for your own knight in shining armor to save you from your boring life.

After a while, your stomach started growling. Your friends wanted to keep playing the carnival games, one of which was throwing tomatoes at a jester's face as he insulted you. You told them you'd come right back, heading to the other side of the Faire to try one of those famous turkey legs. It's at this point that Eddie spotted you from afar, though you took no notice of him. Your stomach lead you blindly to the smell of roasting meat, blocking out everything else happening around you.

Eddie caught a glimpse of you as he was walking the other way to check out the games, stopping dead in his tracks. He saw you were dressed in a long, red chemise, which left your shoulders bare. A black, corseted overdress sat atop the chemise, pushing your tits up for the perfect amount of cleavage. Your hair was tied in braids, which were wrapped immaculately around your head. Some loose strands of hair framed your face, and he was instantly enchanted. He decided to follow you, to perhaps buy you an ale or something. He hadn't expected to really interact with anyone outside of the employees at the Faire, but you seemed special.

You sidled up to the stand selling the turkey legs, ordering one for yourself. You'd contemplated buying for your friends too, but the legs were probably too big to carry so many at that great of a distance. You paid for your food, and made your way to the busty woman selling beer. You were just about to order when you heard a voice speak to you. "May I be so bold as to buy a fair maiden some ale?" You turned to see where the voice came from, stunned to find a very handsome man standing before you. He was tall, slender, with long, curly hair and a devilish smile on his face. He was wearing a red, billowy shirt that exposed some of his chest, and tight, black leather pants that tied with laces in the front. Matching leather boots adorned his feet, and a rather large sword sat sheathed at his hip. His hand rested over the handle of the sword, which made you take notice of the chunky rings on his fingers. He was the most beautiful man you'd ever seen, and he was talking to you.

You smiled at him, blushing at his deep brown eyes boring into you. "Why, thank you, kind sir. I'd be honored to indulge in a libation with you." You said, giggling at how silly you sounded with a terrible accent. He chuckled at you, reaching out for your hand. You gave it to him, blushing even harder when he planted a kiss to the back of it. He led you wordlessly to the line for drinks, ordering for you when it was finally your turn again. Once he paid, he found a nice quiet spot for you to talk. The two of you sat on a bench, knees touching as you positioned yourselves beside each other. You'd forgotten all about your turkey leg at this point, but you didn't really care to remember it when you were in the company of this mysterious man.

"So, what's your name, my lady?" He was still playing along, though you weren't sure how long the act could be kept up.

"Y/N. And yours?" You said coyly, sipping from your metal mug.

"Eddie, it's nice to meet you, Y/N. What brings you to the Faire?" He chugged some of his own drink, belching loudly which made you laugh. "Pardon me." He said sheepishly, wiping his mouth with his hand.

"I'm here with some friends. We've always liked medieval stuff, so we figured this would be a fun time." You couldn't keep speaking in Olde English, it was giving you a headache to think of the correct phrasing. Eddie took notice, relaxing his shoulders as it seemed he was also struggling to keep up. "What about you, Eddie? Are you here with anyone?" You asked, worried that maybe he had a girlfriend or something. A man as handsome as he was, he had to be taken, right?

"Nope, I'm here all on my lonesome. Well, until I saw you, the most gorgeous young woman I've ever seen." He put a hand on your knee suggestively, which made you tense up. You were struck by his words, no man had called you something so flattering before. Your eyes met his again, and you couldn't resist licking your lips. He continued speaking, much lower in volume. "And I also quite enjoy 'medieval stuff' as you called it, though I think you already figured that out." You set down your beer, and he put his aside as well. He brushed one of the stray strands of hair behind your ear, smoothly making a move to cup your cheek afterwards. "May I kiss you, princess?" He asked softly, his breath shaking with nerves. You'd barely spoken to each other, and yet there you were, centimeters away from your lips meeting.

"Yes, kind sir. You may." You replied, too caught up in anticipation to laugh. He closed the gap between you, gently pressing his mouth to yours. He tasted like beer, and tobacco. You were instantly hooked, pulling on his shirt collar to bring him closer to you. You both moaned down each other's throats, enamored by how thrilling it was to kiss someone you'd just met. You began to feel quite warm, tempted to straddle his lap right there for anyone to see.

A little bit later, the jester from earlier brought everyone's attention to you. He ran up to your bench, standing behind you as you kissed. "Well, it seems we doth have some rather rambunctious lovers in our midst! Perhaps we shall quell their burning lust, lest they shed their clothes for all eyes to see!" The jester jumped in the air, ringing a loud bell which hurt your ears. You broke apart, blushing madly at being called out. Passersby stopped to see this display, eager to watch your public humiliation. "Ah, and you dare to waste such fine ale? In favor of lashing tongues at one another? For shame!" He shouted, and the crowd mimicked his final words.

"FOR SHAME!" The bystanders were all laughing at you, though it was all in good fun. The jester picked up your mugs, holding them over your heads. You looked to Eddie, unsure of what to do. All he could do was stare back, blushing just as hard as you were while he shrugged his shoulders.

"FOR SHAME!" The jester laughed maniacally, dumping the remains of your drinks onto your heads. You shrieked as the cold beer soaked through your clothes and hair. You stood up, swatting at the jester in an attempt to hit him. He quickly dodged your blow, tutting at you. Eddie reached out to reel you in, but you took no notice. "Oh! I see you have quite the fire inside you, young maiden! Methinks one ought to quench thine whorish flames!" You felt another cold splash of liquid rain down onto you, much larger than the last. Eddie gasped, horrified that these people would go so far to humiliate you. You turned back around to see a burly man holding a large wooden bucket, which you guessed previously held the water that was poured onto your head. You glared at the jester again, unamused at getting soaked like that. "Oh, sweet lady. I beg thee to calm thyself. 'Tis all in good 'jest'!" He laughed again, dancing a jig before he went on his merry way. The onlookers also left to go about their business, the little show was over. Your friends caught the end of it, watching as you struggled to stand upright, the ground beneath you melting into sloppy mud.

"Y/N, are you alright?" Eddie asked quietly, reaching for your arm. You flinched at first, still shaken from being made a fool by the fool. You just nodded, trying not to cry. You knew it was just a joke, and you had made the mistake of making out in public when the performers loved any opportunity to make a silly interaction. Eddie pulled you close, innocently holding your waist to calm you. "I'm sorry, this is all my fault." He sounded sad, guilty for causing this whole ordeal.

"It's alright, I should've seen that coming. I'd heard the workers can be quite mischievous." You wiped your face with your hands, and your group came up to ask what happened. They were also very intrigued to find out who the handsome man next to you was. You explained it all, introducing them to Eddie. They eyed him up and down, making various approving noises or remarks in the most unsubtle way. You tried to apologize to Eddie for their rudeness, but he thought nothing of it, in fact he found it quite flattering. He walked with you and your friends to the exit, considering you being drenched made it quite uncomfortable to stay at the Faire.

You'd coincidentally parked your car right next to his van, and he clumsily dug around inside his vehicle to find a scrap of paper to write down his phone number for you. Eddie kissed you again before you parted ways, his wet hair rubbed against your cheeks as he slipped the paper into your hands. The feeling of his lips on yours stole the air from your lungs, but a warning honk from your friends signaled it was time to let him go. You held that little scrap of paper tightly the whole way home, eagerly dialing him later that evening. And the rest was history, from that moment on, you and Eddie had been inseparable.

Returning to the present, Eddie's tongue is furiously flicking against your clit to drive you over the edge for the fourth time this evening. An endless flow of moans falls from your lips, and Eddie drinks it all in. He loves the sounds you make, they're so vulgar and beautiful at the same time. He inserts two fingers into your soaking pussy, taking his mouth away to have a small break.

Eddie's eyes scan over your glistening body, watching you squirm and ball up the sheets with your hands. Your tits bounce as every touch he gives you makes your body jolt. Tears stream down your cheeks, your mouth fixed agape. "You're so gorgeous like this, sweetheart. So perfectly fucked for me. Do you want me to make you cum again?" He purrs at you, pumping his fingers inside you teasingly. His pace is excruciatingly slow, it brings you right to the edge without letting you fall off.

"Yes, please! I'm very close, Eds. Make me cum, I can't take the teasing." You're so needy for him, your tone making his cock even harder as you speak. He picks up speed, watching your head dig further into the pillow. Your back arches off the bed, and your pussy flutters around his fingers wildly. You're so, so close, and you want him to see you lose control. "Just like that, baby. Fuck, you make me feel so good." He adores when you praise him, it always casts his self-doubt about his performance aside.

"I'm happy to please you, sweetheart. Be a good girl and make a mess on my fingers." He coos at you, watching every micro-expression that swipes across your face. He moves his digits even faster inside you, using his thumb to rub vicious circles on your clit.

"Eddie!" You scream as another explosion of bliss engulfs you. Your legs shake violently, arousal pooling into Eddie's hand. Your insides are on fire, your abdomen sore from your muscles flexing involuntarily with every orgasm. He stills his fingers, letting your high fade away before slowly pulling them out. He brings them to his lips, hungrily sucking your juices from them. He moans at the taste, sucking down every last drop of you as his eyes flutter closed.

"Mmm, so fuckin' good, baby." Eddie observes you again, admiring how spent you look. You're panting, your face staring at the ceiling. Your hair clings to your sweat-soaked face, and your whole body glows with lust. Tremors rock through you randomly, making you whimper as they shock your clit. Eddie’s really done a number on you. You're sure if he dared to simply blow air against your pussy, you'd lose it all over again. He crawls over to you on the bed, laying next to you carefully. He turns your face to look at him, smiling lovingly at you. "Did you enjoy yourself, angel?" He asks.

"Y-yes, Eds." You stutter your words, shivering slightly as your sweat turns cold. He pulls you close, quickly warming you back up in his gentle arms. He kisses you tenderly, and you can't help melting into putty. "Do you want your present now, baby?" You ask quietly, nuzzling your head into his neck.

"Sure, sweetheart. Stay here though, I'll grab it." He lets you go, stepping off the bed to grab the small box you put on his dresser as he ambushed you earlier. He gets back into bed, bringing you back into his embrace. You quickly snuggle him again, eager for his body heat to radiate into you. Eddie opens the box, finding a beautiful ring inside. He removes it from the box, inspecting it closely. It's chunky and silver like the ones he has already, but in the middle is a large, blood-red stone in the shape of a heart. The band itself is an intricate weaved pattern, and there's an engraving on the underside of the stone. It reads: 'For Eddie, My Heroic Knight' in an elegant script. He's speechless, he never expected you to get him something so nice.

"Do you like it, darling?" You ask, playfully stroking his chest as you watch his awestruck face. It's amusing that you seem to have caught him off guard, which is not an easy feat. After a moment of admiring the ring, Eddie slips it on one of the free fingers on his right hand.

"I love it, angel. It's the best gift anyone's ever given me." His eyes meet yours, his hand cupping your cheek. Your lips touch again, but this time you climb on top of him as you kiss. You straddle him, his hands gripping your ass roughly. Your mouth leaves Eddie's, migrating to his jaw and neck. He moans as you suck dark hickeys onto his flesh, marking him as much as you can. Your cunt rubs against Eddie's hard cock over his jeans, and you're eager to get him out of his clothes. You sit up, tugging his shirt up his chest. He helps you out, quickly discarding it to the floor.

"You're so handsome, baby." You tell him as you stare at his beautiful chest. You lean down to kiss his tattoos, nipping his skin playfully. Eddie groans, fixated on every touch you give him. Your mouth meets every inch of him you can reach, slowly traveling down to the small trail of hair above his jeans. You lift your head, smirking at him as you unbuckle his belt. He grins back, resting his head on his hands to observe your actions. You unzip his fly and yank his pants down his legs, tossing them aside. You glance down at his boxers, a tent formed in the thin fabric. Licking your lips, you shed Eddie of his final layer of clothing, watching his dick stand at attention. You kneel between his legs, leaning down you lick a long stripe up his length.

"Fuck." Eddie sighs, wanting to shove himself down your throat so badly. But he lets you take your time, not breaking eye contact as you do so. You teasingly swirl your tongue around the head, swallowing the precum that's gathered on it. He moans, an almost tortured look on his face. "Baby, please don't tease me." He begs, needy for your hot, wet mouth. You happily sink your lips down onto his cock, letting him hit the back of your throat. More noises spill from Eddie's lips as you work him, deepthroating him expertly. He loves when you give him head, there's nobody else on this earth that does it like you.

"Mmm." You moan on his length, increasing your speed. Sure, you mainly wanted to send vibrations through Eddie to drive him mad, but you also really enjoy sucking him off. Watching him whine and moan and praise you, it gets you unbelievably hot and bothered. You massage his balls gently in your hand, feeling them tighten as Eddie's high draws closer.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You're such a good little slut for me. Can you bring your pussy over here while you do that, though?" He asks, insatiable lust tinging his voice. You roll your eyes goofily, of course he wants to eat you out again. You already know it won't take long for him to make you cum, you're still so riled up from before. You continue blowing him, carefully maneuvering yourself to put your cunt in his face. He notices the arousal dripping from you, groaning at the site. "You love having my dick in your mouth, don't you, baby?" He says rhetorically, he already knows the answer.

"Mmhmm." You reply anyway, humming on him again. But it quickly morphs into a moan as Eddie's tongue begins toying around with your clit. He stops for a moment, biting your ass cheek to get your attention. You look back at him best you can, letting his dick slip out of your mouth. "Yes, my love?" You ask, quite used to this form of communication with him.

"Slow down on me a little, angel. I want you to focus on enjoying yourself." He strokes your thighs sensually, his tongue playing at the edge of his mouth mischievously. Eddie's always been so giving in bed, even when he's obviously desperate to have some pleasure of his own. You nod at him as you bite your lip, before turning away to take him back in your mouth. You slowly bob up and down, your tongue swirling around his length languidly. "That's it, keep that pace, Y/N." He groans again, trying to hold back his impulse to buck his hips into you. Eddie savors the feeling for a second, calming himself. You can feel his breath stuttering as it fans over your pussy, mentally smirking at just how close he is.

You want his mouth back on you, though he seems to be a little distracted. You lean your behind backwards to him, tempting his tongue to see just how sweet you taste. He chuckles at your wanting, before giving you what you need. Eddie sucks your clit back into his mouth, focusing his moans onto your core. The vibrations are nearly enough to make you lose it, you practically scream on his cock. You want to go faster, make him cum down your throat right now. But he asked you to go slowly, and you'll do anything to make him happy. It takes everything in you to maintain your pace, due to Eddie's moves making your head spin. You're sweating all over again, and it feels like your brain is melting.

Eddie relentlessly licks and sucks on your pussy, drinking up any arousal that drips from it. There's a nonstop cycle of moaning from the two of you, sending tremors through your flesh where you need it the most. You instinctively push yourself closer to his face, and he takes this as his cue to shove his tongue inside your needy hole. Your fifth orgasm takes you over, your walls clenching his tongue. Juices run out of you, spilling down Eddie's chin and onto his chest. He holds you steady as your legs threaten to give out, they tremble violently as pure bliss cascades through you. Your release brings Eddie to the end as well, his cum shooting in thick ropes down your throat. You swallow every last bit, your head falling onto his hip once he's finished.

But Eddie doesn't stop using his mouth on you, building you up yet again like his life depends on it. "Fuck, Eddie. You're gonna make me cum again." You cry out, tears stinging your eyes. Your high doesn't end, only dulls as he tries to give you another. His hands are hooked around your hips, holding you firmly in place. He's like a goddamn machine, whose only purpose is to get you off. "Oh, god!" You scream, your nails digging into Eddie's thighs as you cum on his face, even harder than all the previous times tonight. He's getting absolutely soaked by you, but he still doesn't want to stop. You hear your arousal leaking onto him, almost worried he's going to drown. But he keeps going, not letting you have a second to breathe.

You're panting wildly, constant tears staining your cheeks as his fucks you with his mouth. He keeps moaning against you, trying to make your head blow into smithereens. You've almost drawn blood as you continue to cling to him, making ungodly sounds as you're on the precipice of yet another fucking orgasm. His lips leave you for just a second. "Come on, angel. Just one more for me, be a good girl." He's breathing so hard, it's like he ran a marathon. Though when you think about it, he kind of has in a way. He adds his fingers to the mix, hammering them into you while licking your clit again.

"Eddie!" You scream, loud enough that you suspect the whole trailer park can hear you. Yet again, Eddie has managed to make you cum harder than you ever have before. It's like you're splitting in half, blinding white heat engulfing you in thick flames. An obscene amount of juices gush from you, more than you thought humanly possible. It all splashes onto Eddie, soaking his face, his hair, his chest, and the bed beneath you. You collapse, laying over Eddie's body. All you can see is stars, and your legs won't stop convulsing. The oxygen has been stolen from your lungs, you've forgotten how to breathe. Once it comes back to you, your chest heaves harshly as you gulp in air. You sob uncontrollably, unable to move.

"Y/N?" Eddie asks, watching you lay helplessly on top of him. He notices you crying, quickly slipping out from under you to rush to your side. He helps you sit up, taking a spot next to you. He's shiny with sweat and your cum, holding your head close to his chest. "Shhh, it's okay, angel. Just relax and breathe, okay?" He coos at you, stroking your damp hair comfortingly. Eddie keeps holding you, trying to calm you down. You focus on your breathing, eventually getting it mostly back to normal. You sit fully upright, gazing into his eyes. He looks so worried, but he shouldn't be. "Was it too much, baby?" He asks, cursing himself for how overzealous he was with you.

"No, Eddie. I promise it was amazing, I've never cum so hard before. God, I love you." You pull his slippery face to yours, kissing him deeply to show how much you mean what you're saying. "It wasn't too much for you, was it? I was worried you were gonna drown." You ask as you pull away, but he just smiles.

"I love you too, baby. And you were absolutely perfect, Y/N. So fuckin' sexy, though I imagine we'll both need some water and a shower." He chuckles, glancing at the head of the bed. "Probably some clean sheets too." And you both laugh heartily together. "Let's get cleaned up, darling. Then we can cuddle in bed and I'll read to you." Eddie stands, taking your hand to lead you to the bathroom.

Once you're nice and clean again, and the bed has been tidied up, the two of you get under the covers. Eddie pulls out a Stephen King novel, opening it to the dog-eared page he left off on. You lay your head on his chest, eagerly waiting to hear what happens next in the story. "Happy anniversary, Eds." You say just before he begins to read, craning your neck to give him another kiss.

"Happy anniversary, princess." He meets you in the middle, his heart skipping a beat as your plush lips touch his. "Now, be quiet so we can see what happens with this evil clown." He chides you jokingly, making you giggle. One of his arms wraps around you, while the other holds the paperback open to find his place. You hum lowly as his fingers stroke your back, barely brushing against your skin. He starts to read, his words and warmth putting you in a very content state. "Henry Bowers had gotten too big too fast to be either quick or agile under ordinary circumstances..." He goes on, reading calmly to you in a velvety voice until you fall asleep.

The end.

[reiniesainyo]

IN BETWEEN. charlie bushnell x reader – 01

01 | SPARKS FLY previous | next | masterfile

SYNPOSIS. when a girl's co-star is good to her and now she wants it more than everything in between. (smau)

A/N. this chapter is more like world building (it's where i explain what the fuck i'm doing with the YN okay)

The "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" series at Disney+ has added an unexpected pick to its growing cast.

The new live-action series is based on the hugely successful novels from author Rick Riordan of the same title. We will be seeing YN LN join the series as Rina Velasco, one of the supporting characters of the show.

LN's Rina Velasco is referred to as "the offspring of The Muses, goddesses of the sciences and the arts." Unlike most other demigods, she is born out of the artistic and scientific output of the muses. When the moral ingenuity of humans meets the divine musings of The Muses. Her character is described as a unique allrounder who becomes a mentor figure to our main cast as they embark on their journey.

This will be LN's first on-screen role of her career. LN's experience mostly lies in Broadway, she is known for playing Kim in the Miss Saigon revival on Broadway. LN was nominated for a Tony in 2022 for the same role. She is repped by Salonga/Chien Entertainment and B817 Agency.

Riordan posted on the Meta app, Threads, about this update to the casting saying: "YN was one of the actors we didn't expect to see a tape of but when we saw it, we couldn't help but fall in love with her. She embodies the spirit of Rina so well and is such a kind spirit, we can't wait for you to fall in love with her too! Welcome to the cast, YN!"

The live-action show is based on Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson book series. It tells the fantastical tale of the titular 12-year-old modern demigod (Scobell), who's just coming to terms with his newfound supernatural powers when the sky god Zeus accuses him of stealing his master lightning bolt. With help from his friends Grover (Simhadri) and Annabeth (Jeffries), Percy must embark on an adventure of a lifetime to find it and restore order to Olympus.

Production on the show is now underway in Vancouver. Riordan and Jon Steinberg are writing the pilot with James Bobin directing. Steinberg and his producing partner Dan Shotz are overseeing the series and serve as executive producers alongside Bobin, Rick Riordan, Rebecca Riordan, Bert Salke, Monica Owusu-Breen, Jim Rowe, Anders Engström, Jet Wilkinson, and Gotham Group's Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Jeremy Bell, and D.J. Goldberg. 20th Television is the studio. Salke was formerly the president of Touchstone Television and originally put the show into development.

liked by percyseries, iamcharliebushnell, and 37,789 others thelnarchive the child of the muses @percyseries

percyseries OUR MUSE!

user1 this is literally perfect casting who cried i did ↳ user2 she's so rina coded! thank the gods for the casting directors

iamcharliebushnell only muse in my life ↳ thlnarchive only traveler in my life ↳ user3 the way filming hasn't started and they're already like this ↳ user4 their chemistry is chemistry-ing

user5 roman empire. she is my roman empire.

dior.n.goodjohn i LOVE LOVE LOVE women ↳ thelnarchive HELP i love you

user6 this is so fcking random but i NEED her in a taylor swift music video

A/N i truly hope you guys can forgive the horrible editing in the pictures. the article portion is based on (and has some parts that are directly pulled from) this article from variety ! here's some succint information about rina velasco, the PJO character YN LN plays (and is my childhood OC!) - rina velasco, filipino, 18 years old (year younger than luke) - she's an offspring of the muses, not directly a child or daughter, though she may be referred as such - by her being an offspring of the muses, i mean that she was born in the same way athena's children are born. - but in rina's case she's more like a weird conglomeration of each muse. her birth is a rare event, but her mothers are honored as minor goddesses so she stayed in the apollo cabin (connection to music) - rina operates as a guidance figure for the main trio, especially annabeth - she's also luke's love interest, there's a lot of tragicness and doomed romance stuff with those two - and for the sake of everyone, we pretend like the weird i love you from the books didn't happen !

[officialtwlibrary]

hello! we’re back with another event! this time, you have until October to finalise your work!

although we do encourage you to join our discord server but this is not a necessity for you to join!

but if you’d like to join a welcoming and kind community the link is in my pinned post!

The first rule is that you must have an ao3 account and tumblr, all the work added will be published to our ao3 collection and you will share a snippet to tumblr with the link so that we can add it to our master list after!

The ao3 collection is listed as: #OTWLevent4 < also the hashtag you’ll use on tumblr to share.

rules and more information below:

the prompts: (including some alternative ones)

a few rules:

- given the 100 link tumblr limit, if you do plan on writing one for every single day we do ask that you make one master list post with them all included so that we can share the one link. After every event we do a masterlist and we want to be able to share everyone’s work!

- must be teen wolf. this is a teen wolf event so multi fandom isn’t welcome however, cross overs are okay!

- we welcome all ships.

- you do not need to write a ship. it can be a friendship or family bond.

- fanfictions, mood boards and fanart are included.

- ai is not welcome and if you disclose that you’ve used it, your work will be kicked from the collection and not included in the master list.

- there is 31 prompts, 3 for each day. You do not need to use them all or go in any order. The prompts can be used individually or you can pair the three together in a singular edit/fanfic.

- when publishing your work to ao3, please tag what prompts you’ve used for your work. the same goes for tumblr, tag appropriately.

For example: duct tape/“where am I”/vision impaired. Those could be used together for a kidnapping style fanfic or something like that. OR you can choose to only use “where am I?” And let your imagination run wild! The choice is yours.

- if none of the daily prompts spark your interest, we have also included alternative prompts!

Due Date: you may start posting your work as early as you’d like, but the cut off date is the 31st of October!

your work will be personally approved through ao3, as it is an open and moderated collection.

If you have any other questions please feel free to ask, our anonymous messages are also turned on!

[shadyfestivalperfection]

🄵🄰🄼🄸🄻🅈:🄰🅂🅂🄴🄼🄱🄻🄴🄳

❝❣︎ᴀ sᴛᴀʀᴋ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ sɪᴛᴄᴏᴍ❣︎❞

🅢🅤🅜🅜🅔🅡🅨:When Iron Man hangs up the suit, he trades battles for bedtime stories. Join Tony Stark, his brilliant wife Y/n, their web-slinging son Peter, and chaos queen Liliana as they navigate high-tech parenting, sibling shenanigans, and family life—with love, laughter, and the occasional glitter explosion

||Main Master List|| ||Family:Assembled Master List||

Characters: Tony Stark x f!Reader

(This is not the first episode, it’s an introduction.)✨Escaping From hell on…21st April✨

❝𝕎𝔼𝕃ℂ𝕆𝕄𝔼 𝕋𝕆 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕊𝕋𝔸ℝ𝕂 𝔽𝔸𝕄𝕀𝕃𝕐❞

Meet the Starks: A Totally Normal Family (Not Really)

1. Tony Stark – The Dad (aka Iron Man, aka Chaos with a Credit Card)

Genius. Billionaire. Former playboy. Still a philanthropist.

Now a full-time dad who once built a suit of armor to keep his daughter’s teddy bear warm. He’s the kind of parent who says “no” while actively enabling the chaos. Has a habit of turning household appliances into potential death traps “for science.”

Favorite phrase: “What could possibly go wrong?”

2. Y/n Stark – The Mom (aka Sanity in Human Form)

Sharp, witty, and somehow still sane despite being married to Tony. A former field agent with a black belt in sarcasm and multitasking. She’s the glue that holds the family together—and occasionally the one that duct tapes it when it falls apart.

Can make pancakes, dodge flying armor parts, and shut down Stark Tower’s power grid in heels.

Favorite phrase: “I swear, if something explodes before 9 a.m…”

3. Peter Parker-Stark – The Son (aka Spider-Bro)

The neighborhood Spider-Man and certified science nerd. Adopted by Tony after a rollercoaster of mentorship, emotional bonding, and about 18 near-death experiences. Now part of the family, and completely regretting introducing Liliana to web shooters.

Lives in a constant state of “Please don’t tell Mom” and “Why is there glitter in my backpack?”

Favorite phrase: “I didn’t mean to blow it up this time, I swear!”

4. Liliana Stark – The Daughter (aka Iron Princess)

Seven years old and already more dangerous than half the Avengers.

Loves pink, sparkles, tea parties, and building things that shouldn’t legally exist. Wears Iron Man gauntlets over her Elsa dress and once hacked FRIDAY to only respond to “Your Royal Highness.”

Favorite phrase: “Activate glitter missiles!”

Together, they’re the Stark family.

One genius. One goddess of patience.

One spider-kid. One glitter-wielding war machine.

And more chaos than any universe can handle.

[Scene: Stark Tower Penthouse – Saturday Morning Chaos]

[The camera focuses across a kitchen filled with smoke, glitter, web fluid, and half-cooked pancakes.]

Tony (yelling over sparks):“Okay, note to self: Toasters should not be upgraded with arc reactor tech!”

Y/n (fanning smoke with a plate):“Note to you, you’re banned from the kitchen. Again.”

Peter (stuck to the fridge with webbing):“Uhh… help? I was just trying a new formula—”

Liliana (wearing Iron Man boots and a tutu):“I told you not to mess with the glitter serum! That’s my invention!”

Tony (grabbing Liliana’s helmet):“Kiddo, are you wearing my Mark 42 helmet as a cereal bowl?”

Liliana (proudly):“Yeah! It keeps the milk cool AND makes me sound like a robot!”

Y/n:“It’s 8:12 a.m. and I already need a nap.”

Peter (struggling):“I’m losing circulation in my webbed leg…”

Tony (grinning):“Just another normal day with the most perfect family in existence.”

Y/n (deadpan):“‘Perfect’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.”

Liliana (pressing a button on her gauntlet):“GLITTER MISSILES DEPLOYED!”

Peter (screaming):“NOOOOO—!”

[BOOM. A puff of glitter explodes across the kitchen. Everyone coughs. FRIDAY sighs in defeat.]

FRIDAY:“Would anyone like me to call emergency services… or just a therapist?”

[Scene: Stark Tower – Kitchen after the glitter explosion. Everyone is covered in sparkles. Cut to individual interviews, talking to the “camera.”]

[TONY – sitting in front of a workbench, wearing safety goggles and drinking coffee from a “#1 Genius Dad” mug]

Tony:“Hi. I’m Tony Stark. Genius. Billionaire. Inventor of cool things. Father of chaos goblins.Used to save the world—now I spend most of my days fixing Liliana’s robotic pets and trying to stop Peter from blowing up the lab.Honestly? Retirement’s… terrifying.”

[Y/N – sitting on the couch with a mug labeled “Too Tired for This”]

Y/n:“I’m Y/n Stark. Wife of the genius. Mother of two. Referee of every sibling battle, food fight, and glitter war.I love my family, I really do.But if someone doesn’t de-glitter the couch, I will start throwing people off the balcony. Lovingly.”

[PETER – still webbed to a fridge, trying to act cool]

Peter:“Peter Parker. Technically adopted, emotionally scarred.Being a Stark means unlimited tech, endless sarcasm, and very little peace and quiet.Also, Liliana made me pink armor once. I wore it. There are pictures. Please don’t ask.”

[LILIANA – wearing a cape, goggles, and a jetpack she built out of juice boxes]

Liliana:“I’m Liliana Stark. Seven. Scientist. Princess of Doom.Dad says I’m a genius. Mom says I’m exhausting. I say—activate glitter missiles!”

[She presses a button. Confetti explodes behind her.]

Liliana (grinning):“Perfection.”

[Back to group shot – all sitting on the couch, covered in glitter, eating pancakes.]

Tony:“So yeah. This is us.”

Peter:“Some people play board games. We battle murder-bots.”

Y/n:“And clean up glitter. Always the glitter.”

Liliana:“And next week, we’re building a rocket to the moon!”

Tony (whispering):“She’s not kidding.”

[They all look into the camera, smiling like the most chaotic, loving family in the universe.]

ALL TOGETHER:

“Welcome to the Stark family.”

-Season 1 Episode 1 Coming soon!

[misanthropicprophet]

Rihanna - Spark Master Tape & Kai Sky Walker (Massiah Profit)

[allcolorsoftherainbow]

RyCol 25 Days of Christmas Prompts Challenge Masterlist

Link to the series on AO3

[the prompts have been taken from @murswrites]

DISCLAIMER: every fic posted on an odd-numbered day does contain smut

~

Day 1: i'm riding higher than the sky

[rated E; 4k; established relationship; domestic fluff & smut]

Day 2: it's gonna mean so much tonight (dedicated to @veleci)

[rated G; 2,5k; roommates au, getting together, disco, fluff]

Day 3: now we're old and gray

[rated E; 2,9k; established relationship, old(er) couple gets intimate]

Day 4: as long as we're together

[rated G; 1,6k; teenagers au, accidental confession, fluff]

Day 5: masters of the scene

[rated E; 2,6k; whose line taping, dressing room shmex, establ.rel.]

Day 6: hug him (wanna kiss him)

[rated G; 3k; teenagers au, fluff, first kisses, supportive boyfriends]

Day 7: sweet devotions (kisses of fire)

[rated E; 3,2k; established relationship, making love by the fire]

Day 8: they must have thought they dreamed (when i kissed-)

[rated G; 3,2k; highschool au, secret santa, getting together]

Day 9: my, my (how can i resist you)

[rated E; 2,7k; establ. relationship, making love while soup simmers]

Day 10: my fate is to be with you

[rated T; 2k; getting together, late night confessions&conversations]

Day 11: see with your fingertips

[rated E; 2,3k; establ. relat., date night, making love, cuddling]

Day 12: the way that you kiss goodnight

[rated G, 700w; short & sweet, sick fic, cuddling, fluff]

Day 13: why don't we start right away?

[rated E; 6,4k; getting together, first time]

Day 14: we know the start, we know the end

[rated G; 2,1k; bakery au, reminiscing, flashbacks, cheesy petnames]

Day 15: so much that i wanna do (it's magic)

[rated E; 2,7k; establ. rel., ice skating, intimate evening]

Day 16: i still don't know what you've done with me

[rated T; 2,3k; meet-ugly/meet-cute, strangers to lovers]

Day 17: you're a love machine

[rated E; 5k; christmas smut, getting snowed in]

Day 18: 'cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

[rated G; 1,6k; supportive boyfriends, familly fluff]

Day 19: oh you make me dizzy

[rated E; 2,2k; spicy times after dreaded Christmas shopping]

Day 20: across the room (giving out a spark)

[rated G; 2,7k, office christmas party, feeling realization, getting tog.]

Day 21: making love is a dynamite drug, baby

[rated E; 3,9k, trying new stuff in the bedroom, smut & fluff]

Day 22: why don't you give me a call?

[rated G; 3,4k; single dads au, kid fic, first meetings, fluff]

Day 23: i'll show you everything

[rated E; 3,9k; sneaking a gift, kink exploration, establ.rel.]

Day 24: we had a chance to live twice

[rated T; 3,5k; family reunion, hosting ex-wives for Christmas]

Day 25: everything is you

[rated E; 4k; establ.rel., making love on Christmas morning]

[billie-black]

Thread of odd connections between Ikora, Elsie and Eris

I was scrolling through concept art when I noticed that, despite not being so in-game, The Stranger's rifle is Branded as a Cassoid weapon. This wouldn't mean much, bungie tends to use decals at random, except-

The curse of osiris variant, The Machina Dei 4, is also branded with a slightly altered version of the Cassoid logo, which I think proves that it has been upgraded with components from the foundry.

But let's put a pin on that and talk about another Cassoid weapon, The Invective shotgun, Ikora's signature weapon. The Invective has an ornament called Iconoclast, a word which here means "Destroyer of images used in religious worship." This nomenclature is very similar to-

The Vex Mythoclast, a weapon which, thanks to its sister weapon, The Worldline Zero (which coincidentally also has a prophecy variant), we know to be made by Elsie Bray. Canonically, we earn the Mythoclast as part of-

the "Not forged in light" quest, which ends with Elsie gifting us the No time to explain. A weapon which eventually ends back up in her hands and she gifts to us again earlier in the timeline as-

The stranger's rifle, which hangs around until it becomes the Machina Dei 4 (later Adhortative). And the prophecy attached to the Machina Dei 4 desribes Eris Morn and the events of Shadowkeep, when Eris discovers stasis and starts using the darkness.

A charnel but effulgent orb.

beacon in a loathsome dark.

Fêted, fetid corpses rise.

a too-long-absent gibbous spark.

Now, it's generally accepted that No time to explain (and all it's variants by proxy) was created at some future point in a distant timeline, this is incorrect. Ghost specifically points out that "parts" of it shouldn't exist, because the rifle itself is a common suros frame.

Going back to The Invective, you're probably more familiar with its legendary sister, The Comedian, and its D2 counterpart, Deadpan Delivery. The Comedian's flavor text reads "A. A ha. A ha ha ha. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha" In D1 the joke wasn't really clear, but with the addition of a lore tab in D2, the joke has become the vanguard's falling victim to a hive god's deceit. Now, let's take a little trip to The dark future.

In The dark future, Beyond light never happened, Eramis was allowed to grow her armies and master stasis, which led to a massive attack on the city by Cabal remnants, Savathûn, and the glorious House Salvation, all masterminded by Eris Morn, who up to that point was believed to be an ally, but had been corrupted by stasis and the darkness.

Coming back to our timeline, let's look at differences between our case exotics and their variants. Elsie's rifle has undergone many more modifications than Invective. Matter of fact, Invective has barely undergone any changes from its default. It's painted red, AND It has tape wrapped the handle and the grip, just like No time to explain. (I know I'm talking about grip tape right now but please don't go, it gets better, I promise)

It's a weak link, many weapons have grip tape, but I think many of these small details add up and point to The Iconoclast being one of Elsie's gifts. Let's review the similarities between Iconoclast and other gifts from Elsie.

>It's sourced from one of the city foundries and later received Cassoid upgrades (Invective and it's variants are nadir products)

>It has grip tape where the original does not.

>Mythoclast and Iconoclast are very similar terms and could point to a connection.

>It has a perpetual ammo function, like No time to explain and The Mythoclast.

But we should also look at Iconoclast within it's own context. Invective being her weapon, what does it mean for Ikora? She's never been been known to combat or really oppose any sort of religion, at least that I can find. And let's make it clear, the gun is not the Iconoclast. Just like the Mythoclast is not The Mythoclast. The weapons, in this case, are named for the wielder. You kill Atheon and so you become the Mythoclast, the gun is more of symbol. So, what religious figure is Ikora supposed to kill in order to become the Iconoclast?

Well, just this season, the hive have come out with a brand spanking new god, one very close to Ikora. Now I don't think Ikora is going to kill Eris. Eris would need to do something completely heinous for her to even consider that. Like, idk, bombarding the last city with House Salvation and the shadow legion... i. e., what happens in the dark timeline.

Look, I really don't believe Eris is going to turn evil all the sudden, that would be character assasination of the highest magnitude. But from Ikora's point of view? She has a supposed time traveller yelling at her that she's letting everything go sideways.

So my theory is that Elsie took Ikora's Invective from some other failed timeline (possibly the one where they smooch) and gave it to Ikora as the Iconoclast, along with the idea that alternate Ikora ruined everything because she failed to act and put Eris down when she could.

And this is where Deadpan Delivery comes in. You see, Ikora doesn't use invective anymore, and she doesn't use the Comedian. She exclusively wields Deadpan Delivery. Now, I know this was probably just the animators being faithful to her character, seeing how she prefers shotguns-

But the retroactive additions to the Comedian's lore, outside my crazed theories, implies a statement from Ikora. The Comedian's joke is the vanguard falling victim to a hive god's deceit, and in the dark timeline that god, the Savathûn figure, is Eris morn. And so-

By maining Deadpan delivery Ikora is subtextually saying "It's not funny. I'm not laughing. I don't subscribe to the narrative put forward by the comedian or Elsie. I trust Eris". And by rejecting the Comedian she's additionally disavowing it's older sister, The Invective, which is a symbol of the gung ho attitude which defined her in her youth. And wether my Iconoclast theory is correct or not, we can definitively say: Ikora is against what it represents , she is a guardian, and she will make a new fate no matter what.

[the-mystery-of-christ]

✡️✡️✡️✡️👁️✡️👁️✡️👁️👁️✡️👁️✡️👁️✡️✡️✡️✡️

✝️All Glory to Lord Jesus, The Alpha & Omega✝️

⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸⸸

[sillygoofygooberguy]

Mizi POV Drabble from Ruler of My Heart!!

I am not a writer but ALNST fascinates me with it’s imagery, so I wanted to try my hand.

I tremble amidst the luminescent glow that veils me, condemning me as a bride to the unrelenting coldness of death. My vision bleeds red, consumed in a monomania of acrimony and lividity that crashes in waves, unrelenting, staggering. My stomach curdles with the flavour of a wretchedness that resigns your very essence to the desperation of any facsimile of thought that does not promise quintessential ruin. Rage tears my skin red, raw and seething, edged by shards of sharp bone among crimson flesh, a reminder of my humanity. 

He, enraptured in the luminescence of a seraphim, glows in the innocence of a winged saviour and sings. Such melodies are reminiscent of a siren — strong, luring, enticing. For all that is in the world, for all that the sin penetrates so much farther than this stage, he is the culmination of sin. He is a demon; he is devoid of sympathy. He is the post-lapsarian devil, he is the apple, he is—. 

He is her.

For all it is imitation, for all it causes my song to falter, I grasp onto it for a moment,  bask in its temperance, in spite of my horror. My soul yearns; it itches, aches in its monomania, consuming my conscious and filling it with her. Together, we had stood on a stage amidst fluorescent lights, veiled in the glow of absolution, just like this one. We were soul-bound, intertwined through melody. In our performance, we burned beautifully. Together. I remember her smile before her blood cascaded upon a metaphorical altar she had laid down. I remember my horror and all-consuming grief in the wake of her sacrifice and my shame at my own naivety and ignorance— the fact that she must have suffered so deeply and so, so alone.

He smiles like her. He moves like her. His eyes—

His eyes are barren.

Empty. Cold.

Unease penetrates me as he descends upon me, stalking me as if a prey. The crowd cheers, my words falter, yet he, as he had from the beginning, remained strong.

He sings (and so do I) but my mind is elsewhere. My mind is only memories — of her, of us. They are laden in an ancient scroll, a papyrus, penned with apologies, with the acrimony of a shattering guilt. Memories play back like a faulty tape, the ashes of it staining my soul, akin to a warning wail of a crow masquerading as a phoenix in a rebirth of horror. 

Unwashable. I can still see the blood on my hands as I held her. I can still see the blood on my hands as I lunge at him, and as I am dragged back by guards.

I scream. I thrash. There is a gun at my head. 

Smoke. I do not see heaven, nor a maw of absolutions and condemnations, coming to swallow me whole. I see a woman, it is not her, she—

There is screaming in the background, but for once, the voices in my head quiet. For the first time, my mind is at a standstill. I stare upwards at the woman supporting my steps. 

She has a prosthetic leg, her skin browned and scattered with scars. Her body is trained and muscular, her tendons wound right in confidence and her biceps bulging with strength. It is nothing like what our masters encourage of us, and yet I stare. Enraptured. She levels a grin at me. 

“I have an offer for you,” she speaks, her voice assuredly calm and her eyes sparking with fire, “You heard of the rebellion?” 

[mirandamaisketch]

Bluesky "Spark Man's often in need of companionship so he ends up being called by his linemates. This time all his "usuals" are on the line waiting for him.. Don't even know how he got the actual Tama reciever taped to his arm" [ID: Mega Man 3 robot master Spark man's surrounded by comic bubbles of 4 other RM's (Magnet, Hard, Snake and Top Man) saying their hellos to him, meanwhile he's sitting on a chair, looking confused saying "I think I've got a wrong number". End ID]