#his present portrait hangs at the end of it. all the way up at the top. alone and withering away

[theoldkyokodied]

One wedding and three funerals

Background paintings under the cut

[ilguna]

☼ one true love (Peeta Mellark) ☼

summary; to everyone else, you're nothing but a rebound to Peeta. to Peeta, you are his one true love.

warnings; swearing, death mention.

wc; 3k

notes; no katniss slander, but there is gale slander ;)

–

The nerves are eating you from the inside out. One minute you think you’re going to be sick all over the concrete floor, so you’re in the bathroom hanging your head over the toilet. The next minute, you’re back on your feet, pacing back and forth in front of the door. You can’t sit still anymore, it’s not an option.

What are you supposed to say to him? It’s only a matter of time before he lands in District Thirteen with the other captured victors. Will he even want to see you? Is Katniss going to be the first person he asks for? You saw him on the television a few days ago, he was talking about her, worried about her wellbeing.

The last time you saw each other was before the Quarter Quell reaping. It was brief, because he needed to go on stage, and you were late traveling from your neighborhood to get to the Justice Building. All he did was kiss you, and then he was gone.

You think he was expecting to say goodbye, like the Peacekeepers usually allow, but when you tried to go inside, they told you that the rules changed. And before you could think to start running to the train station, they told you that there was no farewell there, either. That was it.

You couldn’t breathe, you were sure that would be the last time you’d ever see him, and it was cut short because you couldn’t leave the house a couple minutes earlier. But you were so, so mad at him for the months leading up to the reaping. It was a nightmare being with him.

His time was consumed with training, he was constantly talking about volunteering over Haymitch if the opportunity presented itself. He wouldn’t listen to a single thing you said. You hardly spent time with him, and when you did, you would’ve been happier by yourself. He became a new person, one you didn’t recognize, one that didn’t seem to like the idea of you half the time.

You almost didn’t want to go to the reaping. You knew what was to come, what was the point of showing up, besides to avoid getting in trouble with the Peacekeepers? And then all he could do was kiss you, because he was so pressed for time. He didn’t say anything to you. 

Suddenly, you turned the anger onto yourself, because you couldn’t believe you were so stupid to miss such a vital moment with him. 

You tried to make up for it. Even though the week leading up to the Quell was chaotic in District Twelve, as much as you were afraid to leave your house to see the mandatory viewings, you still did. You saw him everyday in the Square, and each time you got your heart broken because it was like it was never an act between him and Katniss.

You thought it was bad enough the first time around, because he didn’t know your feelings yet, and he was putting on this real show for the Capitol, but it’s so much worse, knowing that he feels the same way for you.

When you and Peeta had started talking again after he won the Hunger Games, your parents warned you that it would end up being a mistake. They knew how you felt about him before he was reaped, and how it wouldn’t change before he came back—if he came back. Even if he was kissing Katniss Everdeen in front of Panem. 

They were right about your feelings, of course. You and Peeta were close friends for years. You had classes together in school, and you’d hang out in the bakery every day after school. You’d sit there for hours, doing your homework, while also watching him pipe designs onto cakes and cookies for those who could afford to buy it.

You didn’t think he noticed the way you’d watch him throughout the day. The way his eyes would light up when talking about something he liked. Or maybe a new technique he discovered when making designs on cakes. How carefree he looked when doodling on his papers. The amount of times there would be a mini portrait of you in the corner of them.

While your whole day was centered around him, he had other things on his mind, like Katniss. Well, that’s how you felt when he announced his love for her in the interview. And then he came back with her, breaking the rules of the Hunger Games, completely enamoured with her. When you hadn’t gone to visit him in a whole two weeks after, he showed up at your door to see you, to make sure that you were okay. You tried to shrug him off, but he didn’t take that as an answer.

You thought that if you held him at arms-length, that it would be a distance between you two. If you’re not close, then there would be no point in keeping you around. After all, he does have other friends—other people he can surround himself with.

Fortunately for you, it didn’t work. You honestly should’ve known that it wouldn’t, because out of all the friends you’ve had since growing up, Peeta has by far been the most loyal out of them. He’s still here, and he’s seen you go through the motions. That’s why he figured out that he hurt you in some way while he was gone. 

He refused to leave you alone, he later told you that you were one of his last friendships he had since he won. Everyone else wasn’t seeing him the same way you did. While you saw him as human, and virtually the same person you had before he left, others saw him as the victim.

You remember being so flustered admitting your feelings to him. The hot feeling in your face, the tears that threatened to take over your eyes. The way your throat clogged, and the words croaked out. You didn’t even want to look him in the eyes, afraid to see his reaction, but it’s like you couldn’t look away. You needed to see the raw reaction in case he lied to you.

Peeta smiled.

It took a lot of explaining from him to get you to see how he was thinking after he was reaped. He needed help from sponsors, which meant that he had to play the Capitol in some way. And while what he said to Caesar in the interview wasn’t completely false, it wasn’t true either. He wasn’t settled on Katniss, because he knew if he won, he had someone better at home; you.

He wasn’t anticipating coming back with her. If he’d known, he would’ve played it differently. Katniss was completely indifferent to him, and he realized that after she looked for him once the announcement was made. As for you, he knew that if you were there with him, you wouldn’t have left his side, not even for a second.

He was happy you felt the same way he did, but he warned you that if you two started seeing each other more seriously, and possibly started dating, a lot of people would be unhappy. And at the end of the day, you could be one of those people. He wanted a relationship as much as you did, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you in the process.

Since that day, he tried to do everything he could to keep you, while also keeping the peace with the Capitol, even if they didn’t know what was happening between the two of you. There was a lecture from Haymitch—a man that you thought you’d never have to meet in your life—telling you that you’d have to be extremely careful to keep it from the Peacekeepers.

The Victory Tour was rough, considering he did a complete one-eighty with Katniss for the cameras. It got worse when you watched him propose to her in the Capitol. He didn’t tell you that this was planned, and he promised to keep you up to date if he could. You were nauseated for the rest of the week, really afraid that you’d done it to yourself.

You were the first person he came to see when he got back from the tour. From the moment you opened the door, it was a string of apologies, and a tight hug, reassuring you that it's not what he wanted. Him and Katniss were in trouble, and they were trying to do damage control. 

You watched all the mandatory viewings of Katniss trying on her dresses, the ones the Capitol liked the most, over the others. That was fine, it was easier to stomach, knowing that Katniss felt like she was playing dress-up for them. What wasn’t okay, was what happened next.

You were sitting with Peeta on the couch the night the Quarter Quell was announced. You two thought it was just another dress preview, and the rest of the night, you two were supposed to hang out. Then Snow said all the existing victors would be going back into the pool.

You remember seeing the color drain from his face, and panic seized his body. You opened your mouth to speak, but he was already excusing himself. He needed to talk to Haymitch, and it was a fairly long walk from your house to Victor’s Village. He pressed a quick kiss to your lips, and then he was gone. And you were left sitting in your living room, watching the Capitol react to the same news you’d just heard, wondering if they knew the effect this would cause.

It’s been a downward spiral since that day. You watched him go through that first week in the Capitol again, and it ended with him announcing Katniss’ fake pregnancy. You were inconsolable, watching him survive the cornucopia, just to almost die a few hours later because of a forcefield.

It was hard to swallow, but it was nothing compared to the fact that District Twelve was bombed on the third day. You don’t know how Gale knew where you lived, or why he chose you to save. 

You knew of Gale in high school, but didn’t think anything of him. He was just another surviving teenager, trying to get through with his head down and make it out of the reaping alive. You learned more about him when he was presented as Katniss’ cousin to Panem to keep him from being seen as a threat against Peeta. As for you, Peeta was able to claim that you were nothing but a loyal friend.

You and Gale only met in passing.

Even though Gale knew what you actually meant to Peeta, he still left his family out of the hundreds that were saved. They were just across the street from Katniss’ family, and he still let them get killed. While he traveled across the district to tell you that a hovercraft was coming because the district was going to be bombed by the Capitol.

You’re grateful you’re alive, and so is your family, but you will never forgive him for doing something so cruel. 

You feel the nausea rising in your stomach again, as you wipe your hands down your grey uniform to rid them of the collecting sweat. You’re sweeping your hair into one hand, really sure that you’re going to throw up this time, when the door to your dormitory opens.

You stop in your steps, turning to see who it is. You asked your parents to stay out for a little bit, because you really needed some time to think to yourself. You were almost put in the same room as Katniss and Finnick, so that you’d be able to receive the news of their arrival at the same time as them. Haymitch didn’t think it was appropriate, that’s why you were casted out, but said you’d be updated as soon as they landed.

Despite the fact that you and Peeta are very much dating, and he’s made it explicitly clear that he and Katniss are nothing but an act, you are seen as less than she is. In fact, the word they like to put on you is ‘rebound’. You’re Peeta’s rebound, because he couldn’t get Katniss.

You’ve tried to be patient with District Thirteen’s command, but they’re running it thin.

Haymitch Abernathy stands in your doorway, a grave look on his face. You don’t think he approves of you and Peeta, even though he tried his best to convince you two that he didn’t care what happened, as long as President Snow didn’t find out. 

“Peeta’s here.” He says.

“Oh, finally.” You breathe, letting go of your hair as you start toward the door, “Is he in the hospital?”

“(Y/n), stop.” Haymitch blocks the path. “Peeta’s not in the right state of mind. It’s going to be upsetting to see.”

“That’s fine.” You brush him off, “Can we go?”

“You don’t understand.” He sighs, “He tried to kill Katniss.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, while your brain tries to push through this information. He was just concerned about her not too long ago, and now he’s trying to kill her? 

You shake your head, “I want to see him, Haymitch.” 

He doesn’t like your persistence, but he leads the way to the hospital, anyway. The two of you move through the hallway, into the elevator, out, and through another series of hallways. You can hear the commotion from down the hallway, the shouting coming from the other side of the hospital doors.

Once you walk through them, you’re met with chaos. You stop for a second at the doors, wondering if it’s like this all the time in here, but when you realize that Haymitch is still moving, you get right back to following. You catch sight of Finnick with a girl, and presumably another victor strapped down with a shaved head, rolling her eyes at the nurse.

The further back you go, the calmer it gets. You can feel the anxiety building in your stomach the moment you step foot into a tense room that holds a few vaguely familiar faces. You know Plutarch Heavensbee, he was a former Gamemaker. You’ve talked to him a few times. And then there’s Beetee Latier, one of the victors that was inside of the arena. And among them are a few other people that you don’t recognize.

No one pays attention to you, the conversation lands on Haymitch as soon as they see him. You stand there for a few minutes, nerves settling slowly while the anger begins to rise.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself. “I want to see him.”

There are a few stunned faces as eyes land on you. As if you somehow just materialized out of the air, and they didn’t see you when you walked into the room behind Haymitch.

“That might not be a good idea.” A man says, looking over you. 

“You think that matters to me?” Your body’s trembling. He’s got to be on the other side of the door, the one that they’re blocking. You’re so close to him.

“Who are you?” He asks.

“If you all stopped smothering me, then you’d know that I’m his girlfriend.” You snap, “Not Katniss, me.”

Plutarch tilts his head, “Boggs has nothing to do with your current predicament, (Y/n). I’m going to give you access to see him, but you’ll return immediately if you see him getting violent, do you understand?”

You ignore his comment, deciding to keep the peace. “Yes.”

Several people move at once. While Beetee wheels himself across the room to press a button on the wall, which makes the wall to your left turn into a window, allowing you to see a preview of Peeta’s state. Boggs walks over to the door that you were looking at, pushing a key into the lock and turning it.

You don’t move from where you stand, lips parted as you let out a gasp at the sight of Peeta, strapped to a bed to keep from hurting himself and others. He’s lost all the muscle that took months for him to build up before going into the arena. He’s covered in black and blue bruises, there’s cuts across his skin.

You can feel the tears build in your eyes.

Peeta’s head lolls to the side at the sound of the key in the lock. He can’t even keep his eyes open.

“We gave him a sedative after he went after Katniss.” Haymitch explains, “He’s coming off of it.”

You start moving to the door. Boggs tries to stop you, maybe to give you some bullshit rules to follow while you’re inside, but you’ve already shoved him aside and forced yourself through the door before he can even say your name. 

Peeta’s eyes widen at the noise you cause coming through the door, jerking aggressively to see exactly who it is that’s entering the room. It takes him a second of looking you over, up and down, to realize it’s you. He relaxes into the bed, no longer pulling against the restraints, face smoothing over.

“(Y/n)...” He trails.

You can feel your teeth chattering, tears overflowing your eyes, “Peeta.”

“You’re here.” He breathes, “You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.” You sob, trying to wipe the tears away. You grab his hand, squeezing tightly, feeling another round of tears hit you when he holds on, refusing to let go. 

You lean over the railing, your other hand outstretched to touch his face, where the bruises lie on his sunken cheeks. The back of your fingers brush against his skin. He takes in a breath, eyes fluttering shut while he leans into your touch.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, until he slowly opens his eyes, “I missed you.”

“I’m never leaving you again.” You tell him, “I promise.”

[raven-awed]

What He Noticed First part 2

Ominis Gaunt x fem reader/MC

Angst/fluffy

Summary: Ominis finds himself dealing with a lot of complicated feelings, especially when he realizes he has a crush on the new fifth year.

A/n: Thank you everyone who read part 1! I was not expecting so much support/interest. Thank you @minichrismd for the help! This part is written from the reader’s/MC’s perspective and is fluffier with a happy ending. Enjoy! ☺️ tags: @rascal-20 @stuck-on-writing

*not my picture

Your head tilted to the side as you watched Ominis march off into the dark corridor. You considered chasing after him, but with the way he’s been avoiding you lately, you worried that your presence would only upset him further.

Ominis has never been what anyone would consider open, especially not with you, he seemed to keep all his feelings and thoughts bottled up. Very rarely he’d share what was going on in his head when the two of you would talk.

He always was the one to ask questions, constantly curious about you, but oblivious that you were just as curious about him.

You had hoped becoming closer friends with Sebastian would also bring you closer to Ominis. The way Sebastian talked about their friendship, their secrets, their bond, the more you wanted to become part of that world, their world.

When Sebastian spoke tonight of their time in The Undercroft, you imagined yourself experiencing something similar with them, even if it was just simply sneaking away to practice spells or play Gobstones.

With a long sigh, you slowly walked towards the common room.

The school year had just begun and already things were getting rather complicated, not that you were expecting anything to be easy after learning that you can see ancient magic, but boy troubles should’ve been the least of your worries.

Over the next few days, you focused on school work and completing the first task presented by Professor Rakham.

Ominis had continued to keep his distance, taking a different seat in every class. You weren’t sure how he seemed to know exactly where you were, even when you were as silent as a mouse.

One morning, you received an owl from Professor Weasley asking you to meet with her for an assignment. As you paced around in the hall, you thought about what she had in her letter.

You froze, wide eyed, when a grand door with an intricate design materialized out of nowhere.

“What’s this?” You mused.

“Already found it, I see,” Professor Weasley smiled as she joined you. “This is the room of requirement. Seldom few seem to find it.”

Another secret room, you thought to yourself as you wandered through the vast and cluttered space. Hogwarts truly was full of surprises it seemed.

Professor Weasley shared her story about how she and a house elf named Deeks discovered the room while she was in school. She had decided to share it with you, so you could use it as a place to study and catch up with your class work.

She advised you to close your eyes and that the room would become exactly what you needed.

When you opened your eyes, you gasped. The room that formed around you was incredible, the high ceilings, the beautiful details and designs, it was all absolutely stunning. It was literally something out of your very dreams.

Standing in the center, you slowly turned taking in all the details. Already you were feeling giddy about spending hours here honing your skills.

You paused as one of the paintings caught your attention. Your face began to burn as you spotted a familiar face amongst the random paintings and portraits. Hanging in the middle of the wall was a portrait of Ominis, his head resting on his hand. From the expression on his face, it seemed as though he was in deep thought.

You quickly glanced at Professor Weasley, who fortunately hadn’t noticed the portrait and instead was busy chatting Deeks.

“Why are you here?” You whispered to yourself. It was puzzling that there would be a painting of him, while the rest were of random wizards and witches.

Moving closer to it, you studied Ominis’s face. The image had captured every little freckle and beauty mark of his. You almost felt like you could reach out and touch him. He closed his eyes and a small serene smile formed on his face that made your heart flutter, but under your fingertips all you felt was canvas.

You missed him.

Perhaps that’s why, being near him again was one of the things you were longing for the most, this was likely the room’s way of making that happen.

As Professor Weasley approached you to start your lessons on Transfiguration, the Ominis in the painting wisely slipped away, saving you from any sort of embarrassment.

“Ready to begin,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

…

The following day, you found a seat in the back row behind Ominis who was all the way in the front. You stared ahead, watching him. A couple of weeks ago he would’ve saved the seat next to him. It bothered you more than you cared to admit.

“You should count your lucky stars, he's blind,” Sebastian muttered, taking the vacant seat next to you.

You gave him an irritated look, before returning your attention to Ominis.

“Honestly, it’s pathetic watching you pine for him,” he explained. “The whole school is going to know about it before he does.”

You groaned, shrinking in your seat, were you really that obvious?

“Go talk to him,” Seb urged.

“We haven’t talked since that night outside at the Undercroft,” you whispered as Professor Weasley slowly walked past you and Sebastian. “I think he’s still mad at me.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, “His bark is worse than his bite, trust me. Underneath it all, he’s quite forgiving.”

You sighed, hoping Sebastian was right about that. You continued to stare at the back of Ominis’s head, trying to figure out how to mend things with him.

Suddenly, Seb started chuckling, his body shaking slightly beside you as he tried to contain himself.

“What’s gotten into you now?” You pressed.

“Just occurred to me that you probably wouldn’t mind if he did bite you,” He teased.

“Ugh,” you scoffed disgustedly, giving him a playful shove with your elbow. You must have pushed him harder than you meant to because he lost his balance and fell backwards out of his seat.

“Mr. Sallow,” Professor Weasley reprimanded. “Having trouble staying in your seat again?”

A few students giggled as Sebastian stood up and dusted himself off. “Sorry, Professor.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Ominis turned in his seat slightly, wondering what was going on in the back of the classroom with Sebastian. You really were pathetic, you thought to yourself.

Back in the Room of Requirement, you tended to your Mallowsweet plant as you worried about your predicament with Ominis.

Sebastian was right about a few things this afternoon, one being your attraction to Ominis and the other being that you needed to talk to him. However, that was easier said than done. You weren’t even sure right now if he’d be willing to hear you out.

You glanced over your shoulder at his portrait, the Ominis in the painting was resting his head on his folded arms, taking a nap. His hair was adorably disheveled as he slept. You wished you could brush back the strands hanging in his face.

You had to do something, you didn’t want things to continue down this trajectory, but the only way to fix any of this mess was to do something, anything.

Your best bet would be asking Sebastian for help. He’d be the one who could convince Ominis to at least meet with you. You’d figure out the rest.

…

You played with the sleeves of your robe as you waited for Ominis in the Transfiguration Courtyard.

A cool autumn breeze rustled the leaves of the trees as it passed. Several other students were out enjoying the mild weather, sitting around the fountain reading books and chatting.

You had stayed up all night imagining how this could go. You thought about what you would say, what he would say. You hoped for the best, but expected the worst, heartbreak.

You took in a deep breath as you saw Ominis. As usual he was hard to read, his expression remained blank as he headed towards you.

“Hello Ominis,” you said.

He hesitated with his response as a wave of vanilla carried by the wind greeted him too.

“Y/n,” he finally replied, his lips pressing together in a tight line.

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Sebastian was quite persistent on your behalf,” he muttered. “So what did you want to talk about?” He asked, getting straight to the point.

“I-“ you frowned, looking from side to side, there were too many people here. “I-I wanted to show you something.”

Ominis lifted a brow and gave you a questioning look. “Alright,” he agreed reluctantly. “Lead the way.”

You led him towards the direction of the Astronomy Tower. The walk was quiet, filled with tension, you still didn’t quite understand why he was being so cold to you.

Ominis furrowed his brow, wondering why you brought him to the middle of some random hall. “Why are we stopping here?”

Being blind meant that he had mesmerized Hogwarts’ entire floor plan, it took time, lots of time, but it was necessary.

“Just give it a moment,” you explained.

He perked up when he heard the wall beginning to shift and change. Reaching out, he felt wood instead of cold stone, his fingers tracing over the grain and patterns that had magically appeared down towards the handles.

Pushing the doors open, you followed Ominis inside. By the echo of yours and his footsteps, he could tell the space was large with a high ceiling.

“What is this place?” He asked, carefully moving about the room.

“The Room of Requirement,” you shared. “Not quite as secret as the Undercroft, but still relatively unknown to most.”

He nodded, taking it all in, he paused in front of your potions station, it smelled of leech juice. “Brewing Maxima potion?”

“Yes,” you replied. “I’ve been using this space to catch up on class work.”

As Ominis continued his self guided tour, you tried to work up the nerve to tell him. It seemed so much easier when you thought of this plan yesterday, but the words just wouldn’t come out.

“So,” Ominis started, turning towards you. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?”

“I- um-“ you sighed, frustrated. You want to lose this chance, but you were just sputtering like an idiot.

“Well what is-“

But before Ominis could finish his sentence, you pressed your lips to his. Your hands gripped the front of his robes and pulled him closer.

The kiss took Ominis by complete surprise. He didn’t exactly kiss back, but he didn’t stop you either. He was in such shock that his poor mind struggled to accept the fact that you were actually kissing him.

The kiss only lasted for a few seconds, before you slowly parted. Shyly, you looked at him. The expression on Ominis’s face was priceless, his eyes were wide, cheeks tinted pink, and his jaw was hanging open.

You rubbed the back of your neck, “Sorry, that’s not exactly what I had planned to do, but I was worried I’d lose my nerve.”

Ominis blinked, still processing the last few seconds. “What?”

“I like you,” you finally admitted. “A lot, and it’s been driving me crazy that you’re not-“

“You like me?” He repeated.

“I do,” you confirmed in a small voice.

Clearing his throat, Ominis smoothed out his robes and licked his lips nervously, “I like you too.”

He hated how childish and simple the words sounded, originally when he had planned to confess, he had a more eloquent speech prepared, but at least he finally confessed. And he couldn’t even begin to describe the relief he felt knowing you liked him too.

Cautiously, he reached out, fingers extended as he tried to find your face. He swallowed thickly, as the pad of his index finger brushed over your lips.

His touch was so light that it made you shiver. His hand traveled lower, palm resting on your neck. Ominis closed his eyes and tilted his head.

As he leaned forward, you met him the rest of the way. This kiss was slower, more tender. His lips were so soft and plush as they moved against yours.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you,” he murmured, with his eyes still closed. “I was… I was jealous of how close you and Sebastian were becoming.”

Ominis buried his nose in your hair and inhaled deeply, drowning in the scent of vanilla. “I just want to be close to you.”

The next afternoon, you and Ominis walked into the Great Hall hand in hand. All morning the two of you had been attached at the hip. You had explained to Ominis that you both had to make up for lost time and he was happy to oblige.

“Ah, there’s the happy couple,” Sebastian greeted as you and Ominis sat across from him. “I believe I deserve some thanks for this,” his gaze drifted over to Ominis. “One of you is terribly stubborn.”

“More stubborn than you?” Ominis questioned. His hand remained clasped with yours during lunch. Both of you idly conversed with Sebastian and each other while you ate.

“I’ve got Herbology next,” Ominis pouted. “Dreadful subject.”

“Want to meet in The Undercroft after classes?” You asked, leaning close and whispering in his ear. Ominis smiled sweetly as he felt your breath tickling his ear.

“Of course,” he replied and then kissed your cheek.

“Ugh,” Sebastian scrunched his face in disgust and pushed his plate away with part of an unfinished sandwich, “Think I liked it better when the two of you weren’t talking.”

You kicked him under the table. “Maybe we should stop talking to you, then,” you joked.

“Go ahead,” he retorted. “Might spare me from having to hear and see all this lovey dovey nonsense.”

You laughed, “Didn’t know you were so easily offended, Sallow.”

Ominis shook his head, “he’s a real prude, no better than any of the professors.”

“Hey,” Sebastian shouted.

“Come on,” Ominis started, rising from his seat and offering you his hand again. “I’ll walk with you to your next class.”

Tag list: @rascal-20

[saphira-approves]

Something something professional artist jargon something something insert art knowledge here—whatever I want to talk about the book covers

So you’ve got Eragon, with a 3/4 portrait of Saphira; she’s giving a benevolent side eye with almost a Mona Lisa smile, she’s got that gleam in her eye, she’s looking at you but not head on—listen, this was the whole reason I picked up the book in the first place when I was eleven, she was so clearly full of life and personality and I just really wanted to meet her. It’s a really good glimpse of her character before even opening the book. She’s engaging you, but also maybe judging you a little bit, and she has a lot of thoughts but she’s going to keep them to herself for right now, thank you.

We’re skipping Eldest for right now because I have a point to make. Shush.

For Brisingr, we get a perfect side portrait of Glaedr, the grumpy old man. He’s not even side-eyeing the viewer like Saphira does; he is eyes forward, goal-oriented, noble and regal and, unless you’re worth his time, not really going to bother with you because he has Important Business to attend to. He is The Last of the pre-Fall dragons, his Rider is The Last of the pre-Fall Riders, he represents a bygone era that will never fully be resurrected, but can still inspire the present to fight for the future; he is no longer fully his own dragon, but a Relic, a Memory, a Symbol. He’s not anxious about it the way Eragon or Saphira might be; he has grieved for a century, he couldn’t be anxious about it if he tried. But he knows that keeping his integrity intact is important, and so this is how he presents himself: Noble. Regal. The Survivor. The Last.

Fírnen graces the cover of Inheritance, bookending the original series by almost perfectly mirroring Saphira—and seriously, it is so satisfying to line the books up with these two at the ends. Though he’s got a 3/4 profile like Saphira, Fírnen is much more reserved. No Mona Lisa smile, no mischievous gleam in his eye; he simply looks at you, and you look back, and you wonder what he’s thinking. He is, in fact, a lot like Arya—anyone who’s read the previous three books up to that point and hasn’t been spoiled for the ending might be able to guess, just from this portrait, who the final egg would hatch for. It’s also a perfect expression for the Final Book, with the fate of Alagaësia and the dragons hanging in the balance: what world does this mysterious dragon emerge into? A war-torn apocalypse? A hard-won victory? What does his future entail, and thus, what do the futures of our favorite characters entail? You ask him so many questions, but all he will ever do is stare deep into your soul with his somber, too-knowing gaze.

And now for the main event:

My beautiful precious son, the red-scaled Thorn, staring you down from the covers of both Eldest and Murtagh. I have loved the cover of the second book ever since I first picked it up, and my appreciation has only grown with time; needless to say I was very excited when the Murtagh cover dropped, and I got to see both of my favorite characters in one place. For both of these, Thorn takes the same stance: a full-frontal combative position, looking You, The Viewer directly in the eye, daring you to judge him, daring you to get in his way. I’ve always had my own opinions about what lay behind this show of force, and the context we get in Murtagh does not disappoint. He may be terrifying, he may be the scourge of the war, but underneath all that, Thorn is terrified. He’s traumatized, he’s claustrophobic, his body is too big for his age; he is painfully young still, and yet treated like a dragon ten times his age because that’s how he looks. He’s also sweet, and playful, and cares so much about his Rider, and wants desperately to keep Murtagh safe and happy. Just like Murtagh, he hides all of that—the fear and the softness both—behind a visage of ferocity, playing into the fears and preconceived notions people have of him, warning enemies away so they can’t get too close to what will actually hurt him. He dares you to try. He’s terrified you will try. He will fight tooth and nail if you do try.

[apalapucian]

on christmas morning, james finds her reading interview with the vampire (mary's present) in the common room, by the fire. they lock eyes before lily can pretend not to have seen him, and he smiles — sheepishly rubbing the skin behind his ear — so she smiles back.

"merry christmas," he says.

"merry christmas," she greets back. "you're up early."

"oh — yeah." he holds up a couple of envelopes. "sending out christmas cards."

"to who?" she asks before she can help herself. all his best friends are in the castle.

"mum, dad, mr. wrenswaith the manor caretaker. moony's mum, wormy's mum... padfoot's mum."

"lots of mums."

he grins. "they love me, what can i say."

"wait — even sirius's mum? really?"

"well, that one's a howler. don't ask what it says."

she exhales a laugh. "i can imagine."

"whatever you're imagining, it's worse. and however bad it is, she deserves it."

"she deserves more," someone adds, coming down from the stairs leading up to the boys' dorms, and sirius appears. "happy christmas, evans."

"hello, merry christmas," returns lily.

zipping his jacket up and fixing his scarf, he asks james, "ready?"

"yeah..."

james pauses before the common room door, looks back. "are you spending the entire day alone?" he asks lily.

"no. i'm spending it with louis de pointe du lac."

james frowns.

lily holds the book up, to explain. but he looks just as unimpressed.

"and that's — okay?" he asks. "you'll be fine?"

she takes a bit to respond, bemused and taken aback by the concern. "yeah...?"

"okay." he seems to want to say more, but hesitates. "uh — "

sirius, noticing, nods at the book. "it's an okay book, that," he says, "at best. so if you get bored, moony and worm will meet us later in hogsmeade after the owlery. you should come."

lily catches james nudge sirius's arm very, very quickly, almost imperceptibly, but it doesn't seem like the what the fuck did you just do sort, at any rate. it seemed more like — an acknowledgment. an agreement? a thank-you? lily asks, "you've read it?"

"we have," says james. "moony, too. last summer."

"we didn't like it," says sirius.

james throws him a look. this one — definitely the what the fuck sort. sirius just shrugs.

lily, amused, says, "okay. thank you. for the invite, and the book review. that's... i'll keep that in mind. thanks."

they nod, grinning, say goodbye again, and james remembers to call out, "three broomsticks!" before disappearing behind the swinging portrait door.

—

she's distracted the entire morning. has to reread most of the pages. by the time remus and peter come down, she's made up her mind and asks if she can go out with them. they seem to already know — probably through that mirror thing they carry around — and are more than happy to have her tag along.

—

she thinks it would be awkward — they don't exactly hang out, not without their other housemates — but besides the first few minutes where they do a little pause before the table to figure out seating arrangements, pointing fingers and exchanging glances (she ends up beside james and across from remus and peter, sirius at the head), it's — okay. comfortable. they have butterbeers, and sirius orders steaks as well (not on the menu, but madame rosmerta seems more than happy to indulge him), and the conversations flow easily from schoolwork to gryffindors to professors to christmas presents to how they're all faring in the term so far.

they — the boys — laugh a lot. which isn't news, their collective laughter is gryffindor's familiar backing track (hogwarts's backing track, really, for better or for worse), but she supposes there's a different level of palpability this close, a deeper infectiousness, that she finds herself laughing just as much. they're gracious enough to keep the jokes inclusive, too — remus or james would pause to explain when an inside joke finds its way in the riffraff of discussions — so she never feels left out.

she wonders when this all came to be, when they shifted from insufferable to bearable, and from that, to — well. friends. almost.

on the way back to hogwarts for dinner, james and sirius join a small chorale singing christmas carols on the side of the road — all theatric, hands together on their chests, but they do actually try to sing in tune, peeking at the hymnals for the correct lyrics; peter and remus pretending to be passers-by, clapping and showering them with invisible bills and coins — and lily laughs, fully settling into their company, giddy from the butterbeers and cozy in the light snowfall. wreaths and tinsel on the doors all around them —

her own little picture-book christmas day.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

an: this is a snippet of "the bad day wall (and the feelings space)", a fic i'm doing for @constancezin who sent the prompt "prefects' bathroom" (i know this christmas snippet — in march — doesn't seem like it relates at all, but i swear it's going to be the same fic lol). hopefully i finish it in the next week or two! it will be up on ao3 then, but for now, here's the rest of my other jilys if you're so inclined 💜 thank you!

edit: part one is now up :)

[kenphobia]

Hellooo, therapy is expensive but reading your stories about silly puppets it's free.

So, I was wondering if I could ask for some imagines of Wally Darling (yeah, again, sorry 😭) with a s/o whose love language is giving gifts? Like, they love to shower Wally (and their other friends) in all kind of gifts no matter the time or place.

I hope that wasn't too confusing and I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.

KINDERGARDEN GAMES!

"T-a-n-g-a ka talaga, Wally." "... What—"

summary. wally is a puppet who loves his neighbors equally and cherishes them in many ways. but when his lover does gift giving more than him, he gets a bit competitive. ( headcanons / 0.9k wc / read end notes )

contents. general fluff, straight up romantic dynamic, implied filipino!wally, bits of playful Wally slander ( nsfw blogs dni )

✦ It started simple, nothing too big or fancy. When you brough him those oil pastels Wally had been eying for a while, he couldn't help but feel flustered. It's not like he haven't received gifts before, few of his neighbors love to give him little presents too, but it was different when it comes to you.

✦ Of course, he accepts with a smile and a slightly flushed face.

"Thanks, (Name)! I really, really appreciate this." Wally paused, switching his gaze from the oil pastels to you in a nervous manner. "I, um, I'll make sure to make great use of it."

You smiled, patting his hair carefully as to not accidentally deform the pompadour he spent half an hour styling and 5 whole bottles of glue. "Well, I'm glad you liked it! I have to go now though, Sally needs me with setting up her stage for tomorrow's play. See you later, Walls!"

Wally waved you goodbye, watching you leave and your figure getting farther and farther, completely disappearing as you turned a corner. He finally focused his gaze to the box in his hands, a gentle smile caressed his face.

For a short moment, He remembered how your eyes twinkled and reflected the warm light. Wally's gaze softened, humming as he went inside his house. He has an idea what to do using the oil pastels you gave him.

✦ It was sweet, Wally would say, but he wouldn't admit how he had dreames of the whole thing several times. Or well, daydreamed since he doesn't sleep. Home had a couple of incidents and scolding Wally for letting his paintbrush go and getting paint on the carpet.

✦ Wally didn't think much of it though, but appreciated it finely. That is until he received some homemade mint chocolate cookies at his doorstep. Eddie had given it to him, informing him that it came from no other than the lovely you.

✦ (Wally doesn't miss Eddie side-eying though. Sadly, not everyone can appreciate mint chocolate like Wally does.)

✦ It didn't just stop there, no, why would it? From cookies to handcrafted beaded jewelry of his favorite colors to little letters and poems to cute little doodles of you and him being pinned on his fridge everyday— Your gifts were endless and Wally wonders how could you make so much in just a span of an hour.

✦ He doesn't have the right to judge you after making multiple portraits of you and sending some of them immediately to your home. It was a lot, but after all of you wonderous gifts that kept him awake and thinking at every hour, your front porch became bombarded with many paintings.

✦ Wally started doing art in other ways too. Pottery, watercolour, jewelries, etc. He even sent a whole basket of (definitely not stolen) apples to your door! The whole gift giving suddenly became a war between who could show their affection more than the other.

✦ Eddie had to intervene because he had been delivering gifts to both your houses every single day. Doesn't bother Wally though, it gives him the advantage of simply entering your home with a key he secretly copied and stuff all of his heartfelt gifts.

✦ You did caught him one time in your room, hanging up pictures of you, some of them were mainly focused on your eyes. You aren't exactly sure how to feel about it, both the paintings and the crime he had just committed.

Arriving to your humble abode, you furrowed your brows upon finding the front door unlocked. You quickly entered inside, trying your best at staying quiet while you put your stuff down on the sofa and wanderes around your home for the intruder.

The neighborhood isn't exactly a crime-filled place, but you still can't shake off the feeling of dread bubbling in your stomach. You gripped the house keys in your hands so firmly that you swear the plastic could cut through your palm.

You neared your room, breath hitching at the sound of shuffling and murmuring. You squinted through the darkness, seeing your bedroom door wide open and the lights turned on. Quickly, you rushed closer and hoped that the intruder wouldn't hear your panicked steps.

"Oh... That wouldn't work at all. Let's try this position." A voice suddenly pierced through the silence. It was soft, warm and awfully familiar that it made bits of your dread disappear slowly.

You leaned against the wall, turning your head and peeking from the doorway. Immediately, you locked your eyes at a portrait of you sitting idly on your bed and then to the blue cardigan the stranger was wearing.

Wait a second, That's not a stranger. No, that's—!

"Wally? What are you doing here?" You voiced out, walking in as your boyfriend turned to face you. His eyes wide in surprise, nearly dropping the painting. You found yourself deadpanning at what was on the canvas, it was a painting of you and Wally unsurprisingly.

Wally smiled, albeit nervously. "O-Oh, *Mahal! You're home earlier than I expected."

You hardened your gaze, squinting at his form as you crossed your arms. "Wally, why are you in my house?"

"Well, you see, Mahal..." Wally began, putting down the painting and making it lean on the wall. "I— I will explain it to you tomorrow. Byee!"

You didn't have a chance to say anything before Wally ran up to your window and jumping out, breaking plastic glass and leaving your room in a state of disaster.

That noseless bastard.

notes. did i completely forgot abt the other neighbors? yes. do i regret it? no. sorry, howdy 😔 but yaya!!! another wally fic, turned out a bit shorter than I like and more crackshippy but that's fineee

i hope you like it tho!!! this was fun to make and i rlly tried racking my brain for any creative juice.

inbox is always open, so come on by again for more wally slander /lh

*mahal - love in tagalog

[i-am-the-avatar-of-idiocy]

i hope u are having a nice day! can i request reaction of the brothers when MC does a painting of them?

I’m having a great day thanks! I hope you are too!

part 1- brother. Part 2- side characters

Brothers reaction to MC’s painting of them

Lucifer

He was impressed when he saw a semi-realistic bust of him on a canvas in your room on an easel

it was incredible, the colours melting together and a stunning blend between colours

he saw you asleep on your bed too- clearly painting that was taxing on you

he thinks it’s amazing and that you should receive recognition for your art

he tells you that it is incredible when you wake up, and gives you a snack and glass of water

He asks to have it, and if you say yes he will put it on his wall, and he takes lots of pride in it

Mammon

Mammon barges into your room in the early hours of the morning and sees you slumped over

he thinks you might be asleep, so he creeps to you but you call out his name and ask him why he’s being quiet for once

he blushes at that but somehow chokes out a snarky response

he then sees you putting brushstrokes on a canvas, the tone of his smooth skin in the light on your brush

you blend it onto his cheek, completing the illusion of flesh

but then after a moment of shocked silence at your skill

he stutters out ‘of- of course you’d want to draw the Great Mammon’

you giggle at this and tell him it’s his, for free

His face lights up and he tells you you are talented for a human

Leviathan

He wakes up from a night in your room watching anime to see you putting colour onto a portrait of him

he is in awe, and sits watching you for a while

he has never felt as beautiful as he did in that moment

he usually thinks himself as ugly, but in this… he is stunning. Is this how you see him?

his face is red at the thought that someone like you views him in the way you paint it

he cracks a smile and tells you that ‘it’s amazing. But I’d expect no less of my Henry’

he loves it and admired it often, especially when he is in a rut of self-hate

Satan

He compliments you when you present it to him

‘I must say this is an excellent piece of me, I’m impressed MC. You’re incredibly talented’

this is said with a growing grin on his face

he seems so different to the sketch of lucifer you did. You only drew him, does that mean you value him more. Unlike some of the others

he is enamoured by the colour choice and how you make him look ethereal

Asmodeus

He squeals in delight at the sight of a painting of a photo he posted to his devilgram

’MC! You never told me you were an artist! I swear you are the only one who can capture my beauty in all its glory!’

he will hang it up in an elaborate frame and boast to those he meets in there

and the brothers that you chose to paint him

he will constantly compliment your skills and commission you

he also finds it therapeutic to watch you paint, and could watch for hours on end

Beelzebub

Beel thinks it’s amazing, being stoic as he is, you didn’t expect as big of a reaction as you got

he dropped his food, his mouth fell open and his eyes opened

‘you drew that? Of me? Oh my Diavolo MC that’s beautiful’

he usually doesn’t speak so emotionally, but hey what he’s saying is good so you’ll take it!

he will ask to see your over pieces!

he thinks you can be a professional and takes a photo to post to his Devilgram, and to show his fangol team

Belphegor

When he falls asleep, you take out a pad and begin to sketch his calm face

you would do it when he’s awake but he always looks so… menacing when he’s awake

You occasionally glance up to him as you block in colours and begin to render (I don’t know if that’s the term for on like real paint because I do mainly digital now)

when his eyes flutter awake, he sees you with your tongue slightly protruding from your lips and putting a white brush stroke on the book

he asks to see it when you put the brush down

you gladly oblige, happy with your work

he seems amazed, but he is still tired so he lets out a drawl of

’that’s amazing, but… I’m still tired’

you know what he wants as stretches an arm so you crawl under it and fall asleep beside him

(lmao imagine the brothers reactions to MC drinking paint water. You can deny it but we’ve all done it)

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and To Heal (Part 7)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 3.0k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

Martin’s hands shake as he attempts to unlock his front door. He drops his keys twice. His vision tilts and whirls like he's just come off one of those crazy carnival rides that spins you in circles until you hurl. It takes him three tries to fit the key in the lock, finally fumbling it open and getting himself inside. 

Everything closes in on him at once. The walls shove in, the hallway enclosing him as he slides down the door, curling up on the floor with his legs to his chest. Martin rests his forehead on his knees as he tries to keep his head, reminding himself that his panic isn’t warranted, it doesn’t control him, he controls it. 

The problem is, your question has found Martin on the shores of grief. For years he has wasted away on his little island of emotions, packing them away and ignoring them in order to put his daughter and his team first. Now you’ve shown up, somehow navigating your way through vicious seas in your tiny lifeboat to crash along the black sands of his broken heart. How you’ve found the real Martin beneath the shell he presents to the outside world, he has no idea. In truth it doesn’t matter. You have impacted him in ways that he hadn’t thought possible after Maria died. 

When Martin sees you in the gymnasium at Attie’s school, his entire mood lifts. He could send Atla’s nanny or even one of the Arsenal staff to pick her up each day, but he doesn’t. Because after waking up his daughter, seeing you is the highlight of Martin’s day. He can’t pinpoint when exactly it started, but he looks forward to seeing you. And tonight, he should’ve said yes when you asked him on a date. Hell, he almost did agree, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

Despite the years that have passed, Martin is still clinging to his wife. He loved her, and it still hurts to think that he might love someone else. He does not want to spoil the memory of her by dating someone new. 

He is at a crossroads, an impasse- either choice he makes, he must gather up the sharp shards of his heart and let them sting his hands so he can mold it back into something worthy of love.

If he chooses Maria, he's choosing a life of solitude. He is denying Atla the opportunity to grow up with a mother figure to love her. If Martin chooses you, he's moving on, accepting that the previous chapter of his life has ended. 

Martin likes you as a person. Something about you makes him feel a little less lonely, a little less empty. He feels more like the old Martin, fun and adventurous and carefree, ready and willing to take on the world. You match that energy- he misses that about himself and he sees it reflected in you.

It's an impossible choice, but one he must make nonetheless. 

“You’ve bottled it,” Martin mumbles to himself. Martin rests his forehead on his knees, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to calm himself down. “You like her and you’ve gone and bottled it.”

Martin is sure you’ll never speak to him again. He’ll be lucky if you don’t opt out of the early arrival program just to avoid him entirely. Why couldn’t he have just said yes?

When Martin finds the strength to lift his head, the photo of his family hanging across the entryway haunts him. All three figures are smiling ear to ear, even the little baby in Maria’s arms. Martin’s heart twangs like it always does when he looks at that photo. It had been his favorite before everything happened. 

Autopilot has him on his feet before he realizes what he’s doing. He detaches himself from his body as he carefully grasps the sides of the gilded frame, lifting the wire from the nail secured in the wall. Martin might be floating a few inches above the floor as he walks the portrait upstairs to his spare room. Without hesitation, Martin sets the frame on the floor and leans it against one of the cardboard boxes he hasn’t touched in ages. 

“I love you, Maria. Always will.” Tears gather on Martin's eyelashes, which he wipes away with his sleeve. “This doesn’t change that, I swear. But I know… That you would want me to be happy. You wouldn’t want me to sit here and feel sorry for myself my entire life. You always said you wanted me to find my adventure, something that makes my heart sing… And I think I may have found it.”

Martin is glad Kieran agreed to keep Atla overnight, because for the next few hours he sets about going through those boxes he has been avoiding. Most are filled with Maria’s clothes, her little trinkets, or her collection of coffee mugs that Martin bought for her any time he played a match somewhere new. He makes three piles, one to donate, one to keep, and the smallest of which is things he wants to show Atla before he decides. 

The thing that gives Martin pause are Maria's drawings. Martin has always said that Atla inherited her creativity from her mother, and seeing her artwork now only solidifies that assumption. Maria was as talented with a paintbrush as she was with a pencil. It didn’t matter the medium, she could make something beautiful with the barest of tools. 

As he leafs through her canvases and papers, Martin finds himself smiling. He considers that an improvement over his usual tearful, self pitying ventures into this room where he cannot so much as open a box. There’s one drawing in particular that sticks out to him, one Maria sent him while he was in Madrid. It’s small, maybe three inches by five, no bigger than a postcard. How she crammed so much detail into such a simple piece, Martin isn’t sure. She captured the view from the window in his childhood home perfectly, giving him a bit of Norway to escape to when he got homesick.

That drawing is the one he decides to frame. He isn't sure where it will live, but that will be the one tribute he allows himself. Because while Maria is his past and will always be a part of him, he is positive that it is time for him to move on and look ahead to the future. 

**********

As it turns out, Martin's future is apparently quite grim. For whatever reason, Arteta has decided that for the last month and a half of their season, for four days a week, the squad should be at the grounds by 8 for meetings and small group work, and should stay until 3 for regular training. That sort of schedule means that aside from Wednesdays, he can't drop Atla off or pick her up from school. That leaves Martin exactly one chance to see you before he's forced to wait another week, which sounds like a sort of torture he isn't keen to endure.

On Wednesday morning, you're not behind your rolling desk in the gymnasium like usual. Martin does his best to not let that disappoint him; your schedule varies as much as his does. It could be nothing. Or it could mean that you've effectively cut him out of your life. 

"Oh, Miss. Sunshine isn't here," Atla remarks, her lower lip pouted adorably. "Where is she pa?" The soft eyes and open vulnerability on his daughter's face when she looks up at Martin makes his heart ache. If his indecision hurts Atla, he will never forgive himself.

The voice of his Arsenal physical therapist rings in his head when Martin kneels, the old man's shrill reminder of 'protect your knees, you only get one prime set' sticking in his brain. But at this moment he is a father first and a footballer second, so Martin pushes the warning from his consciousness and unzips Atla's sweater. 

"Well søta, maybe she's busy today. I'm sure she will be here tomorrow, or after school. You never know," he says with a smile.

"Yes but I like seeing her in the mornings. It's the most fun!"

Martin sighs through his nose, trying to keep a leash on his anxiety. "If you see her in the hallways, you could tell her you miss her."

Tell her I miss her too, Martin adds silently. He has so much to say to you, but there's not much he can do if you're avoiding him. 

"I wanted to tell her about your goal on Sunday," Atla says, "she loves hearing about you when you do good."

This, at least, gives Martin a spark of hope. "She does? I didn't know that."

With an attitude that is all her mother, Atla plants her little closed fist on her hip and gives Martin that five-going-on-fifteen look that has laughter bubbling in his throat. "Well duh pa, that's cause I'm not supposed to tell you that. But I'm miffed that she isn't here! So there- I told you!"

Biting his lip is the only thing that keeps him from laughing as he says, "søta, you can't go around telling secrets because you're upset with someone. You won't have any friends if they can't trust you."

"That's some good advice."

Martin's frozen fingers allow Atla to wiggle out of his grip, her excited cry confirming what Martin already knows, "Miss. Sunshine! I missed you!"

When Martin dares lift his eyes, you're embracing Atla in a tight hug. His daughter's arms are thrown around your neck, her toes barely touching the ground as you support her weight. And when your eyes meet his, Martin swears his heart stops.

As a young boy, Martin's mum imparted many wisdoms onto her son. Some were forgotten as quickly as they were spoken, but others Martin has remembered all these years later. One that he lives by religiously is what comes to mind now. When he was fourteen, his 'girlfriend' had kissed another boy and broken Martin's heart. His mum knew somehow, and soothed him as soon as he walked in the door. 

"Mouths lie," she told him, "but eyes are not so easily deceiving. A person's eyes are what hold their true emotions and intentions. If you can read their eyes, that is where you'll find the truth."

Now, your eyes hold nothing but forgiveness. Your sparkling eyes tell Martin that you don't hold his actions against him, even if he did ruin your birthday party. Furthermore, the white leather bag hanging off your shoulder cements the fact that you're not angry with him, at least not enough to cut him out of your life. 

"Atla," you murmur, eyes never once leaving Martin's, "go set your bookbag where it goes. I printed some fresh animal colouring pages, why don't you go work on those?"

Once Atla is gone, you both stand in unison. Martin feels like he's locked in some sort of war. Which one of you will break first? Who will bridge the chasm between you?

"Hi, Mar."

You. Of course you do, because you're probably aware of the way Martin's tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth and take pity on him. He clears his throat to unstick it and finds his voice to mumble a soft, deep, "Hello, solskinn."

"You left kinda suddenly on Friday," you note, hands folded in front of you as you tip your head. There isn't an ounce of negativity in your body language, a fact that Martin appreciates deeply. "Everything alright?"

"It is now," Martin answers, flashing you his trademark charming smile. When he left the bar, his head was a mess. Now, his heart has the wheel and it knows exactly where to drive him. 

Martin takes a deep breath and steadies himself much the same way he would if he were preparing to take a penalty kick. Detach from the situation, his surroundings, the people gathered- focus only on himself and his goal. 

Net the ball. Get a point on the scoreboard. Apologize for Friday and move forward. 

"I shouldn't have left the way I did, without even explaining myself. The thought of going out on dates is… new to me, and I just wasn't prepared for that sort of question."

Your face softens and you take a step forward to lay your hand on Martin's arm. You don't say anything because you don't have to; your touch quiets the noise in his head. The silent support you offer in the form of your hand on his skin is all he needs to voice the words he's tumbled in his head until they've become polished and shiny. 

"My answer is yes," Martin states firmly. "I'd love to go out sometime. As more than just friends, maybe. Depending on how it goes, and how much you hate me afterwards." Martin grins to ease the tension, hoping to clear some of the sawdust now coating his throat. 

Your soft, understanding smile melts the last of Martin's uncertainty. He expected you to reject him immediately. The lack of upset in your gaze tells Martin that he's made the correct choice. He's positive that while he still has lots to learn, you might not mind helping him along the way. 

"Okay Mar, you're sure?" When Martin nods, you continue, "that's great- thank you for trusting me. I promise we can do something easy, yeah? Leave the planning to me, I know you're busy. Here, I'll give you my number okay? You can control this whole thing."

We can go at your pace, is what your smile says as you find a piece of paper in your gifted handbag and scribble your phone number on it. Martin takes the slip and tucks it carefully in his pocket, half numb but also buzzing. 

"Pa! Look! There's tigers!" 

Martin’s head turns to his daughter, who until now has been perfectly content with entertaining herself. He doesn't mind the interruption though; a glance at the clock tells him he has a few minutes to spare, and a glance at you tells him you don't mind him leaving the conversation there. 

The red and blue plastic picnic table Atla sits at is toddler sized, not that his daughter knows that. She pats the bench next to her with an open hand, "sit, pa! Draw with me. I'm making blue ducks, you can do the tigers cause they're your favorite."

Martin gets one leg under the table top, his knee bumping the underside even with his leg fully extended. The position he has to contort himself into to fit at the table is one that he won't last long in. His back will be tight and he'll need a massage for sure. The beaming, proud smile on Atla's face is worth all the pain and extra effort. 

"Pass me the orange pencil?"

"Pa, you're supposed to make them fun colors. Where's your imagination?"

Martin laughs, "fine, then give me the pink."

"Rosa," Atla declares as she sets the dusty rose colored pencil in Martin's outstretched hand. "Good pick."

Martin is dimly aware of you glancing his way as he talks quietly with Atla. Mostly, she criticizes his color choice and Martin tries to defend himself, though Atla's opinion always wins. Martin blames it on the excitement bubbling in his gut and not the fact that he is hopeless at saying no to Atla. 

Once his time is up, Martin kisses the top of Atla's head. "Papa has to go now Attie. Will you tell Miss. Sunshine all about my goal if she comes and joins you?"

"Mm-hmm! I will! Miss. Sunshine is much better at coloring than you pa, she's a better color picker. You're too boring!"

Martin silently agrees with his daughter; he is sure you are better than him at plenty of things. "Well then, I'll send her to take my place. Have a good day søta, pay attention and learn lots."

Atla drops her pencil and throws her arms around Martin's middle to squeeze him with all her strength. "Jeg elsker deg pa. You almost forgot to say it!"

"Jeg elsker deg, Atla Ødegaard. I'd never forget to tell you I love you." Martin returns her hug with equal force, tightening his arms until her giggles turn high pitched and she tries wriggling away. Only then does he let go and press a kiss to the top of the French braid in her hair, a style she insisted on having now and again. 

Once Atla's attention has returned to her masterpiece, Martin gets up, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and embarks on a slow walk in your direction. Have your eyes always shone like that? Or is he only noticing it now because he's finally seeing you?

"Hello again Mar," you say, your smile like a refreshing glass of lemonade on a summer day. After the days long drought he's endured, it's the sweetest gesture you can offer him. "Atla likes the new pages, I take it."

"Oh yeah she loves them. She wanted you to go join her actually, she said you're better at it than I am."

You tap a pencil to your lips, tipping your head to study him. Martin is used to being inspected but this feels different- he's not being analyzed as a player, but as a man. 

"Let me guess… you didn't pick the right colors?"

"Actually I think the problem was that I did pick the right colors."

"Ah, you're learning." 

A comfortable silence falls after Martin hums his agreement. He shifts on his feet, knowing he needs to leave but also remaining rooted to his spot. He can't leave without saying something clever, or at least something that will stick in your head as much as your smile will stick in his own.

"I'll see you next week?" Oh yeah, real sticky Martin. Perfect line. 

"Next week it is. Atla said you've been busier lately, but I'll take whatever I can."

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

 Window in His Heart

Alex Gibney’s new documentary chronicles Paul Simon’s course from voice of a generation to aging performer who’s not ready to hang up his guitar

BY DAVID YAFFE

MARCH 16, 2024

A 21-year-old Queens College student wrote a song in his parents’ bathroom about how we would all be swallowed up by death. Do your best to make music, but silence will defeat you in the end. “Hello, darkness, my old friend,” he began, singing to the tiles. This was not an obvious chart-topping topic, yet “The Sound of Silence” eventually became a No. 1 hit, and Paul Simon, with his childhood pal Artie Garfunkel rocking a harmony, broke very, very big.

When he sang, “Losing love is like a window in your heart,” he was singing about his divorce from Carrie Fisher, but he was really singing for anyone who had lost love and was still reeling. Simon lamented that he could not sound enigmatic like Dylan. He always sounded sincere. Maybe it was because he was part of something larger. “There is something where the music is coming through you,” he said. “You’re a part of it, but it’s not starting with you—it’s coming from somewhere.” O.K., but when he sold his catalogue, he kept the $250 million.

He had a farewell album in 2016 and a farewell tour in 2018, but then a voice came to him in a dream, telling him he would write something called Seven Psalms, even providing lyrics. Simon would transcribe like a biblical prophet. The message would have something to do with dying, right back to where he started in “The Sound of Silence.” Gibney’s In Restless Dreams follows Simon’s quest to record the album after the final album, while he was losing the feeling in his hands and his hearing in his left ear, first gradually, then suddenly.

“The artistic process is about real shit,” Gibney tells me. “Because I was around when he was doing the work, it was like Picasso painting. Paul needed an audience, particularly when it was hard for him. He was having issues with his hands. There was one day when he came in with a huge bag of Theraguns, a muscle relaxer for his hands. He had issues with his playing, his hearing, and his singing, and he let us watch him struggle through that. That was both very generous and vulnerable. But it also helped him, because he knows how to rally for an audience. The extra energy was useful to him. Watching him in the present gave me more insight into the past.”

When Brickell sings, “Heaven is beautiful. It’s almost like home,” I cannot listen without tears. We want to hear the songwriter of “The Sound of Silence.” We’re not ready for actual silence. Losing love is a window in your heart, but what about losing everything? “The big mystery about life,” Simon says in the film, “you can never solve the mystery. That’s what’s so great about it. You don’t want to solve it.”

After Seven Psalms, Simon went back to doing what he was doing before: writing songs. He’s still working out how to perform with the one good ear, and he hasn’t given up. Neither should we. We’re on our way. We don’t know where we’re going.

In Restless Dreams: The Music of Paul Simon premieres on MGM+ on March 17

David Yaffe is a professor of humanities at Syracuse University. He writes about music and is the author, most recently, of Reckless Daughter: A Portrait of Joni Mitchell. You can read his Substack here

[plasticfangtastic]

Cozy Corner Kinktober. Prompt 6: Public sex, 10: Orgasm denial (sort of) Alt. Prompt: kink 0f your choice-- incest.

Day 3 (but day 1 for moi)

Thicker Than Water.

word count: 4.8K wods

A Homelander x Soldier Boy Fanfiction

TW: Incest, violence, bottom Homelander, bilander, bits of Butchlander and Meave x HL in theory, dark fic, semi-public sex, set during S3 obviously, canon divergent, not proofread.

A/N: this work contains INCEST, the author does not condone or supports incest... this is instead a what-if scenario of what could’ve happened during Herogasm– If this subject matter it's too uncomfortable or triggering plz do not read. if it doesn’t bother you, thanks for reading it! lowkey just wanted to get this one out of the way cuz its the most uncomfortable of my kinktober fics plz read the A/N at the end of the chapter for my thoughts.

Homelander walked the ruins of the once lavish home, the smell of cum, sweat, soot, fire and blood mingling in the air as a twisted version of Macy’s perfume aisle-- instead of overpriced bottles of whale sperm and civet musk– it was this warm animalistic stench tickling his nose. Homelander could hear the moans and wails of the burn victims and smell the sticky remains of some mini-hero wedged in the ridges of his boot.

Standing tall as his comrade laid unconscious on the floor, Soldier boy watched him annoyed, unimpressed at Homelander’s speech– he was no different than any of his old fans, not bothered when the young man got offended at his mockery, he pinned him straight into the wall, barely getting a wince out of the veteran, this was nothing but a tantrum from an overgrown baby in Ben’s mind.

Homelander and him began their fight, it was gleeful– it made Homelander smile, it made him warm, it made him feel painfully alive, so awake, so glad to know his hero may lived up to expectation.

They traded blows, for the first time in a very long time Homelander felt ache, each fistful and low kick more violently and more meaningful than the last, the whiny voice of Starlight urging her friend to leave barely registered as Soldier Boy smacked him below his ribs, the more the beast inside him woke up, the more he wanted Soldier Boy to challenge him, to dare prove him wrong– he was transfixed with the thought of killing him… with the thought of him.

Homelander could see just how handsome he was, the old film cameras didn’t do him justice, the voluminous brown hair, that soft beard and those perfect hazel-green eyes looking down on him, even the sound of his gasp were beautiful.

He threw him against the wall, lifting him up, hanging him like a portrait, the man struggling, his nails digging on the leather of Homelander’s gloves, he stared at him, looked at the heavy fabric wrapping his belated birthday present, he gave himself the chance to mock him privately, undressing him with his literal piercing gaze, the years locked in a tube has not diminished his wonderful physique, he licked his lips feeling his cock trying to make room in his tights-- he squeezed his victim’s neck, wanting to find relief as he killed his enemy.

“You really have me going there…” Homelander spoke.

Soldier Boy chuckled, and with enviable speed he kicked Homelander away from him, he flew back catching himself against the rubble, Soldier Boy had simply wanted the extra height.

Homelander held his stomach feeling a boot shape bruise forming under the padding, he spat, wanting to feel that force once more.

The violence amp-up, somehow Homelander began to lose footing, feeling the rust soaking his teeth, he gave him a blood soak smile, growling as the man destroyed the ground below Homelander’s ear– now he was the one pinned down.

From the moment he had seen him on that grainy black and white footage, he had been in awe– a teenage flame re-ignited as he emerged from that park, his shock had followed him all day creeping on his mind as he hid in his penthouse, he played one of his old movies. He played the dashing hero cleaning house, killing the baddies and rescuing the girl– everything homelander had ever wanted to be as a child, his lips miming the lines matching the cadence of his speech perfectly. He had seen his films dozens of times, he used to re-enact the scenes with his friend when bored, he loved to imitate men like this– he remembered impressing Voguelbaum by doing a perfect impression of Ray Liotta in Goodfellas and Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner but he always lose his approval when he copied Soldier Boy… so he kept it to himself.

He kept to himself how this one scene in th film made him feel… it was a rare shirtless scene, his teenage brain feed him dopamine, whenever he caught that scene he wished to paused the film but he never could, not when the orderly was around, not when the security guards hadn’t doze up– only in the comfort of the dark beneath the sheets could he pause it.

Now he had it live, feeling the heat, feeling his gaze… he gulped… the fantasy not too far from the real world.

“Time out!”

That made Soldier Boy fluster, shaking his head in confusion. Homelander pushed him off, he could not believe this brat had just demanded a time out, he stood up pacing himself and cleaning the soot off his legs, Ben threw himself at his direction but was only met with a bored evasion, he lifted his hands in ‘T’ shape, Ben scoffed, his eyebrows twitching harder than his lips as he tried to speak, Homelander paced himself like a caged tiger but feeling like a wounded deer about to be pounce by a jaguar… the two dancing on the razor’s edge, but Homelander just offered a dirty smirk, acting in control.

“What do you think this is?” Ben said with indignation.

“Not going to fight you… am just trying to think.” Homelander gave himself a minute, his ears picking up on Butcher’s irregular heartbeat, the man still unconscious but so close-by– You’re so much more beautiful in person… even your strength didn’t disappoint… you’re every bit as impressive as I hope you were.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Pal. But you’re not my type.” He wink at him more mockingly than anything– now can we…?”

Soldier Boy was quick to force him into a dance, their battle short-lived as Homelander took the upper hand, their tussling had Ben thinking he was gaining momentum as the man ended on the ground but it was a trap– he quickly set hero in a seated armband, no amount of tapping will get Homelander to stop but Ben felt his muscles and bones clattering and yelping, the burn buried deep into his marrow, the more he handled him the more Ben felt the humiliation, the tense and thick fabric of the younger man scratching at his cheek, Homelander cackling in between sharp wet pants as he forced the man head into his crotch.

“What da!?” Ben panicked, discovering the supes unsubtle secret, pure adrenaline gave him enough force to free himself– are you fucking hard!?”

“I have never been manhandled like this before” he purred, blowing loose strands off his face– It's not gonna go away… so either we call it quits which we know once William wakes up, is not happening. We could ignore it… or you give me… a minute or ten.”

Soldier Boy looked around at the destruction feeling glad and sorry that Butcher was unconscious, wishing he could waltz in and handle this gross motherfucker on his behalf.

“Or I could just keep beating you.”

“I might like that” he chuckled lightly, standing up effortlessly– seems I’m the improvement in all… manner of speaking” he purred lewdly.

Ben scoffed violently.

“As if a spring chicken like yourself knows what the fuck you’re doing.”  He remarked, rolling his eyes.

“Teach me then” He rested against a shattered pillar– just an intermission before I wear your skinned face for Halloween.” 

Soldier boy could not deny the absurdity of the mind of the world’s current biggest ego-maniac but there was a familiar charm to this... he had done the same in the past, sometimes a pretty face could be found in the battlefield, so why not? In the midst of war he had made love to Countess and many others. Being so close to death made a man eager to feel the warmth embrace of life, his mind lingering to the trenchest, all the death around made him cling to it, made him needy for it, perhaps this was the first time the young man experience the feeling– these people were soft, coddle from hardships, just pipsqueaks in their warm beds, who never would have the misfortune of meeting the rain of bullets, of watching dozens and hundreds drop like flies…  so he gave Homelander a proper look– The slightly disheveled man was classically charming, Vought had done a job worthy of a round of applause picking him but from whatever Kansas’s farm they’ve found him– tall, sharp jaw, beautiful cornflower blues, and striking blonde locks… give him a pair of tits and he would’ve been all over that five minutes ago, but he wasn’t too bad either, he had just enough wrinkles around his eyes to add character, the way his smile lines defines his chiseled cheeks, he had no babyface left just an aged boyish charm… admittedly had the younger man been 10 or 15 years older he wouldn’t even hesitate, had he had some salt adorning his temples he would’ve jumped him by now.

He looked back, catching a glimpse of the cracked skull slowly re-aligning itself, his bones ached and he would need a moment to recalibrate, he wasn’t betraying his oath to Butcher he was simply pausing the game.

“Then what are you waiting for?” He said in a deep gravelly voice, breaching the space between them noticing how not much taller he was from the caped Supe, with his boots on they stood near identical– show me that you want it” 

He took Homelander’s wrist by force, pressing it right against his crotch, Homelander shuddered, letting out a whispy moan as his finger relaxed under the pressure of Soldier Boy’s vicious grip, he gave him a squeeze feeling the girth under the wannabe cargo pants, just loose enough to provide space inside, he massaged this manhood and now he was that blushing teenage boy discovering himself for the first time, biting his lips as he felt it wake from its slumber.

Soldier Boy softened his grip freeing him, just to give him a little hand as he saw how timid his movements had become. He tried to keep cool but he could feel every micro movement, he could smell his arousal and hear the Supe’s heart rate– it was cute.

Soldier Boy was not missing any points in that department, he was girthy and veiny, it felt heavy under his own hand as he lowered his pants just enough to feel the hot dusty passing breeze on his ass, Homelander licked his lips unconsciously knowing Butcher barely living body still in the room, knowing there were dozens wounded still stumbling outside and still trapped under the rubble not far his area– he could get caught at any moment, his heart thumping at the thought of Butcher dying sight was him on his knees sucking off his enemy, Homelander had no desire to offer the hooligan the satisfaction of misunderstanding, but there he was squatting pushing his hair back like a dainty lady, his lips already parting to let his tongue take the first cautious steps.

Homelander moaned desperately as Soldier Boy shoved his head to let them meet all the way down to the base, his nose tickled by the coarse bush, he tried breathing but only met the salty and rich musky breeze briefly, it took a couple yanks and back and forths for Homelander to match his roughness, his tongue flat and wet undulating as he pulled, tightening his throat as the man forced himself further, sucking with enough force to rip a normal man dick clean off but to put the older man on edge, Ben hissed behind gritted teeth, chuckling as he felt his whole body wanting the pleasure of his blowjob, his hand pulling on those bleached locks as he slobbered into the ground, pulling him away to catch that debase look and dazed eyes filled with pleasure staring back at him, his tongue licking spit and precum off his lips, the young man barely needed a breather, he gave him a wonky smile as a gloved hand gave Ben a magical rush, gliding back and forth on the member pulling the foreskin roughly.

“So you can do more than kiss ass with that mouth”

Homelander growled, didn’t entretain him with a quip– right now all Soldier Boy was… was a talking dildo, satisfying a lifelong fantasy, he pulled him making the man winced but the pain died as he felt that slobbering tongue on his cock, he felt the leather twisting as he focused on the tip.

He would come soon, Homelander was too fucking good at this, whoever had trained him had done a splendid job, that or the man had a demonic oral fixation– his legs shuddered as he felt his balls twitching, his sight turning white when it all stopped. Homelander cackled lightly watching his hero whine and buckle his hips eager to finish but with his thumb and pointer trapping the base in a ring there was no way he would finish, he lifted the cock just for his mouth to give gentle kisses on those heavy swollen balls, he gave them a quick pop in his checks, the man was vocal and it was driving Homelander insane, to hear him, to know it wouldnt take much to make him beg.

“Is not fair if it's just you getting off… though it was your generation that was all about manners, old man.” He whispered as he slowly crawled up, still wanking him slightly, finding a pool of precum lubing his gloves– is not polite.”

“Thought a horny slut like yourself didn’t want a gentleman.” He hissed, feeling his nose crook as Homelander sped up his rhythm with his other hand, keeping his cock unable to cum with the other, it was more than teasing– a lesser man would’ve died by now– but I think  you earned being treated like a lady.”

“No, no, no…” he shushed letting himself the indulgance of kissing the man, the other hesitant at first, but he wouldn’t relent, Soldier Boy’s kisses were more than he could’ve ever dream off, the man pinned him against the nearest brittle wall his tongue taking the lead, Homelander needed to breathe for the first time, he was gasping as he felt his silky skin bruise, his hands still working on him and now the pain in his own trousers agonizing– I want to be fuck like a man… teach me a lesson”

Ben growled.

Homelander had no issue taking his pants off, wishing to undress more but they had no real time, more and more people were becoming conscious outside, Billy could still wake up not that the dying bastard could do anything about it.

His ears picking up on some screaming woman just a few meters on the other side of this wall, if she had super hearing no doubt she would catch them, it made him excited.

Homelander had been so distracted he didn’t noticed when Soldier Boy had lifted his hips, it had all been so quick, cursing and thanking his inhuman build as the man shoved two wet fingers inside him, Homelander squealed at the sudden sensation gasping into Ben’s temple as he pulled his shoulder close. Homelander wanted more than the fingers, he wanted that delicious girth inside him, the wet sounds of his accommodating body digging into his brain, it was in the neediness of his whines and moans that signaled Ben that this bastard would take him as he was.

Homelander saw heavenly white as he felt full, small tears forming on his eyes as he felt the blazing heat burn his navel, his hips bucking wanting to force the pleasure, wanting to feel just how much of his body this man could discover and expand, his cock was so hot, so thick… Ben enjoyed the wet velvet walls pulling him in, how happy this twitching body was to welcome him, breaking the walls of his bravado down with shameful pleasure. He was hopeless, Homelander took full advantage of his powers floating in the small space to fuck himself, he was leading this, and Ben had two choices: Remind the bastard who he was messing with, or let the slut fuck himself stupid.

He choice the latter, relaxing as they switched position, Homelander glad to be on top, glad that he could trust without care, feeling his body shrink and grow with every violent swing of his hips, the last time he had ever been able to please his crying prostate like this, had been with Maeve, she had fucked him with so much anger, but no amount of confused love could make that plastic toy feel as good as Soldier Boy’s cock was making him feel. He jumped and moaned as Soldier Boy’s hand began to please Homelander, his movements lazy, there was a smugness on his face that irked Homelander much liek Maeve had done so in the past but right now he was chasing the high, hearing the nameless dying man ask himself what was that noise, Homelander was moaning so loudly, he didn’t care if Butcher heard him, he didn’t care that the stranger was looking back into the mansion-- at his direction.

He threw a callous glance behind , seeing William's body twitch.

Then back at Ben, maybe that’s why he found him so pretty, so delectable… he moved his hands to the other’s neck, squeezing it feeling the muscles cave in but meeting too much resistance for it to break immediately and that smarmy grin still on the hero’s face– that beard reminded him of Butcher... a lesser version of the brit’s.

He closed his eyes, letting himself imagine things, wishing Butcher would wake up, wishing Butcher would facefuck him, thinking of Butcher luscious lips wrapped around Homelander leaking cock, pulling on his beard as he forced him to take it deeper until the older man’s throat milked him. 

He leaned forward wishing for Butcher to spread him further, his pussy would take it without worry– why did he have to cheat? Why did he had to fuck it up for them? Why did he have to ruin this thing they had by bringing others into their fight!?

He gasped as Soldier Boy slapped his ass red, he let go of the man’s neck, taking the offending hand, guiding it towards his own neck, Butcher would’ve choked him, given him a black eye if he could, cracked his knuckles down to powder if that meant he would break the other man’s ribs, he would fight and fuck him at the same time– why the hell did he hurt himself for this? So Benjamin would have to try to give him that lost experience… no… not good enough-- he thought.

He pushed the thoughts away with his idol’s cock, feeling the heat grow too much, he knew Soldier Boy was at his limit, he looked down with shining eyes, his expression menacing even when trapped around that neck-breaking vice, Soldier Boy enjoying himself, thinking he had put a collar on this neck for real.

Getting drunk on the poison, he speed up feeling the older man matching him, he let a deep moan escape his lungs, feeling his whole body shudder with adrenaline as his heart thumped inside his chest, feeling the thick heat filling him, Homelander had no break for the older gent was quick to mobilize and jerk him off, glad that the large prick had stayed outside... the boy scout did made him jealous in that department... Homelander came hard, spilling his thick seat all over Ben's hand, feeling euphoric and turning limp just as quick.

For a second caught in the moment, he wished it had been Butcher, That it was his enemy educating him, punishing him, making him feel a decade long of hatred, wanting to reduce him into something cheap, Butcher had promised him ‘scorched earth’ and delivered him nothing but a chinese burn, but this was good… Soldier Boy had lived up to his fantasies, shame they couldn’t make this last all night, or make it better.

They both chuckle, their bodies recuperating and while both men wanted to feel some human touch for a brief second or two neither of them could.

Homelander picked his pants and as if the moment he finished zipping his boots back on he was as if nothing had happened– catching his reflection on a mirror’s shard to make sure his hair was brushed back to perfection, Soldier Boy wished he could have a drink or a puff of a cheap cigar but he fixed his scarf and re-adjusted his gloves, instead.

“So where were we?” Homelander shot him straight into the nearest surface, filling the room with a faint red glow– ah yeah… me killing you.”

Their fight ensued, that desire for Butcher’s punishment faded away as the bastard woke up, tainted by dollar store V, then he brought that stupid twink…

He left angry, what would have been a near perfect evening ruined, the indignation, the humiliation, but at least he had felt something pleasurable before he had his heart shot right thru.

Homelander was unable to rest, still on the phone with that bumbling idiot, trying to help do her own job, he told her to spin it and fuck off, before he could relax the line was quickly busied by somebody else, the concierge seemed a bit hesitant to speak, sounding apologetic as he interrupted his boss evening.

He blushed a bit after the concierge informed him that this mystery caller claimed to be Soldier Boy– perhaps the man had found reason, ditched that lying bastard Butcher and wanted to meet up, perhaps after all the stress… he could get something nice… a nice reward.

“Is this really you?” he said nervously not knowing where to put his hands or unsure if he should look at the phone.

“We need to talk… the situation has changed…” The man spoke with a brooding tone caught on his tongue, something was brewing inside him– look–

Homelander cut him off, not daring him think he had emerged victorious from their altercation but then he started telling a tell, speaking of a penthouse, of a woman, Homelander was confused and slightly grossed out as the man spoke so crudely.

“Turns out Voguelbaum… made a kid… born spring of 1981…”

His voice was dark, something sticky on his mouth, Homelander eyes watered, his gaze staring into the ether, Homelander heart slowed down to almost a halt as Soldier Boy took a deep breath on the other side of the line.

“... what kind of father had you made me into…” he cut himself with a sharp breath– I'm going to kill you.”

Homelander stared at nothing as the line died, his ears and his voice screaming but he just stood there thinking of the word ‘father’...

So here he was standing in front of him, saddened to confess murdering Noir, saddened that Butcher would betray him yet again by bringing Maeve into the room but at least saddled up with him was Soldier Boy… no… his father.

He just wanted to talk to him, to make him understand how similar they were, tempting him with the power and security they could have by standing side to side.

“Unless we kill each other first…” He said coldly.

“Why…b-because he says so…? He’s only human.” Homelander remarked feeling anxious.

Butcher taunted Soldier Boy reminding him that this experiment wasn’t his boy, and that was all that Soldier Boy  needed to hear, but Homelander snapped back growling his words.

“Yes, I am your son! I am your blood!” He softened his shoulder slightly– that’s all that matters.”

Soldier Boy felt nauseous, his mouth burning as he swallowed vile. He had nothing to reply to him, frightened by this sight, knowing what had taken place between them, he wanted to both run from him and cave his skull in, but then he brought the boy– he hadn’t expected the boy, he hadn’t anticipated the shaky breaths and palpable anxiety exuding from Homelander either.

“You see… you have a family… you have him…  and you have me” He was on the verge of tears, he bit his thin lips trying to stay composed.

Soldier Boy scowled, disgusted, horrified, wanting to burn his skin clean off, thinking of what he had broken, how he had bed his own blood, how this man seemed to not care about what had happened, as if sleeping with him had been nothing but a glimpse to soem alternative reality.

As he took each step forward, trying to control himself, trying not to look at that young man desperate for his approval, trying not to catch a twisted reflection of his old self, he spoke.

“I wish… I wish I had been there… I wish… we could’ve been just father and son…” 

Homelander 's teary smile was so genuine, it had no right to be there, Soldier Boy tried to listen to his reassurance, how he almost begged him to be in his life.

“We don’t have to be alone anymore.” Homelander said shakily.

When his shoulder was touched, he began to feel light, relief, his nerves easing momenterily.

“I wish you weren’t so broken…”

Benjamin had come to realize that Homelander wasn’t depraved, he wasn’t some sick fuck persuing him– he wasn’t okay… there was somehting inside him that no longer work… better said never worked… the man was in pain clinging to something where he shouldn’t. Whether or not the young man realized the gravity of the situation, whether he had deleted the memory from his brain, whatever it was… Benjamin couldn’t nor did he wanted to understand, he wanted to erase his mistake, to delete the abomination dressed as man, he wanted to put John out of his misery… to maybe find a kindness in his desire to bury his terrible secret by terminating him.

Homelander was quickly ambushed hearing his son struggle to his side, arguing with Butcher.

“You can’t… You can’t do this.” he struggled to speak.

He looked at the man about to kill him, to the father he had always wanted, he had always needed, he had been a good son already and made his father happy! So why was he so upset? Why did he call him disgusting? Why was he looking at him with such revulsion and hatred? 

Had he not been good enough for him?

Why did his father unable to love him like before?

The end.

A/N: personally after all the hype from the cast, crew, Amazon and jensen I genuinely expected that episode to contain HL and SB action but alas that didn’t happen and I wish it had happened bcuz it would’ve been far more shocking/disturbing and insane if a sex scene took place and still included the reveal that SB was Homie’s dad– instead of just the most vanilla czech orgy basement porno out there.

I think herogasm just didn't deliver much in shock, the scene with Homelander finding out that was his dad was the best plus mirrolander but frankly meh episode... no wonder they didn't get the emmy nomination.

[accidentalshifter]

[March 17, 2024: Snoopin' around the Webb Manor looking for Lore.]

⚜️ TW: My Mikaelsons are a ✨️ problem ✨️ and don't play nice at all. Death, sex, blood, violence, manipulation, and dark themes will probably be present. I don't condone any of the actions taken by these vampires, I'm just recording them. For science.

Shifting Notes:

This session is just me figuring out the meta-mechanics of this DR (ghost mode vs. embodying my DR-self) and gathering clues. Since this is a 🚩 high stakes DR 🚩and also TVD, I decided on searching the Webb Manor. Half of the dramatics in the show happen because people are keeping secrets or don't have a key piece of info. Before I go running around Mystic Falls, it's best that I be as informed as possible. This entry might be a little boring to read, though.

Astrological Timing: Sun in Pisces, Moon in Gemini. Sun and Neptune are conjunct. Moon square Neptune in Pisces and Black Moon Lilith. The tension from the Square is providing the perfect dreamy energies for shifting.

⚜️ A couple of hours prior to shifting, I was starting to feel weird. Enraged, venomous... Mostly about my father. Which would make sense except that nothing triggered it & the anger felt outside of myself, but also linked to me. If that makes any sense?? I realized it was my DR-self (Zoey) and her feelings that I was sensing. I did leave her on read at her old childhood home, after all. When I realized it was her, the sudden outburst faded, and I was able to use it as a means of connecting with Z more. And in a weird way, it also felt like she was reaching out to me, too.

⚜️ I popped back into the TVD DR to see Z peering at her reflection in the mirror that's hanging up above the small accent table in the foyer. That's the table where I left all the stuff (box, letter, and map) on. Z is brushing back stray locks of her hair & making herself look tidy after what I imagine was a long ass bus ride into Mystic Falls. It's at this moment that I really take in just how opposite but the same to me Z looks. It's eerie. She has wavy brunette hair like mine but more sunkissed & streaked with blonde. Her skin is tanned like mine used to be when I was younger & doing swim lessons. Her eyes are bright green and shaped the same whereas mine are brown & dark. Z has a mole on her cheek just like me but it's in the opposite spot. And she wears her hair up, twisted into a bun while I almost exclusively wear mine down. It's like looking at my own "vitamin D friendly" twin...

⚜️ I take a step behind her while she grooms herself in the mirror. I see my own reflection, she doesn't see mine. Or if Z does, she does not react to it. To re-synch myself, I listen to "Secret" by The Pierces. I have no clue why but the lyrics of the song started playing in my head like it was a part of the background music to a TVD episode. By the time it ends, I'm back in 1st person perspective again, and piloting Zoey Webb.

⚜️ The Webb Manor is super creepy. It has a haunted vibe that I can't quite shake. Maybe it's Zoey's memories that's making me feel a certain type of way? Maybe it's that portrait of William Webb the 1st just drilling into me with his beady little judgmental eyes? I look at the cursed portrait as I walk past it, out of the foyer, towards the kitchen, with the box, and letter in hand. I figure there's gotta be a tool or a butterknife or something I can use to neatly slice open the letter (or the box). I could just rip the envelope open but...I gotta admit, the Webb monogrammed seal is legit as fuck. I didn't wanna ruin it.

⚜️ The minute I step foot into the kitchen, I see that it's empty as fuck. No food in any of the pantries or refrigerator, no silverware, or dishes inside the cupboard. I try searching the shelves near the microwave & get lucky. Amongst old leftover thumb tacks and dust, I find a butterknife sitting next to a singular bent fork. When I touch the knife, something shifts in the kitchen. The giggling of children drift into my ears. Suddenly, the kitchen I'm standing in is new again. No dust, no barren refrigerator, or pantries. I watch, eyes wide, as seven ghostly kids flicker to life (almost like a hologram) and run around the kitchen, playing. Meanwhile, the image of a ghostly maid stands by the microwave. She has the butterknife in her hand and is waiting for the snacks she's warming up to be ready to give to the kids. I notice that one of the kids look like me. Or Z. Or both of us, really.

⚜️ Just as quickly, the ghosts disappear. All goes back to normal. The kids' laughter still echoes in my ears, however. I think that was a memory that Zoey was replaying inside her head? Although, I really wouldn't put it past this house to be literally haunted. I walk over to the kitchen island, place the box down, & use the butterknife to slide it under the seal and open the envelope. Reading the letter, it doesn't have any loving sentiments that you would expect from a dying father writing to his daughter. It just has a set of numbers & a letter before it: D-9801.

Observation: Is this a combination number?? Is there a safe here? Is this a combination for a bank in Mystic Falls??

⚜️ Because I've watched so many episodes of TVD that my eyes are bleeding recently, I decide that the best thing I can do is set the letter on fire. If this information is important in any way in the future, then I need to make sure that nobody can easily access this info. Suggesting to Z that she needs to keep this code a secret, I feel my DR-self plunge her hand into her pants pockets and fish out a lighter. The both of us burn the letter paper over the sink, then wash the ashes down the drain. I wouldn't want any fire-based witches recalling this letter with a spell. *cough* Bon Bon *cough*. Although I'm sure if someone wanted it enough, they'd find a way. I'm just gonna make it annoying for them.

⚜️ Z seems to know where to stash the box. She walks out of the kitchen while I sit as a passenger inside her and to the foyer where a piano sits in the adjoining reading room by a window. Zoey strolls into this room & goes to the back of it where there's a door. Using the keys Mr. Pogue gave her, Z opens up the door to reveal a dusty office space behind it. It's an old, antique office lined from floor to ceiling with books and journals. Draped over the writing desk is a white linen sheet. Zoey yanks the sheet off with an edge of anger to the action. Thick clouds of dust fly into the air. Z & I both cough in unison. Z tries waving the dust clouds away by using the flat box in her hand like a fan. Suddenly, another ghost image manifests, flickering to life like an old movie...

⚜️ William Webb. The ghost of Zoey's father is sitting in the once-empty office chair and writing inside a journal at his desk. That kid who looks a lot like I used to when I was little suddenly runs into the office. She's holding a huge warty toad in her hands. She probably got it from the backyard or something. Little Z holds up the toad proudly to William. She's looking for some kind of good reaction from her Dad, but he gives her nothing. The maid rushes in & escorts little Z away, apologizing briefly to William. The ghostly replay ends at that point. The office returns to its previous, dusty state.

Observation: Wow, we have a William Afton Hargreeves from 5 Nights At The Umbrella Academy on our hands here, huh?

⚜️ I de-synch with my DR-self as she slams the flat box down upon the writing desk and sits in William's chair, then begins talking to him like he can hear her from the afterlife. Z tells him: 'Whatever crap is in this shitty gift of yours, I don't need it!! I couldn't care less!'. Z purposefully knocks some stuff (pens) off the desk, then gets up, locks the office door behind her as she leaves, & continues to talk to thin air. She is heading towards the foyer again. 'I'm gonna sell your pig sty of a house and be done with this place! Then, I'm gonna get back to my NORMAL life!! Without YOU or all or this! You hear me?!' Meanwhile, I roll my eyes at this and mutter: 'Those are some pretty strong words for someone now living in Mystic Falls. Idk, man.'

⚜️ Grabbing the canvas bag in the foyer, she walks up the staircase to the second floor, & ignores the William Webb the 1st portrait. As Z passes underneath it, the stairs squeak. I follow behind her. When the two of us reach the 2nd floor, another ghostly memory plays out. Seven children are lined up before their bedroom doors in the hall Z and I both stand in. William Webb (holding his journal) walks down the hall with a straight-backed gait like a military officer. He ignores every child but the oldest (boy) whose room is closest to his own; the master bedroom at the end of the hall. It has double doors. Will pauses before he retires to his bedroom for the night, says something. But the memory ends before the sound of his words hit my ears...

⚜️ Zoey enters the first room accessible by the staircase. This was the room her ghostly version was just standing in front of. I watch her flop onto her old bed with her bag & sigh heavily. This leaves me a couple of minutes to snoop around the room. I don't find much that's interesting. Meanwhile, Zoey looks like a deflated air balloon on that bed. She's not happy & now that she's back in her old home she doesn't know what to do with herself. Z just keeps swinging between fidgeting and listlessness. Her stomach growls. And in this moment, the "check engine light" comes on for me, and I feel my CR-body yank on my consciousness to come back to reality again or else. I decide to take the reigns and direct Zoey downstairs. Suggesting that Z should sleep in the piano room since she's not going to be staying in Mystic Falls for very long so there isn't a point in getting comfortable. Z follows the suggestion.

⚜️ There's a grandfather clock downstairs in the piano room that says it's nearing 6 pm. I get Z to start web browsing on her cell for a restaurant nearby (which I know will be The Grill) & wait for her to be distracted so I can dive back into pilot-mode. As soon as I get re-synched with my DR-self, I immediately exit out of internet browser, and go looking through her phone's texts. She still doesn't want to answer that text from "Angie" so I go right on over to her Gmail alongside looking at the current date on the phone. It's Aug 7, 2010. It's way later in summer than I thought it was. But I guess that explains the muggy weather?? Checking her email messages, I see that she has a BUNCH of emails from a "Dennis Martin" who is super pissed that she broke up with him last week. And also that she did it over this very email. Oof. There's a message from "Gabrielle" who simply asks: "Where are you???". There's the Mathewson email. And then there's the jackpot! An email from Will's lawyers about inheriting property and sending condolences over his "untimely death". I open the message and find that Z's family's lawyer is named Chelsea Remington and that her phone number is 555-8021. Lol, I guess 555 numbers are real in this dream...

Observation: So I realized this a day after but August 7th is actually an obscure holiday in celebration of handloom weavers. This links with my original fanfic lore that the Webb's were textile & clothing merchants in Mystic Falls. Zoey literally came to Mystic Falls on weaver's day, lol. Also. If this is 2010, then I'm probably in Season 2 of TVD right now. Which means I'll be running into Klaus soon.

⚜️ Last on my snooping agenda is Z's photo gallery. Time is running out but I figure that there would be a lot of clues in what pictures she's saved. It's mostly of her friends. 2 girls and a guy who I'm pretty sure is Dennis from the email, Angie, and Gabrielle. There's a pic of them at school, on the front lawns. One of them on a camping trip, roasting hotdogs & marshmallows. One of an obvious date with Dennis and several food pics. When I get to the date, I suddenly de-synch with Z as she sighs heavily again. Emotions hitting her in her gut. I think she regrets breaking up with him??

⚜️ The check engine light for my shifting is yanking at me again. I give re-synching with Z one last try and am successful. I dial the lawyer's number (Chelsea) but get her voice mail instead. I guess she's out of the office. I should've known, though. It's six pm. Either way, I leave her a message about wanting to go over the wording of William's will again & that I successfully made it to Mystic Falls in one piece. Zoey yanks back control after the call and goes back to looking up the Grill's menu online. She would've left for the Grill right then and there but I suggest that she should change clothes into something a bit nicer than something she just sat in for days probably on the Greyhound. She's wearing a ratty pair of jeans, worn out boots, a military jacket with patches, and a wooden hair stick that advertises a certain symbolism (hunter vibe) that I don't wanna advertise on my first day here...

⚜️ TVD hits really hard on their fashion and color symbolism so I want my DR-self's first experience at the Grill to be well thought out when it comes to what I wear. I have Z dig in her canvas bag for all her clean clothes and put them laid out on the couch in the piano room so I can inspect them. To be honest, I feel like my DR-self is like me when it comes to clothes...she'd rather be comfortable. All she has are an assortment of hoodies, shirts, and jeans that make me think she and Little Gil probably go shopping together. I groan. It's at this point that I feel myself get yanked back into my CR.

I guess my next visit, I'm going to the Grill in a pair of old boots and a hoodie...

[fensherohair]

The Marauders & The Metamorphmagi - Introduction

Synopsis: (Y/N) Wolffe is a pureblood witch with a knack for rule-breaking, mischief, clumsiness, and causing absolute chaos. What happens when she gains the attention of a certain Marauder and becomes enthralled in a pranks war with another that terrorizes Hogwarts School?

Word Count: 1.5K Eventual Pairings: Lily Evans/James Potter, Remus Lupin/Marlene McKinnon, Sirius Black/Reader Pronouns: She/Her - some character description is given. Note: Also posted to Quotev, Wattpad, and AO3. (Reader is Metamorphic)

"GRYFFINDOR" yelled out the sorting hat, once it had made its decision after being placed on the head of pureblood witch (Y/N) Wolffe. The midnight-haired girl quickly jumped up and ran to her immediate right, a bright smile on her lips as she followed in the footsteps of Sirius Black and Lily Evans. A small nervous giggle escaped her as she sat down, shaking hands with others in the same house, watching quietly with them as the other first years were sorted into their individual houses. Lily's mood soured slightly when her friend Severus Snape was sorted into Slytherin, ensuring they were separated and rivals in terms of house competition. Something neither wanted but also had no choice but to accept.

"Hi I'm Marlene" spoke a small blonde girl, she'd sat next to (Y/N) after being sorted. Across from them were Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Lily was next to Sirius with James being the opposite side of Marlene. The quieter plump boy, Peter was quiet next to James, almost shaking with nervousness as if he was about to run from the hall and break down from fright. Yet nonetheless, the group started to talk. James confidently apologizing to Lily for an incident that took place on the train. Soon enough Peter joined in. Asking random questions and changing the subject several times, while enjoying the feast in front of them. At least until Dumbledore announced it was time for them to head to the common room.

Only then did the prefects take charge. Each one standing at the end of the table closest to the golden doors and calling for the first years to join them. Once they were certain all were there the walk through the castle to reach each common room began. Whereas the Slytherin students and Hufflepuffs were led toward the dungeons. Both the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors were led to the grand staircase, the students of both houses being informed the stairs liked to move, and admiring the pictures moving and greeting them as they passed. Soon enough the Ravenclaws went one way with the Gryffindors going the opposite.

As the prefect lead the first-year Gryffindor students through the endless corridors, he'd look back every now and again, ensuring everyone was still present. Keeping a close on the four boys at the back, seemingly teasing the three girls just in front of them. A small grin appeared on his lips upon noticing one of the girls was far more than met the eye.

"This is Gryffindor's common room. Girls' dormitories are upstairs to the right, and boys' the same on the left. You'll find all your belongings have already been brought up" informed Blaine, allowing the first year's time to look around the common room. Taking in the portraits of past students who'd gone to greatness, the cozy area by the fire, the tables for studying, and plenty of places to hang out with friends if staying in the tower. The red and gold theme running throughout, from simple flags hanging over the walkway above the stairs to the choices in rugs and plush sofa sets.

It wasn't long before the group of pre-teens went off to find their dormitory, each with the hope they'd be with people they'd already formed a friendship with. Lily, Marlene, and (Y/N) grinned widely upon finding out they'd be sharing a dorm, the other two they shared with were muggle-born twin sisters Allegra and Isolde Smith. One of which was quiet and the other arrogant with no end of audacity. Something she quickly displayed upon demanding someone switch bunks with her, as she didn't want to be near the door.

"I can't believe we have classes right after breakfast tomorrow. They should at least give us time to explore" muttered Allegra, rolling her hazel eyes as she unpacked some of the things she'd brought with her from home. Her favorite teddy bear, and a few pictures of the friends she had to leave behind. She soon started to complain, about everything from the sheets not being to her standards to the curtains surrounding her bunk being ugly, even about the door not having a proper lock and the windows not having curtains.

(Y/N) on the other hand, merely shook her head, a smile coming to her lips upon finding the small care package her older brother Hunter had hidden in her trunk. Filled with her favorite sweets, from the mundane gummy snakes to more magical creations such as acid pops, chocolate frogs, and sugar quills. A box of Bertie Bott's every flavor beans hidden beneath a few pieces of clothing.

"Bertie Botts" kindly offered (Y/N), opening the box and holding it out for her roommates to take some. "Fair warning, they mean every flavor" she casually added, cluing the three muggle-born girls in, if only to save them the nasty shock and the thought someone was planning a cruel joke on them. Marlene soon reached to take a handful, a smile on her lips as she did so. Secretly holding a soft spot for the daring sweet jelly beans.

Allegra too took a handful, a smug smile on her lips as she became tempted to take the whole box for herself. But soon thought better of it, after all her twin sister and the other three girls she didn't know the name of, were going to be her roommates for the remainder of the school year. She had to get on with them, or at least be civil. Maybe then they could build a friendship or at least be of some use to her.

"What are your names anyway?" spat Allegra, pushing her mousy hair over her shoulder, her face screwing up after getting a particular sour-flavored bean. Through her watery eyes, she could have sworn Isolde had steam coming from her ears. "And blood status. A boy on the train was telling me there were different magical blood types" rudely but curiously added the pre-teen girl, as she rummaged through her trunk to find her pajamas, if only so she could attempt to get comfortable.

"I'm Lily, erm a muggle-born" nervously spoke the redhead girl, after looking at both Marlene and (Y/N), as if confirming if they too, were just as uncomfortable as she was. (Y/N) soon disappeared, there was little doubt she was heading to the dorm bathroom to change, Marlene followed shortly after, as did Lily, thrust giving the Smith Twins their own privacy to change and talk for the few minutes it would take to change into the comfortable pajamas they'd each chosen to wear.

The moment the trio returned, the previous conversation resumed. (Y/N) introduced herself while reluctantly revealing she was a pure-blood, although keeping her abilities as a metamorphmagi secret for the time being. At least until she trusted the girls around her a little more or was left with no other option but to reveal it. Marlene had revealed she was a half-blood. Breaking the ice a little further by asking if any of them had any siblings. Besides the obvious when it comes to the twins.

Lily had spoken of her older sister Petunia, her smile saddened a little upon recalling how their once close relationship had turned sour since she received her letter to Hogwarts. Marlene too revealed she had several younger brothers, all with the hope of one day attending the school. Whereas (Y/N) spoke of her brother Hunter, who was a Hufflepuff student two years ahead of them. She had a few cousins dotted throughout the school ranks also but all were older and most of the shared the same pure-blood supremacy beliefs as the majority of the family.

Isolde had revealed, she and Allegra had several siblings both older and younger. Even how it come as a shock the day Professor McGonagall had paid the ordinary family a visit to deliver the acceptance letters and explain what it would mean for the twin girls. Everything that had once been so normal was anything but now. Since finding out they were witches so much had changed. Isolde had personally lost many friends because of it, whereas Allegra reveled in the idea of finally being better than those who had once looked down upon her.

The conversation between the girls continued until each had dropped off into a peaceful slumber. Allegra was the first to find peaceful slumber, snuggled beneath the warm covers and snuggling her teddy bear. Lily had followed soon after, wishing each a good night when her eyelids got too heavy to keep open and sleep was too powerful to ignore. Isolde was the next, offering a simple thankful for the sweets and sharing a hope they'd all be friends before dropping off. Finally, after a few more minutes of talking Marlene and (Y/N) settled down for the night. suspecting the following day would be filled with mystery and learning, as well as trying to find their way around the large castle and learning their place within the wizarding world. 

Masterlist

[fastlikealambo]

link to chapter one.

Bloodsinger: Vampire! Eddie Munson x Black Reader Drabble Part 2/5

Summary:

Out of every news source in the country, the one and only lead singer of Corroded Coffin and self proclaimed vampire Eddie Munson has decided to do a sit down interview with The Hawkins Post. Instead of your boss, you’re sent to a mansion on Halloween Night and you’re in no way prepared for what’s in store.

Trigger Warnings: violence, gore, blood k!nk ,  a tinsy bit of cardiophilia if you squint, 80s workplace sexism

Inspired by: The Vampire Chronicles, Lost Boys, Vampire Diaries, Twilight, honestly every single vampire trope and cliche is in present and accounted for in this fic.

minors dni, I check.

this chapter is nsfw and a little steamy so be careful where you read it;)

“And that’s WHUD 96.7 with today’s biggest hits! Next up we have a new single from Corroded Coffin off their new album, The Hellfire Club!”

The blaring radio is what wakes you up, the noise giving you an instant headache as you unplug it and shove it off the bedside table.

You’re about to cocoon yourself back under the covers when you realize you have no idea how you got home last night, given the fact the evening ended with a wild dream about a celebrity licking your blood like he was trying to get to the center of a tootsie pop.

Your dreams have never been this intricate before, but whatever gets you a full eight hours of sleep.

It was just a dream, right?

You fell asleep at your desk at work and drove home half awake and that’s that.

Your commitment to logic has you out of bed with a yawn, eager to chalk it all up to a bad dream and get ready for the day. But the part of you that  longs to see beyond reason has you racing on shaky legs to the bathroom, examining your neck in the fluorescent lighting, relieved to see nothing there.

That takes care of that.

Satisfied, you reach up to turn the light off but your shoulder protests the too quick movement.  A mixture of horror and awe has you unbuttoning your pajama top to see a neat and clean bandage on your shoulder.

The botched interview, the glass, the portrait.

His face.

All real.

“Phone for you, it’s your boss!” 

“Be right there!” You called out, gingerly buttoning your top back up before raising down the hall to the phone, trying to appear as normal as possible to your roommate.

“ Do you have any idea what time it is? I’ve been calling you for hours!”  Your boss bellows into the phone. You glance up at the clock on the wall and nearly drop the phone when you see it’s five o’ clock in the afternoon.

“Sorry,  I got in late from the interview. Why are you calling me on a Saturday?”

“ Munson’s publicist called, he wants you to finish the interview tonight. Car will be there in 15 minutes.” 

“Oh hell no, tell them I’m sick.”

“ Whatever you did last night left an impression on that freak, dollface.  If you get this right, I’ll let you have your first pick of leads for the next six months.”

“But-

“Or you can pack up your desk on Monday.”

“Fine.” You hang up the phone.

Well at least you know you’re not a vampire, no vampire could feel as tired as you do right now.

The drive is the same, silent and far too short for you to get your shit together. The crowd from the previous night had dwindled to a few people and the window looked as though it had never been broken in the first place.

Again you’re met with the same darkness but you’re more annoyed than scared this time around.

“Okay, you got me here! What do you want from me?” 

“How’s your shoulder?”

He’s directly behind you this time, hand around your waist when you trip over your own feet at the sudden surprise. His fingers lightly run over the bandage as you for some reason you can’t put into words, lean into his embrace for a little longer.

“It stings.”  You say softly, wanting nothing more than to continue to be held just like this but you come to your senses and step back into the waiting chair. “ Mr. Munson, thank you for agreeing to finish the interview, I assure you what happened last night will not reflect badly on the and or with The Hawkins Post moving forward.”

“Having a journalist bleed out all over my floor would have definitely looked bad.”

“So would killing one.”

He almost looks sad, offended even at the suggestion.

“You think I brought you back here to kill you? You think what I want from you is death?” He asked, sitting down in the chair across from you.

“Everything is telling me to walk out that door after what I saw last night. Vampires aren’t supposed to be real, let alone have record deals. You could have killed me last night but you didn’t so either you want to draw this out or there’s something else. “

You hold your head in your hands, exhausted by the events of the last 24 hours you’re not entirely sure if you’re having a very vivid and very long hallucination brought about by burnout from writing stories nobody was reading.

Eddie leaned forward, tilting your chin up to look at him.

“What do you want?”

“I want a job I don’t hate, I want my own place,  I want to feel like my life isn’t meaningless.” You whispered.

“Oh baby, your life might be a lot of things, but it is not meaningless, not by a long shot. What if I told you I could give you everything you want?”

“In exchange for what, Eddie? My immortal soul?”

“ Not quite. I want your blood, baby.”

You snap back to reality at that, looking at the painting before looking back at Eddie. This could be some elaborate prank or performance art about fame but you have to see this through.

“ Why my blood?  There are blood banks, hospitals, any loyal fan or person off the street can give you blood so why mine?”

Eddie stands to his feet at your question, footsteps slow and deliberate as he pulls the curtains closed and the living room doors closed.

You’re not leaving this room.

“It might be better for me to show you rather than tell you.” He said and finished up closing the room tight. Before you can blink, he’s back in front of you, taking your hand in his.

“Do you trust me?”

“Still, no.”

“Can you try? Just for a little while?”

You relent and Eddie lifts you into his arms and brings you over to the couch, gently placing you on the plush cushions.

“Is this okay?”  He asks, reaching down to slip off your socks and your shoes.

“Yes.”

“And this?” His lips nip their way up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress up to expose your panties.

“How about now?”

“If this is just some elaborate ploy to get into my panties-

“ Tell me something: for someone so stubborn, why are you already wet?” He asked, slipping your underwear off and stuffing them into his back pocket. 

“ Go fuck your-

Before you can finish your thought, Eddie’s teeth sink into your thigh and two ringed fingers inside you. You don’t know whether to cry out from pain or something else entirely as your blood trickles onto the couch and down Eddie’s chin.

“That’s it, good girl.”

The more of your blood he devours in the time that passes, the more his fingers explore your clit, slow and steady at first but at the first whimper that escapes from your mouth, the speed increases, persistent and rhythmic, leaving your hand to shakily cling to the back of Eddie’s head. His fangs dig deeper and this time you do cry out.

“Do you want me to stop, baby?”

“Not your baby and no.” You manage to choke out, your body shaking with blood loss and pleasure from such a small yet euphoric act. By the time he retracts his fangs from your leg and his fingers retreat, you’re holding onto consciousness by a thread.

“You with me, sweetheart? Do you know where you are?” He asks, stroking your check with one hand and keeping pressure on the wound on your thigh.

“I’m in your living room where you just bit and fingered me.”

“That’s my girl. Your blood sings to me, I wasn’t sure last night but now I am. Just rest, you’re doing fine, I’ve got you.” He kisses your forehead while your eyes start to flutter close.

“Hey Eddie?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Why do I look like her?” You barely lift your finger to point in the direction of the portrait and the last thing you see before passing out for the second time is an overwhelming sadness clouding his features.

Vampires were real, of this you were now completely certain.

[dragonsarecats]

What do you think Christmas Claude got the Deer looking at his gifts?

!! Merry Christmas anon!!!

I've got all his character portraits pulled up and I think I gotta start with the obvious.

He got Raphael meat, XD.

Lysithea, I'm gonna assume belongs to the small lavendar bag tied with a ribbon--he definitely got her some gourmet chocolate or other type of sweet. He might have even experimented in the kitchen himself to try--you don't get a bonus for cooking with him and he's a disaster at dishes but he does promise to be good at home cooking. Plus, Claude to me seems like a really good gift giver? Both practical and sentimental. He definitely hunted whatever meat he gave Raph.

The purple striped box with a red rose shaped bow physically cannot go to anyone other than Lorenz. This one stumps me a bit, but I think Claude would probably get Lorenz tea--likely foreign, probably Alymyran--that they would likely end up drinking together. Considering how smashed up the box gets in his "damaged" portrait, we better hope he didn't get china to match XD.

Hilda definitely got the pink box with three flowers on the ribbon at the bottom of his special. She's similarly hard like Lorenz to come up with, because Claude wouldn't be satisfied getting her jewellery (when she could make her own) or anything similar, so I think he might get her raw materials to work with? Hilda's crafts are the one thing she seems really, genuinely passionate about--sure she's good with her axe and has enough charisma banked she can get whatever she wants from whoever she wants, but that means little when you're trying to get someone a gift. I think similarly to Lorenz, and likely the rest of the deer, this gift has some Almyran flare as an extension of Claude's love and trust in them. So whether it be resin sealed flowers, interesting beads, or expensive threads, Hilda's gift is definitely pertaining to her one, true hobby.

I like the idea of the smashed glass bobble in the damaged portrait belonging to Marianne. I think she deserves something delicate and pretty. You know those glass balls with little statues of animals or mini terrariums/landscapes inside? Definitely one of those. A little slice of the beautiful world she can hold in her hands.

There's an orange and yellow box in the standard portrait's bag I think belongs to Leonie. She's also definitely a really good gift giver--practical and sentimental--but in a weird way that makes giving gifts to her hard. I think he might give her an embroidered Almyran quiver--simple, practical, with gorgeous designs on it. Something she'd appreciate and use everyday.

Then there's Ignatz! Pigments is a little too obvious for Claude I think, even if he is giving Raphael meat. I like to think the large red and green striped present is for Ignartz, a book filled with Alymyra depictions of Sothis, since he seems to be a real admirer of art and painting and not just a creator, you know?

Last, but not least, is Byleth! There's no way the box he's holding out in the standard portrait isn't for them, what with the blue ribbon and the golden deer hanging from it. Claude's an information hoarder above all, so he'd probably have scrounged up any records of Jeralt and Sitri from their time at the Monastery he could find and compiled them into a nice and neat collection for the professor. Touching, but a little too in depth if you know what I mean. Rascal, lol <3

[scorchieart]

Lot of the Leopard | AO3

Genre: Comedy

Characters: Clavis Lelouch

Summary: Whatever you do, do NOT leave Clavis alone in the faction office. Especially on a boring summer day.

Word Count: ~2300

A/N: A request from @queengiuliettafirstlady for the prompt: a Belle who likes jokes and pranks as much as our favorite third prince. Thank you for fanning the flames for this fool, Julie!

Today is very boring. It is a very boring day. It is a day without joy. It is a day without play. It is a day without laughter in every which way.

Clavis sucked the tip of his quill for so long he was certain he’d rid the nib of decades-old dried ink. Though the gilded stones and metals of Chevalier’s cherished chair glinted opulently under the noonday sun, the wooden legs creaked disconcertedly as Clavis rocked back and forth in a lazy rhythm, his legs propped atop the grand desk in front of him. He padded the sweat building on his brow before flipping over the document in his free hand, barely digesting the proposal he was supposedly reviewing.

It is a day without the fox, off perusing the gray. It is a day without the bear, napping under hay. It is a day without the tiger, on duty far away. So the leopard is left alone, and someone must pay.

When he finally gave up making sense of the words, he chomped down on the quill neck to keep it in place and crumpled the page in his hands. Then he winded his arm and tossed the paper ball to the wastebasket on the far end of the room. The ball landed on the rim of the basket, teetered on the edge for a moment, then fell unceremoniously to the ground, joining the dozens of other discarded decrees and reports.

Sore from all that reading, Clavis rested his neck on the top of the chair and leaned his head backwards to look out the great windows towering behind him. The glittering summer sun mercilessly beat down on his face, but since he’d been cooped up in the office since dawn he welcomed the tingling sensation it offered. He could do without the perspiration though. Maybe if he could open the windows up more than the measly crack Chevalier allowed he could catch a whiff of a breeze. But alas, the threat of incoming arrows was a greater risk than heatstroke.

He locked the quill in his front teeth, bobbing it up and down as he contemplated all the things he would rather be doing than paperwork. And quite the long list it was. He would rather peel globs of honey out of a gluttonous Luke’s hair barehanded. He would rather listen to Jin present his thesis on the true merits of the female body with tape over his mouth. He would rather endure hours of Sariel’s lectures about decorum sitting on a bed of needles. He would rather refill every pitfall he ever dug in his life.

He would rather sift through the twins’ baby portraits and pick out who was who for thralls of overcurious doddering nobles. He would rather have Yves nag his ear off over what an embarrassment to the royal family he was. He would rather clean and organize Leon’s faction’s office top to bottom. He would rather hang out with Chevalier reading books in his library.…

The nib snapped as Clavis bit down hard in frustration. Okay, he wasn’t that bored. The heat and the solitude were just sending his mind to places it never ventures when sane.

Today is still boring. It’s still a very boring day. But his mind is running ahead to what his mouth would never say

He spit out the quill and examined the tip. As he suspected, the nib split in two vertically along the seam, like the perfect parting of a pear. He sniffed and ran the feathered end side-to-side under his nose, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction to brighten his mood. Maybe a giggle from a tickle? Or a sneeze to make him freeze? Nope, nothing but bits of dried snot sticking to soft plumage. Gross. He almost chucked the darn thing to join the paper balls when remembered it was a piece of Chevalier’s stationery collection. It wasn’t its fault; anything even remotely related to Chevalier was doomed to an insipid ho-hum existence.

Well, anything except Clavis, of course. Although you’d be forgiven if all you saw of him was from today.

He lowered his legs and tilted the chair back upright, then leaned over the desk to rest his chin on one arm while he listlessly tapped the uneven tip with the other. Ta-tap ta-tap ta-tap. The mangled beat offered some distraction from his perpetual ennui, but his bustling mind still sprinted planes ahead with longing for entertainment and intrigue. 

Truly, what he yearned for most was a break from his boredom. A bit of spice to sprinkle the stale. A jumpstart to jest. But with his fellow faction members all preoccupied for the day, the burden lay on Clavis to hold down the fort until whenever they decided to return. This wasn’t the first time he’d been left behind, but it certainly stung more than the others. Rhodolite now teetered on the precipice of collapse, and Clavis wanted nothing more than to stand atop the cliff and watch it fall.

Or balance itself up again. He wasn’t picky on the details, so long as he could claim he was a major player in the action and got a good laugh out of it by the end. But he’d get nary a chuckle trapped behind this accursed desk at this rate!

Clavis sighed, ceased his tapping, and picked another paper from the neverending pile beside him. There was still a full month for the Belle Selection to run its course, surely he’d find his golden opportunity another day. 

Buzz buzz buzz!

But today was not that day, it would seem. Just as it were, the windows could prevent an incoming human attack, but failed against the might of bug intrusion. 

He can confound the masses, solace quick to slay. He can survive the Brutal Beast, a quitter he is nay. He can wipe out an army, watch the bloodline spray. But a pesky whizzing fly? He cannot keep at bay.

Clavis whipped his head around and swatted his hands in every direction, not caring in the slightest whenever he accidentally smacked his face in the process. The fly persisted its pilot prancing, hopping from Clavis’s head to his elbow to skipping across the assorted materials and tchotchkes neatly lined up atop Chevalier’s enormous desk. Clavis retrieved the broken quill and proceeded to jab at wherever the pesky fly made its perch. 

Stab! A delicate tea set knocked over, smashed to hundreds of puny porcelain pieces.

Pierce! An ink bottle impaled, spilling black across the once-luxurious wood grain.

Thrust! The remaining pile of documents fluttered through the air, floating down like gigantic rectangular rose petals.

Squish!

…Uh-oh.

Oh… no no no…

Clavis slowly lifted the quill from where it skewered the poor fly. Beneath the splattered remains of goopy green innards a noticeable nick poked its head. He frantically rubbed away at the buggy gore, hoping it was just his mind playing tricks, but to no avail. A jagged chip the size of his fingernail jutted out from the center of the grand desk, and suddenly Clavis didn’t feel so warm anymore.

Today is very boring. It is a very boring day. But the leopard prayed it would remain boring anyway.

“Oh, bother,” he whispered to the fly carcass. What was left to make out of it, anyway. A battered wing and a couple of mangled legs. Or were those antennas? He shuddered and slumped back in the chair, shutting his eyes and pressing his temple in thought. Why, oh why did Chevalier always leave his belongings so vulnerable? He never left his room locked, present or otherwise. He left his office easy pickings for insipid invading insects. And he left Clavis alone to face off against boredom in an arena of at-risk artifacts.

Yes, that was the story he was going with. It was Chevalier’s fault, just like everything else. That’s the fate of the leader, isn’t it? To take the fall for his followers? To claim responsibility for the shortcomings of his lackeys? 

Oh, that wouldn’t do either. It made his skin crawl to ever suggest he was a mere lackey of Chevalier, even if he was stuck inside picking up his paperwork. Call him Paperwork Prince, the bane of sophisticated stationery and fancy furniture across the lands. How positively preposterous. He was the Third Prince of Rhodolite, the awe of children and adults alike. Scourge of the stuffy and savior of the spirited. The reason you checked twice you locked your door at night. The recipient of the sprightliest shrieks ever uttered by man. Not quite an Aaaaaah! of terror, nor a Gyooooh! of panic, but something perfectly in between. Something like—

“Aaagyouyeeeehhhh!!”

Yes, something like that.

…Wait.

“Prince Clavis, I will drown you in a vat of honey when I get my hands on you!”

“No! That would be such a waste!”

Clavis jumped off the chair and hurried to the window. On the cobblestone walkway leading to the grounds stood a now-awake Luke and a fuming Yves stamping his feet on the ground beneath a rose archway. But even under the scorching summer sun, Yves’s fair hair seemed to glow more brilliantly than usual. Sparkling, as though the honey-blondeness was enchanted.

“Stop that, Luke! You’ll pull my hair out!” screeched Yves, swatting Luke away.

“Well, we gotta salvage as much of it as we can before it’s all ruined. Stand still, will ya?” Luke hovered over Yves’s head, scooping globs of gold and shoveling what he could into his mouth. 

“Cut that out! This is highly undigni— Whaa!”

Backing up, Yves tripped and fell on the path, Luke tumbling down after him. Like a chain reaction, bunches of rose petals and feathers descended upon the pair, sticking to them like a flurry of multi-colored snowfall. 

“Oh, please try pulling them off,” Clavis begged from his perch, nose glued so firmly to the glass it started fogging up with his breath.

Yves desperately tried plucking the scraps away, but all that achieved was more of the flittering pieces sticking onto him. Luke sat up and tried to help, only to find himself unable to pry his fingers off Yves’s coat. Several guards finally began to take notice of the commotion and hurried over, only to slip and slide the moment they set foot off the grass and onto the stone path. Clavis counted thirteen unlucky soldiers meeting their doom before the others finally wisened up and backed off.

“Prince Clavis!” a new voice roared, and Clavis steered his gaze all around to locate the stodgy Sariel. He finally found him bounding up from the castle gate, whip crackling and head steaming. Clavis gulped a heap of air ready to call out to him, but deflated when he saw a second figure trailing behind the minister.

Clavis stepped back and quickly wiped the condensation off the window before pressing his cheek on the glass again. Just as he thought, it was Belle walking up beside Sariel, looking every bit as perfect and innocent as her title claimed. But Clavis made a living out of feigning appearances on this battleground, it was his life’s work, so there was no chance he’d miss the wayward petals and feathers that dusted off her dress. Nor the honey jar barely peeking out from her pocket. Nor the vials of slippery cleaning solution she surreptitiously stuffed into her sleeves.

He trained his eye for a while longer as she and Sariel approached the wreckage and called out to the distressed victims. Sariel stopped just before the slick stone path and warily contemplated his options. Taking her chance, Belle sneakily extended her foot and lightly kicked the back of Sariel’s knee, sending him tumbling face first onto the walkway and sliding up to join the other casualties. Those soldiers had just started to stand up again, and Sariel knocked them down as brilliantly as a bunch of bowling pins. The onlookers all looked bemused at Sariel’s blunder, all except Belle who daintily hid her laughing face behind a perfectly positioned palm.

And then Clavis was laughing too. He was wheezing. Hollering. Howling so freely the window scene fogged up again in an instant. He peeled his face off the glass and grabbed at his stomach, squeezing tighter and tighter for fear he’d vomit out of glee. When at last he could stand again without wobbling, he turned back to the desk, raised his leg, and in one clean motion swept it across the surface, sending all that remained flying down the floor. Then he picked up the broken quill and jabbed it straight into the table just beside the first hole. Then he did it again. And again. And again.

Stab! Stab! Stab! Stab!

He kept stabbing and stabbing, digging out chunks of wood and splinters from the desk until he completed a full circle. Then he ripped open a drawer and extracted a second quill, this one still untarnished, and proceeded to stab some more, drilling two smaller circles side-by-side in the center of the first. 

Sta-stab! Sta-stab! Sta-stab!

When he was satisfied with the mini craters, he buried the nibs into both ends of the equator of the first circle and carved an inverted arcline that joined at the bottom. He straightened his back to admire his work, a deranged smiley face beaming back up at him for a job well done. Lastly, he gave a final jab just beneath the right end of the mouth. An adorable mole for the adorable masterpiece from the adorable little brother.

Clavis tossed the quills aside and trampled across the broken porcelain and papers toward the door, positively giddy with delight at the prospect of meeting Belle again. He gave one last look at the ransacked shambles of the office as he twisted the knob and let out a dreamy sigh. 

Truly, this was a boring day. But it was one he would not trade for the world.

Two weeks to go!

The premise of this fic was inspired by the poem "Today is Very Boring" by Jack Prelutsky. Give it a read if you have time, it's very short :)

Tagging: @atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus (if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message)

Divider credits: @delishlydelightfuldividers

[kirklandsheartsecrets]

Seeing as they had a rough start and he was the one who fell in love first, what did Iggy do in order to win over his eventual wife to be successful enough to get her to politically marry him?

i love it i love it i love it

england x reader II headcannons + fic bonus

original text

(I’ll put the reference of the picture when I get home!!)

Gifting lands and territories

Offering nation protection

Gifts and ceremonies of all sort

He always went big on those

political or not 

he really loved you either way.

Because you are nations doesn’t mean flirting is only based on mutual business interests.

Again if you fell in love, it was for the flirting, the little things.

You were on a small boat, a ride offered by  counselors of the region. 

A group of men on horses appeared over the lake. They stop right in front of the lake, the horses heavily manneured.

You recognize Arthur on one of them by his outfit. 

His red jacket was clashing with the white horse he was riding. 

Arthur, recognizes you too, quickly he mentions to one of the men with him to announce their presence to your group.

The said man, moves closer to the edge of the lake. He announces loudly their names and presence. 

Arthur whisper severely to him, as if annoyed,

“Ask them to get closer so we could have an idea of the lake deep end-“ he frowned at the man. 

The said man executed. 

Your own counselor and assistant yelled back to them, judging that they weren’t a threat to your own group. Furthermore, announcing your names.

When the three small boats of your ride came closer to land, Arthur came closer with the horse. 

He stepped down and walked to your boat.

The Brit slightly tripped when he came closer to you. You held back a laugh, resulting in a smile.

He found balance again and took your hand softly. 

“Your beauty overwhelms me madam” Arthur commented, kissing your hand right after.

He lost himself for a second before getting back to reality.

“Also, my balance haven’t been the greatest on water, my apologies.”

Arthur pretended he didn’t embarrass himself a second before.

“My pleasure would be to invite you around my own lands, your dear counselors did a fabulous job on presenting the beauties of this place to us today.”  you commented again, standing up this time. However, you did took note of his helping hand for you to stand up.

everytime you would encounter him around he would find a way to announce his presence and salute you

you were completely ignoring his personal fantasies at the time.

soon enough you got the hang of it

An amount of paintings from all over Europe started to come in numbers 

Being a nation and privileged, you were educated on the symbolism of the paintings

He made sure you were fully integrated with intellectual groups of women

On portraits of you he requested to French painters or Italian ones he specifically asked for flowers from all around the world to appear

Flowers, his way to show off the powerful British empire he represents, how successful he was

Dogs always were drawn and represented, sign of his loyalty to you

He went as far as taking you to Francis place just to flirt with you in a garden.

He didn’t even have to try about the whole political agreement.

You gave in, sure about your choices.

You refused the advances of few other nations because of the slight difference he made

He was not in love with your skills or the amount of territory you represented 

But more for the person, the representative you embodied.