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luvendiary · 20 days ago

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hot summer nights / f. weasley

fred weasley x black daughter!reader

summary: you had always found 12 grimmauld place suffocating. but your next door room neighbor, might have just made the summer much more interesting. a/n: someone take google docs away from me. i'm supposed to be doing uni work. i'm literally a week away from my deadline, and i can't stop writing for this man, send help. also, can you tell the summer air is already hitting where i live? i am mentally back in my country already. warning: suggestive content ahead. 5.1k words. no use of y/n.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place was full of things that creaked, groaned, and whispered when no one was listening. The walls were thick with dust and thicker with history. The portraits on the wall never seemed to stop chattering amongst each other, sometimes even commenting about the visitors.

You knew that to be true firsthand — you were, after all, their favorite topic of conversation. Well, your lineage to be exact.

The daughter of Sirius Black.

That would have been scandalous enough for the house’s previous occupants, given how thoroughly your father had burned every bridge with the Black family name. But add in the fact that your mother had been a Muggle — not even a Muggle-born witch, but a full non-magical woman no one in the family tree could find a trace of — and suddenly, you were the whispered shame that had taken physical form.

Your mother’s name wasn’t even worth sneering, apparently. They didn’t know it, and so they called her other things. “That woman,” “that filth,” or “the stain.” You had learned quickly not to flinch when they did. If they wanted you to be ashamed, they’d have to try harder.

You had grown used to it. The muttering when you passed. The disdain laced in every sigh.

You had started to collect the insults, jotting them down in a small notebook and adding a tally-count every time one sounded out. It was your private little game.

“Half-blood filth.”

“Unnatural.”

“He should’ve had the decency to never breed.”

They didn’t even bother to whisper most days. Especially not the grander portraits — rigid old patriarchs in lace cuffs and curled wigs who hissed behind their frames as you strolled past.

But you didn’t hide. You never had.

If you reached a certain count by the end of the day, you allowed yourself to put an extra spoon of sugar in your tea that night.

“To combat their bitterness,” you had explained to Sirius when he had asked you about it.

He barked a laugh.

The only time the portraits grew quiet was when Sirius walked the halls beside you. They might hate you, but they feared him. Or what he'd become. Or maybe the fact that he laughed now, too loudly and too often, and that he'd given you his bedroom without even a second thought. The same one they'd once locked him in for weeks.

You had inherited more than just Sirius Black’s room and his thrill-seeking smile.

The records, for one. You’d found them stashed in an old trunk beneath the floorboards in the drawing room, sleeves worn at the corners, a few scribbled on in his lazy handwriting. “Skip this one — too many feelings.” “This one slaps. Play loud.”

You did.

Every night, without fail, you slid a record onto the dusty player he’d charmed back into working order. The first time you’d played Queen — loud enough to rattle the chandelier — you’d heard gasps and furious muttering from the portraits three halls down.

After that, it became routine. Ritual, almost.

Because if the house wanted to choke you with silence, you’d answer with music.

And tonight, on this stifling summer night, the needle scratched softly before Somebody to Love roared to life. Your window was cracked open, letting in warm air that didn’t do much except shift the curtains. You were in one of your father’s old shirts — thin with age and slightly too big — and nothing else. Your cheeks were already flushed from the heat, your bare legs sticking a little to the floorboards as you twirled.

You spun slowly at first, arms loose at your sides, mouthing the words. Then the chorus kicked in and you laughed, head falling back, hair brushing your shoulders as you let the music pull you.

Freddie Mercury’s voice filled the room, high and sharp and pleading. You danced like no one was watching — because in the privacy of your room, no one was. It was a performance for your eyes only.

The beat swelled, and you spun once more, light-headed from the movement and heat, heart beating in rhythm with the drums. You didn’t care how you looked. That was the whole point. You weren’t meant to be quiet or pretty.

When the song ended, you stood still, breathless and glowing, hair sticking slightly to your forehead, before collapsing onto your bed. Your heart still beating with adrenaline, and your head still spinning. You grinned up at the ceiling.

And then — applause.

Soft, slow clapping through the wall.

You blinked.

The sound came again, more definite this time. Three measured claps. Then a pause.

You walked over to the wall near your bed, listening.

“Hello?” you asked no one in particular.

“Impressive performance, I must say. I only wish I could have seen it.”

You leaned in, pressing your ear to the old wood, and spotted it — a small, dust-caked vent on the floorboards. Narrow enough to miss, just wide enough for sound to slip through.

You crouched, peering in.

“Fred?” you guessed.

“Unless George developed charm overnight, then yes. It’s me,” he replied. Slightly further away you heard the voice of who you assumed to be George saying something along the lines of ‘everyone knows I’m the handsome twin’.

You smiled, still breathless. “You heard that?”

“Hard not to. The whole house probably did. The portraits are livid, by the way. I heard one muttering about bloodlines and disgrace.”

You grinned wider. “Good.”

You sat back on your heels, still catching your breath from the song, the dancing, and now from this — whatever this was.

“Was that a muggle song?” he asked after a while.

“Yes, but not only any muggle song. It’s from one of the best bands ever,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you for the type."

You grinned, glancing over at the record still spinning lazily on the turntable.

“Inherited taste I suppose,” you murmured. ”Sirius says wizards have rubbish music and even worse rhythm.”

Fred chuckled. “He’s not wrong.”

You traced your finger along the edge of the vent, brushing away some of the dust. The air still felt heavy, humid, clinging to your skin, but you didn’t mind it as much now. Not with his voice slipping through the walls like this. Like a thread pulled between rooms.

“I have a theory,” you said, still crouched, voice softer now.

“Oh?” Fred replied, that smile somehow audible. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you hate good theories.” You rested your chin on your knees, arms wrapped around your shins. “I think you would definitely be one to like Queen.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because in another life I think you would have been great friends with Freddie Mercurie. Same flair for dramatic entrances and slightly inappropriate jokes.”

Fred let out a small laugh, the kind that sounded like he hadn’t expected it. “Bit of a compliment, that.”

“It is,” you said. “Don’t get used to it.”

You hesitated, then added, quieter, “I, for one, would’ve made an excellent groupie.”

There was a pause — not awkward, just... waiting.

You grinned at the vent. “Don’t tell my dad I said that.”

Fred’s reply came after a beat, his voice lower now, amused. “I’ll keep your secret. Though I might need some leverage if you start making fun of my singing.”

“You sing?” you asked, extending your legs before you.

“I perform,” he said, he would’ve sounded completely serious if not for the fact that his grin spilled into his words. “Mostly in the shower. Occasionally on rooftops. Highly exclusive audience.”

“Tragic,” you replied. “We could’ve formed a band.”

“I’m not ruling it out. You’ve got the moves. I’ve got the charm. George can play the triangle.”

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand. “Poor George.”

“Poor George indeed,” came a voice further away.

You laughed.

The silence that followed wasn’t really silence. The turntable still hummed faintly behind you, spinning the quiet end of the record. Somewhere down the hall, a portrait grumbled something unintelligible — maybe it was about you. Probably; most definitely about you.

Fred sighed, softer this time. “Do they ever get tired of complaining?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But it’s alright. They’re stuck in frames. I’m not.”

Something about the way he went quiet made you wonder what face he was making now. You wished you could see it.

“I used to think this house was suffocating,” he said after a brief moment.

“It is,” you said, stretching out on the floor now, one arm above your head, hair spread across the floorboards. “But you can live through it. Just have to find the cracks.”

Fred tapped the vent twice. You tapped back thrice.

He yawned. Not loud, but enough that you heard it.

“Go to sleep, Weasley.”

“Can’t,” he whispered. “There’s a girl whispering things to me through the floor.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut. “I’ll stop talking then.”

“That would be a shame,” he replied.

Another beat. You didn’t want to end the night, but sleep was creeping in at the edges.

“Night, Fred.”

“Night, Black.”

He tapped the vent again.

You didn’t tap back — but only because you were already smiling into your pillow, eyes closed.

The next night, the heat hadn’t broken.

Grimmauld Place was still thick with it — the kind of heat that made the walls feel closer and the air taste stale. You’d barely bothered with pajamas this time. Just the same oversized shirt and a glass of water sweating on your nightstand.

The record player sat silent tonight. Not because you didn’t want to play it, but because you’d already won. The portraits had been so loud all day — furious, in fact — that you’d caught Sirius grinning over his tea. A personal best.

So you let the house stay quiet now, in the way that only made sense late at night. You lay on your bed, legs stretched out, and stared at the ceiling, waiting.

And then — two taps coming from the small vent.

You smiled before you even turned toward it.

You dragged your pillow to the floor and settled next to the vent again, arms folded beneath your chin, cheek pressed to the cool wood. And then, you tapped three times.

“You snore,” was the first thing you heard him say.

You laughed loudly.

“I know for a fact I do not.”

You could hear him chuckle from the other side. “Yeah. I lied.”

“That’s not a great habit.”

“I’m not exactly a model citizen,” he replied.

Neither of you said anything for a while. Not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because there didn’t need to be.

Then Fred spoke again, a little quieter this time.

“Bit strange, this house.”

“Only a bit?”

“Alright, very strange.” A pause. “But I don’t hate it as much at night. Not when it’s like this.”

You understood that. At night, when the walls weren’t watching and the portraits had dozed off into their own scowls, Grimmauld Place felt... less haunted. Or maybe just haunted in the right ways.

“I used to imagine it different,” you said. “Before I lived here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe it would feel like my father. You know. Big and wild. I thought he would have broken it in.”

“What did it feel like?”

You stared at the dark wood grain between the floorboards.

“Like I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

A beat passed before he spoke again. “Maybe you can break it in.”

You smiled and stared at the floorboards. “Big task.”

“Brave girl.”

You allowed another moment of silence to pass between you.

And then: “Tell me something,” you said.

He chuckled from the other side.

“What would you like to know?”

You thought for a bit. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

You heard him shift against the wall.

“A dragon tamer. I always thought my brother Charlie was the coolest person ever. I wanted to be just like him.” A pause, “besides, when I was little I always thought it was the sort of thing you could brag about.”

You laughed at that. “That does sound like you.”

“What about you?”

“I wanted to be a singer.”

He chuckled. “Fitting. Have you always liked singing then?”

“No. But I liked the idea of people listening to me and not telling me to shut up after.”

He hummed in response, but you could practically hear the grin spreading across his face.

“You should dance again tomorrow night,” he said suddenly. “I’ll be here. Front row.”

You tilted your head, smirking into the floor.

“You’re getting bold, Weasley.”

“I’m building a reputation,” he replied easily. “Might as well do it properly.”

You didn’t say goodnight this time. You just tapped the vent thrice. He responded.

By the third night, it had a rhythm.

It always started the same. A series of taps. You each had your call, and you each had your response.

It was always followed by a voice.

Sometimes it was just a breath. A quiet “You awake?”

Sometimes it was:

“Interesting sock choice today.”

You rolled your eyes, even as you smiled into your pillow. “They were clean.”

“One was green. The other was... tragic.”

“You wore a jumper that had a hole in the armpit.”

“I call it ventilation. Fashion-forward, really.”

You didn’t talk about anything serious — not often, anyway. Mostly it was fragments from the day. Who had tripped over the troll leg umbrella stand. How Mrs. Weasley had nearly hexed the curtains. How Fred had nearly hexed Ron just because.

George chimed in once in a while, usually when he was half-asleep and vaguely confused about who Fred was talking to.

“Tell her I said she’s brave for eating that casserole tonight,” he muttered once through the vent.

“George says—”

“I heard him,” you replied, grinning. “Tell him I said thanks. And that he’s a coward.”

Fred relayed the message. There was a muffled pillow thud on the other side.

During the day, it was different.

You didn’t talk in person. Not directly. You passed each other in hallways. You sat on opposite sides of the drawing room. But the glances happened — always. Small, deliberate flickers. He'd look at you over his cup of tea. You'd catch him watching you braid your hair at the breakfast table.

And when he laughed — really laughed — he’d always glance sideways, like he was checking to see if you were listening. You were.

Once, during a late lunch, you'd caught him staring at your hands. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.

That night through the vent:

“I saw you watching me today.”

He didn’t even pretend to deny it.

“I saw you watching me first.”

You hummed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed. “Too late.”

Some nights you didn’t talk much at all. You’d lie on the floor, cheek against the cool floorboards, and just listen to him breathe on the other side. Once, you heard him scribbling on parchment — slow and paused.

“What are you writing?”

“Names for our future band.” A pause. “So far I have ‘The Howlers’ and ‘Vent Confessionals’.”

You groaned. “Please stop.”

“George suggested ‘Mischief’. But he’s clearly not the creative twin.”

“Clearly.”

You thought he might be leaning against the vent too now — your voices had the same nearness, that same faint echo of intimacy that didn’t require looking at each other.

And yet —

The looking never stopped.

Once, passing each other on the stairs, he had said nothing at all. But he looked at you. Really looked. From the hem of your skirt to the way your collarbone peeked from Sirius’s old shirt. You had felt the warmth of that gaze for minutes after.

You didn’t speak then. Not until much later.

“You’re terrible at pretending you weren’t staring,” you murmured into the vent that night.

“So are you.”

You grinned. Then, gently: “I’m not pretending.”

Silence.

“Neither am I.”

You let the record spin again.

This time it was Killer Queen — sharp, glittering, a bit smug. The kind of song that made you toss your hair and roll your hips like you were performing for an audience that didn’t deserve you.

It was nearly midnight, the house heavy with warmth and the kind of stillness that only came after everyone had given into the exhaustion of the day. Your window was open again, a low breeze barely moving the curtains, and your shirt was slipping off one shoulder.

You danced like you were daring someone to watch. You knew the portraits hated it. You almost wished they could see you — mouth soft with a smile, legs bare to the thigh, spinning lazily around the room.

And when the song ended, there was a beat of silence.

Then, as expected —

“You’re trying to kill me.”

You laughed, not bothering to move from where you’d collapsed at the foot of your bed, limbs tangled, skin flushed and warm.

“Good evening to you too,” you called toward the vent.

Fred groaned. “You should put out a warning before you start these concerts.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll outperform you?”

“I’m afraid of apparating into that room without thinking it through.”

That made you sit up, hair a little wild from where it had stuck to the back of your neck. You grinned at the vent.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing lilt, “Try me.”

You leaned closer to the floor, dropping your voice like a secret.

“I should mention — for the sake of your sanity and my dignity — that I’m only in my knickers.”

Fred groaned again, louder this time. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Absolutely.”

“Scandalous.”

“Incredibly indecent.”

“Do you want me to die?” he asked, sounding genuinely pained now.

You smiled and stretched out on the floor, cheek to the wood, voice casual. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

“I’m past from being on my toes. In fact, I’m lying facedown in despair.”

You bit your lip, enjoying every second.

Then, after a pause, a quieter voice through the vent:

“You’re gorgeous, you know.”

You blinked. The warmth in your cheeks had nothing to do with the summer heat.

“… You haven't even seen me like that.”

“I haven’t,” he said, honestly. “That’s what’s driving me mad.”

Silence. Full, and weighty in a different way now.

You let the record needle spin on the silent end of the vinyl, the crackle of dust the only sound for a moment.

And then, soft:

“Good. I’d hate for it to be too easy.”

Fred let out a breath — like a laugh that didn’t quite make it.

“You’re cruel.”

“And you’re still lying there.”

Another groan.

You smiled at the ceiling.

The vent became routine.

You talked most nights.

Not long conversations, not always flirty. Just… threads, tossed back and forth between rooms. Little things.

And outside of those moments, it was like some sort of agreement had been reached between you two.

You would save your words for when you were together — late at night.

There was no need for them during the day, and especially not amongst other people.

But things shifted. Quietly.

You passed Fred in the hallway one morning and he nudged your shoulder instead of saying hello. You bumped him right back. Neither of you said a word.

Another time, in the kitchen, he handed you a piece of toast without looking up — buttered just how you liked it, the corner already bitten off.

“Lost the other half,” he muttered, like it explained everything.

You didn’t reply. Just took it and let your hand brush his, lingering a second longer than necessary.

And then there were the looks.

Not staring, exactly.

Just… not looking away.

You caught him watching once as you sprawled on the library floor, flipping through one of Sirius’s old spellbooks. You looked up slowly — and instead of glancing away, Fred winked.

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped traitorously.

There were almost-moments. Moments where you were tempted to break this intricate dance you had created.

Moments where you stood outside his door, fingers just touching the knob before you turned away.

Moments where he knocked on yours, and then said nothing — just let his knuckles rest against the wood for a second too long.

On the nights you danced, you made sure it was angled towards the wall.

As if he could see you.

As if somehow, somewhere, something had changed. Your performances were not just for yourself anymore. And you were totally okay with that.

You caught yourself performing for the vent. For the idea of him.

And afterwards, he always said something — sometimes clever, sometimes devastatingly honest.

“I like that song.”

“You hit the wrong note.”

“You sound happy.”

That one stuck with you.

“Why haven’t you come through yet?” you asked one night, after one of said performances.

Fred was quiet for a long time.

You stayed curled near the vent, cheek against the floor, your fingertips brushing its edge. You could hear faint movement — him shifting, maybe lying down, maybe sitting up.

Finally, his voice, low and a bit raw:

“Because I don’t think I’d leave.”

The breath caught in your throat. You didn’t answer right away. What could you say to something like that?

Your heartbeat drummed in your ears.

“You say that like it’d be a bad thing,” you said eventually, trying to sound light, teasing — but it came out quiet instead.

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t reach full volume.

“I don’t know if it would be. But it’d change things.”

The near-misses only grew more frequent.

You’d round the corner of the upstairs hall, and there he’d be — talking with George or any other of his siblings, and he’d just stare at you as you walked into your room. There was something in the way he looked at you now. Something warmer. Hungrier.

In passing, he started brushing your shoulder with his hand. Sometimes, his fingers would just barely graze your wrist as you walked by each other. You never pulled away.

You met his eyes across the table one morning at breakfast — a silent stare held longer than polite. You took a bite of toast without looking away. He grinned. George rolled his eyes.

As summer grew warmer, apparently so did the tension between you two.

It started like almost every almost.

A glance. A pause in the hallway.

You were barefoot, your hair pulled up loosely, wearing one of Sirius’s threadbare old shirts and a pair of shorts you never bothered wearing outside your room. Fred had just reached his door at the same time — shirt untucked, collar a little wrinkled, like he’d changed his mind halfway through the day and then never fixed it.

You both stopped. Neither of you moved.

It was late — later than it should’ve been for words.

The house was silent.

And yet, it felt loud in your chest.

“Night,” you said, too softly.

“Night,” he echoed, like it hurt.

He lingered a beat longer. Then turned and disappeared into his room with a quiet click of the door.

You did the same, shutting the door behind you.

Your room was warm. The record player sat unused tonight. The window hung open. But none of it reached you.

You just stood there, back to the door, your heart skittering against your ribs, your skin still humming from the way he’d looked at you — like he wanted to say something else. Like you almost had.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, you moved.

Fingers on the doorknob, turning, pulling—fast and breathless and desperate in a way that felt entirely new.

You sprinted into the corridor.

Only to find him there.

Already out. Already looking for you.

Fred stopped mid-step. You did too.

There was a moment, where you just stared at each other. Eyes wide. Not sure if anything would come out of this.

But as if that had been merely a dream, you both moved at the same time.

No words. No hesitation.

He reached for you like he was starving, hands at your waist, pulling you in. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, tugging him down, your mouth already meeting his like this had been waiting in your chest all summer.

The kiss was messy. Eager. Like you were both trying to make up for every night you didn’t cross the hall.

You backed him into the wall, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, not even daring yet — just touching, anchoring himself to the fact that you were real and in front of him and finally here.

You smiled against his mouth.

“You were going to knock, weren’t you?”

He kissed you again. “I was going to drag you into my room.”

You gasped a laugh as he spun you, pressing you gently against the opposite wall.

“I beat you to it,” you whispered, breathless.

His hands were in your hair, cupping your jaw, and holding your neck…

You were overwhelmed in the best way possible.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered as he made his way down your jaw.

Somewhere behind you, the old portraits might have groaned.

But you didn’t hear them.

You didn’t care.

Not with Fred’s hand already sliding up your back, pulling you in like he couldn’t get close enough.

Your door was behind you, but it barely registered. Not with the way he was kissing you, like he’d been starved for weeks.

Your fingers fumbled blindly for the doorknob behind you. You twisted it with a soft curse against his mouth, missing once, twice, before the latch finally clicked open.

You didn’t even make it two steps into the room.

Fred was already following you in, lips still on yours, bodies tangled and swaying. You pulled him by the collar, the door swinging shut behind you as your backs hit it with a quiet thud. His hands roamed — not rushed, but hungry — like he was trying to memorize the lines of your body after all those nights whispering through walls.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, almost against your collarbone, one hand sliding up beneath your shirt — not pushing, just touching, resting over your ribs. “Say the word and I will.”

You didn’t say the word.

You couldn't.

Instead, you tilted your head, giving him more skin, more permission — your answer wrapped in a breathless exhale as your hands slid under his shirt, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his muscles, the way his breath caught when your fingers traced just below his ribs.

“Not stopping,” you whispered, barely a sound, more breath than voice. “Not tonight.”

Something in him unraveled at that.

His lips returned to yours, rougher now, deeper — like he’d been holding back and finally let go. He backed you toward the bed in slow, uneven steps, as if reluctant to break any part of the kiss, hands moving with intent now — under your shirt, along your waist, up your spine.

You gasped as his mouth moved again — jaw, throat, collarbone — slow drags of his lips that made your knees weak and your hands desperate.

You barely made it to the bed.

Somewhere between the shirts tugged over heads and the laughter caught between kisses, your legs hit the edge of the mattress.

The backs of your legs hit the bed and you sank down, pulling him with you.

Fred followed like he couldn’t stand to let go — crawling over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing your thigh.

For a moment he just stared at you.

You couldn’t help but shrink under his gaze.

When he saw your arms going to cover your bare chest, he shook his head —slowly and imperceivable— before taking your hand in his and intertwining your fingers together above your head.

“I was right,” he murmured. “You are gorgeous.”

You swallowed hard, breath shallow beneath him. His words shouldn’t have undone you like that. But they did.

He kissed you again, softer now — almost reverent — like he’d remembered to slow down, to take in everything he’d wanted for weeks. His mouth traced the edge of your jaw, your cheek, the hollow of your throat, lips dragging slowly, deliberately, like he was learning you one inch at a time.

His free hand skimmed up your side, not greedy, not rushed — just… aching. Like he needed to commit this to memory.

“You make it hard to think,” he murmured, voice rough against your skin.

“You’re thinking?” you breathed, a half-laugh caught in the back of your throat.

“Trying.” His mouth was at your sternum now, dragging heat and breath and shivers in his wake. “Failing.”

You gasped as his fingers moved lower, under your hips, pressing long languid circles into the skin.

“You’ve been dancing in thisroom,” he said, lifting his head to meet your gaze, “making me lose my mind.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You don’t even know what it did to me,” he went on, voice low, the confession raw at the edges. His mouth pressed soft kisses on the inside of your thighs. “Hearing you laugh through the wall. Listening to you spin records, not knowing what you were wearing, but knowing it wasn’t enough—”

You arched toward him with a soft sound that made him break off, his breath hitching as his mouth found a particularly good point and dragged a moan from somewhere deep in your chest.

“I thought about this,” he whispered, peering over at you, his hands now spread out on each leg, “more times than I should admit.”

“Fred–,” you gasped, threading your fingers into his hair.

That did something to him — your voice like that, your body open beneath his, no more teasing walls or whispered vents.

He moved lower, heat in every breath, and you let yourself give in — to his hands, to his mouth, to the way he kissed and sucked and licked.

“Promise me something,” he said, pulling back just long enough to meet your gaze again. His pupils were blown wide, hair mussed, lips swollen.

You nodded, breath caught.

“When this is done,” he murmured, brushing a kiss just under your navel, “you'll dance for me. For real. Nothing between us. Just you.”

You exhaled, shaky, head tipping back. “Yes.”

He smiled, wicked and warm and something deeper and far more wild than you could have evr imagined.

“Then hold on.”

And he disappeared against your skin — no hesitation now, no careful pace.

Just Fred, finally touching what he’d only dreamed of. You, finally letting him.

#x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x reader #fred gideon weasley #fred weasley fic #fred weasley #harry potter x reader #harry potter #wizarding world fic #wizarding world x reader #wizarding world

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gdinthehouseee · 5 months ago

Text

Neon Secrets - Part 1: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: ji-yong catches you getting in your own head so he decides to shake things up and bring you along for a much needed late-night drive

word count: 5180

tags: fluff, denial, idiots in love - everyone can see it but them type stuff

ao3 link -- part 2

All was silent in the rooftop practice room, save for the soft scratching of a charcoal pencil against paper. You sat curled up on the couch near the window, your notebook balanced on your knee, fingers gripping the pencil tightly. But the page in front of you remained mostly blank—just a few scratched-out lines and half-finished rhymes that didn’t feel right.

Sleep couldn’t seem to get a hold of you tonight—your mind raced with the same thoughts, replaying them over and over until they became a blur of frustration. You stared at the clock, wishing for a few hours of peace, but the ticking echoed in your ears, only adding to your agitation.

The quiet hum of the building surrounded you, but inside your mind, chaos churned. The notebook’s blank pages mocking your every attempt to find the right words. Your thoughts were too scattered—too many ideas, too many emotions—but none of them seemed to come together. The pressure to create something meaningful weighed heavily on you, and the longer you sat there, the more frustrated you became. Naturally. You hated this feeling of being stuck, of not being able to tap into the creative flow that usually came so naturally. You had written countless lyrics before, but tonight, nothing felt right. Every word you jotted down felt forced, out of place, as if the inspiration you once had was slipping away. The longer you tried, the more you doubted yourself. What if you were losing your touch? What if your career was over before it truly had time to blossom?

"You look miserable."

You jumped slightly at the voice, snapping your head toward the doorway. Ji-yong leaned against the frame, his arms crossed and his dark eyes almost staring into your soul.

Your heart pounded, and not just because he’d startled you. "Keep your voice down," you hissed and motioned for him to come in, glancing toward the hallway. "People are sleeping."

He scoffed but lowered his voice as he stepped inside. "Relax, it’s just us up here. Unless you think someone’s hiding in the storage closet, waiting to snitch on you."

As much as you rolled your eyes, there was nothing you could do to hide the subtle smile forming on your lips. Hoping he didn’t see, you elected to return your gaze to the notebook. "What do you want?"

Ji-yong flopped onto the couch behind you. "To rescue you from whatever creative hell you’re stuck in." He glanced at the page over your shoulder, tilting his head. "Writer’s block?"

A long sigh escaped your throat. "More like ‘everything I write sounds terrible.’ I should just go to bed and try again tomorrow, but I can’t even do that for whatever reason, so I’m just kinda… stuck here, I guess.”

He was quiet for a second before drumming his fingers against the couch. "Or…"

"Or?"

"We sneak out."

You stiffened for a second, before turning around to face him. Only to realise he had leaned closer towards you.

"You’re insane. You know everyone is asleep in the next room, right? And most of the staff? One wrong move and—"

Ji-yong held up his hands in mock surrender. "I get it, I get it. But that’s what makes it fun." A playful smile tugged on his lips. "Come on. You’re stuck, I’m bored, and the walls in this place are suffocating right now. Let’s get some air."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. This was stupid. Reckless. If anyone saw you, rumours would spread like wildfire. But at the same time… the idea of slipping away, of leaving all the pressure behind, if only for a little while—

"Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you." You quickly stood up, moving towards the door. You didn’t even bother closing the notebook or tucking the chair back under the desk. A dangerous move.

Ji-yong grinned even wider than before, already on his feet. "Deal."

He reached the door before you could, grabbed the handle and opened it for you to walk through, his typical mischievous grin never leaving his face. “Ladies first.”

“Such a gentleman.” You quipped and walked through, not after checking the hallway first of course.

And just like that, the two of you were sneaking through the hallways, hearts racing with every quiet step.

The tension in the air was palpable as the two of you stood in the hallway, the soft sounds of your footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Ji-yong’s eyes were gleaming with excitement.

"You sure you're up for this?" He whispered, glancing around as if expecting someone to appear out of nowhere.

You hesitated, your gaze flicking nervously to the security cameras overhead. The building was still buzzing with activity, but most of the staff would be asleep by now. Still, the thought of getting caught was enough to make your heart race. "This is risky," you muttered, trying to stay calm. "If we get caught, we're in trouble."

He chuckled softly, his fingers brushing against hers as he took a step closer. "That's what makes it fun," he said with a wink. You’d be lying if you didn’t find it attractive. Unfortunately for you, he was incredibly charming.

"Come on, I know the way."

The two of you moved quickly but quietly, sticking close to the walls to avoid being seen. The dim lighting in the hallways made it harder to spot you both, and every sound seemed amplified as you tiptoed past the security desk. The guard was hunched over, lost in the glow of his phone screen, completely unaware of the two figures sneaking past. Your pulse quickened as you tried to cover up your breathing as much as you could, but Ji-yong kept a steady pace, signalling you to stay low as you made your way toward the exit.

As you neared the door, Ji-yong reached for the handle, his hand steady despite the adrenaline coursing through them. He glanced at you one last time, a playful smile tugging at his lips once more. "Ready?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, biting back a grin. "Just don’t get us caught."

“You know I won’t.”

With one final look around, he pushed the door open, and you slipped into the cool night air, your hearts still racing but filled with the thrill of your daring escape. The moment you had stepped through the exit and carefully closed the door behind you, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a sprint toward the car parked just down the street. The night air was crisp against the mostly bare skin of your arms and legs, the sound of your hurried footsteps filled the silence. Neither of you spoke—just the occasional glance over your shoulders to truly make sure no one had followed, accidentally making eye contact here and there.

Ji-yong reached the car first, fumbling with his keys as he yanked the door open. “Hurry,” he hissed, motioning for you to get in. You certainly didn’t need to be told twice. You practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind you just as he did the same on his side. For a moment, you both sat there, frozen, chests rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths. The street outside was quiet, undisturbed. You made it.

And then, as if on cue, you turned to each other, eyes wide with the weight of what you had just pulled off.

Silence.

Then—laughter.

It started as a breathless chuckle from Ji-yong, but the absurdity of the situation caught up with both of you, and soon enough, you were doubled over, shoulders shaking with uncontrollable laughter. You pressed an ice-cold hand to your burning face, gasping for air between giggles. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He leaned back against the headrest, grinning as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know, right? That was way too close.” He turned to look at you again, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You looked so scared back there.”

“Excuse me?” You began, “I was being cautious. Someone has to be the responsible one here.”

“And yet, here you are, sneaking out in the middle of the night with me.”

You rolled your eyes but, once again, couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips and the blood rushing to your cheeks. The adrenaline still buzzed in your veins, mixing with the warmth of the moment. Ji-yong shifted in his seat, tilting his head slightly as he studied you for a moment. His laughter had faded, but his expression softened, something unreadable flickering across his face before briefly looking away.

The laughter had faded, but the buzz of excitement still lingered in the air. He tapped his fingers absent-mindedly against the steering wheel. “So,” he said, glancing over at you. “Where to? Or was the plan just to run away with nowhere to go?”

You hummed, thinking for a moment, leaning back in your seat as you gazed out the window. “Honestly? I didn’t think we’d make it this far.”

That made him chuckle. “Wow. Such faith in us.”

“I’m just saying, the odds weren’t exactly in our favour. But I guess you do have a way of getting people to do reckless things.”

“People?”

“Me. Specifically me.” You laughed.

His grin never left his face as he started the car, the soft rumble filling the quiet space. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights flickering outside the windows, casting moving shadows across your faces. The world beyond the car felt distant, like a dream you were slipping through unnoticed. It was rare—to have a moment like this, away from expectations, away from the prying eyes of fans, staff, and friends alike.

Ji-yong snuck a glance at you when you weren’t looking. You were tracing patterns on your arm, brows slightly furrowed in thought. He wondered what was on your mind. He wondered if you had any idea how often he caught himself watching you like this—memorizing the way your eyes softened when you were deep in thought, the way you pressed your lips together when you were frustrated.

And if you knew, what would you think about the way Seunghyun, Taeyang, and Daesung teased him for it?

Ji-yong could still hear them now—Taeyang shaking his head with an amused smirk, Daesung’s knowing glances, and Seunghyun’s relentless, dramatic sighs. Just confess already, you’re embarrassing yourself. They never let him live it down, always pointing out the way his attention lingered a little too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he always found an excuse to be around you. And as much as he brushed them off, he knew they weren’t wrong. The thought made his ears burn.

It had started one evening in the studio. Ji-yong had been half-listening to a new beat, scrolling through his phone when Seunghyun leaned over his shoulder with a loud, exaggerated sigh.

“Hyung,” Ji-yong muttered without looking up, already knowing what was coming.

“What is this?” Seunghyun said dramatically, tapping the screen of Ji-yong’s phone. “You’re literally smiling at your messages right now. Are you in high school?”

Ji-yong scoffed and pulled his phone away, locking it. “Mind your business.”

Daesung, sprawled out on the couch, grinned. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Taeyang let out a knowing chuckle from his spot near the desk, looking up from his own phone. “It’s always her.”

Seunghyun wasn’t letting this go. He leaned in closer, studying Ji-yong’s face. “Look at him. He’s already getting defensive. Next, he’s gonna say she’s just a friend—”

“But she is just a friend,” Ji-yong cut in quickly. Too quickly.

The room went silent for about half a second before all three of them burst out laughing.

“Ohhh, this is bad,” Taeyang teased, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen Ji-yong lie so poorly in my life.”

Daesung grinned, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Bro, you don’t even talk about your crushes, but you think we haven’t noticed how different you act around her?”

“Different how?” Ji-yong challenged, crossing his arms.

“You get all… soft.”

Ji-yong rolled his eyes. “I do not get soft.”

“You do,” Taeyang confirmed. “Like earlier today, when she came by to drop off something for the manager? You barely spoke, but the second she left, you smiled to yourself like some lovesick teenager.”

“I—” Ji-yong stopped, trying to come up with a defence, but all three of them were already grinning at him. Busted.

Seunghyun clapped him on the back with a knowing look. “You’re screwed, bro.”

Ji-yong swallowed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. No. That was the last thing he needed. If you ever heard them talk like that, would you laugh? Would you tease him too? Or worse—would you start noticing the way he looked at you? The way he felt? And, as a result, would you distance yourself from him?

He had never planned for this—to care this much.

At first, it had been simple: late-night studio sessions, teasing exchanges, fleeting moments that he told himself meant nothing. But then he started noticing the way you made the air feel lighter, the way being around you felt like a break from the noise of everything else. And now, sitting here with you, watching the city pass by in the glow of streetlights, he realized he had been in trouble for a while.

Eventually, he spoke, his voice quieter than before. “So… what were you writing earlier?”

“A whole lot of nothing. Or… trying to write something, but nothing came out right.”

He glanced at her. “Typical writer’s block.”

“Feels more like an identity crisis,” you muttered, half-joking. “I don’t know. I just kept overthinking everything. Like… what if I don’t have anything meaningful to say anymore?”

He frowned at that, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. “That’s not true. You always have something to say.”

You let out a small laugh, though there wasn’t much humour in it. “You sound so sure.”

“Because I am,” he said, glancing at you again before turning back to the road. “You’re one of the most passionate people I know. Even when you don’t say anything, you’re thinking—feeling. That’s what makes you good.” His voice was steady, sure. “You just don’t see yourself the way I do.”

Your breath hitched slightly at his words.

He must have realized what he said, because his fingers drummed nervously against the wheel, and he cleared his throat. “I mean—uh, the way people who know you do.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, watching as he kept his eyes firmly on the road, as if avoiding your gaze would erase what had just slipped out. A warmth bloomed in your chest.

“Ji-yong.”

He shook his head quickly, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just figured something out.”

You tilted her head slightly, as if considering. “Maybe I did.”

He groaned, quickly running a hand through his hair. “This is why I don’t say things.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, but there was no denying the way your heart was now racing for an entirely different reason. Trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, you decided to change the subject when you realised he hadn’t explained why he was awake when he found you.

“Y’know, you never said why you were up so late.”

Ji-yong blinked, as if caught off guard. “Ah… I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is your reason dumber than mine?”

“No, just…” He hesitated before sighing. “Not that interesting.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Why?”

He hesitated again, longer this time, before answering. “Because my brain is a pain in the ass.”

That made you pause. “What do you mean?”

He let out a short, quiet laugh, but there was no humour in it. “I think too much. About everything. I’ll be exhausted, lying in bed, and suddenly my brain decides it’s time to overanalyse every stupid thing I’ve ever said, every choice I’ve ever made, every possible way I could screw something up.” He exhaled sharply. “It’s like I can never just… be.”

“You mean like anxiety?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not like I panic, I just—” He sighed, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “I second-guess myself a lot. Get stuck in my own head. It’s frustrating because I know it’s dumb, but I can’t turn it off.”

Something about the way he said it—the exhaustion behind his words—made your chest tighten.

“Why didn’t you just say this earlier?” you asked softly. The car came to a stop as you reached a red light.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to make it about me. You already seemed frustrated.”

“That’s stupid,” you said without thinking.

Ji-yong finally turned to you, caught between amusement and exasperation. “Excuse me?”

“You do it all the time,” you said, shaking your head. “You act like you have to be the one keeping everyone else together, but who’s doing that for you?”

His lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected the question. His fingers drummed idly on the wheel, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, in a voice quieter than before, he said:

“You.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Ji-yong let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of the way the air in the car felt different—thicker, heavier. “Realize what?”

He glanced at you again, something unreadable in his gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something more, but instead, he just shook his head with a small smile. The traffic light finally turned green and he continued driving.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Forget I said anything.”

But you wouldn’t forget. Not now. Not when the weight of his words settled deep into your chest, shifting something inside you that you weren’t sure you were ready to face yet. And judging by the way Ji-yong gripped the wheel like his life depended on it, staring straight ahead, neither was he.

At some point, the heavy weight of the conversation had lifted, giving way to laughter and much lighter topics. The city stretched out around you, a blur of neon signs and empty streets as Ji-yong drove aimlessly, neither of you wanting to break the spell of the night just yet.

The two of you talked about ridiculous things—the worst stage outfits you’d ever worn, the most embarrassing moments caught on camera, the weirdest fan gifts he had ever received. He nearly swerved when he burst out laughing at your dramatic re-enactment of a failed dance move during rehearsal, and you doubled over when he confessed to once getting trapped in a bathroom before a concert and having to be rescued by the rest of the guys and a few staff members.

The car was filled with easy conversation, the kind that only came when time didn’t seem to matter. But time did matter. And neither of you realized just how much until Ji-yong absently checked the dashboard clock.

“Shit.”

“What?” You turned to him, still grinning from your last joke.

He gestured toward the clock. 4:32 AM.

Your stomach dropped. “No way.”

He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “We are so screwed.”

It took a second for the panic to fully settle in, but when it did, it was instant. You sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. “We have to get back now.”

He was already turning the car around, the easy-going vibe of the night replaced with frantic energy. “We better pray no one’s up yet.”

Your heart pounded as you mentally mapped out the best way to sneak back in, every possibility of getting caught flashing through your head. Staff members were early risers, and some of your groupmates tended to wake up for morning workouts. If even one person saw you—

“We can’t go through the front,” you said quickly. “There’s a security camera right at the entrance.”

Ji-yong nodded. “Back door. Less cameras, but we have to be fast.”

You could already imagine the absolute chaos if either of your groups or, worse, the company found out about this. You and Ji-yong locked eyes, truly realizing at the same time just how risky this had been.

Then, for some reason—maybe from sheer exhaustion, maybe from the ridiculousness of the situation—you both started laughing. Quiet at first, then full-on, uncontrollable laughter just like at the very beginning of this little side quest.

“This is so bad,” he shook his head.

You wiped the happy tears that were forming in your eyes. “If we survive this, we’re never doing this again.”

That was a lie. You both knew it.

And as the car sped through the empty streets, the first hints of morning light creeping onto the horizon, you knew this night—this feeling—was one neither of you would forget. By the time you had pulled into the parking lot, the sky had started to shift from deep navy to the softest hints of morning blue. Every second that passed made the risk of getting caught even worse.

You both moved quickly, slipping out of the car and sticking to the shadows as you made your way to the back entrance of the building. He pulled open the door as quietly as possible, wincing at the soft creak of the hinges.

“Go, go, go,” you whispered, pushing him inside.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel deafening. You pressed your back against the wall, Ji-yong right next to you as you both listened for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

You exchanged a glance, and without a word, started moving.

The first challenge was the stairwell—safer than the elevators, but the risk of running into someone was still high. He went first, taking the steps two at a time, while you followed as quickly and quietly as possible. Every creak of the stairs made your pulse spike.

Halfway up, you heard a noise—a distant door closing somewhere above you. You both froze.

Ji-yong grabbed your wrist and pulled you down into a crouch against the railing, barely breathing. You squeezed your eyes shut, silently praying whoever it was wasn’t coming down the stairs. The footsteps paused, then faded away in the opposite direction.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Ji-yong turned to you, eyes wide. “That was too close,” he mouthed.

You nodded frantically, your heart still hammering.

The two of you moved again, finally reaching your floor. Ji-yong peeked down the hallway before gesturing for you to follow. Your dorms were now just a few doors away, and you could practically feel freedom within reach.

You made it to the door first, pressing a hand against it for stability as you exhaled. Ji-yong stopped next to you, running a hand through his hair, a tired but exhilarated grin tugging at his lips.

“We actually made it,” you whispered.

He smirked. “You doubted me?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, Ji-yong opened the door. As you stepped inside, you immediately realized you weren’t alone. The familiar voices of Taeyang and Daesung were already drifting through the room, and the instant you both walked in, the entire space fell silent.

The kitchen lights flickered overhead as you and Ji-yong froze. There, sitting casually in the lounge area, were the familiar faces of your group and his—Seunghyun leaning against the counter, a couple girls from your own group scattered around the couches, and Daesung and Taeyang, clearly wide awake.

You couldn’t even hide. You hadn’t even stepped inside before they all turned toward you.

“Well, well, well…” Taeyang’s voice rang through the silence, a grin tugging at his lips. “Look who decided to join us at five in the morning.”

Ji-yong cleared his throat, taking a step back, trying to play it cool, but his eyes flicked toward you, silently pleading for a way out. “We… just went for a walk.”

Seunghyun raised an eyebrow from where he stood, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “A walk?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but you couldn’t find any words. The guilt, the tension, the fact that everyone was wide awake and clearly waiting for you two to walk in made it impossible to lie.

“You two are really bad at hiding,” Daesung chuckled from his seat on the couch. “Did you think no one would notice?”

Ji-yong rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, giving you a small, apologetic smile. “We didn’t exactly plan on getting caught.”

“Oh, but you were planning on sneaking in here, right?” One of the girls from your group smirked from the kitchen counter. “Because it’s not like we’re all waiting in here for you to walk in.”

Taeyang folded his arms, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You really thought you could just walk in and slip by us, huh?”

You let out a long sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that there was no escape now. “I guess we’re busted.”

Ji-yong leaned against the doorframe, shrugging with a small smile. “Guess so.”

Seunghyun leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he studied you both. “So, what exactly were you two talking about?”

You froze, unsure of how to answer. Ji-yong shifted next to you, glancing down at his shoes nervously.

“Oh, you know,” he said with an awkward chuckle, “just random stuff.”

Seunghyun snorted, clearly not buying it. “Random stuff, huh?” He shot you a look that you could read too easily. “I’m sure it was really random.”

“I bet it was super interesting,” Taeyang added with a raised eyebrow. “Just you two, talking the whole night away. So what was the real topic of conversation?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you avoided their gazes. “Nothing important,” you muttered, hoping to avoid the topic.

Seunghyun grinned from his spot, clearly enjoying every second. “Oh, we know it wasn’t nothing important.” He exchanged a knowing glance with Daesung, and the teasing only grew stronger. “In fact, I’d say it was pretty obvious.”

Taeyang tilted his head, glancing at Ji-yong with a knowing smirk. “Yeah, because you two are definitely good at hiding it.”

“Hiding what?” You shot back, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice faltered slightly.

Ji-yong quickly cleared his throat, standing up straighter. “We’re just really good friends,” he insisted, his voice a little sharper than before, as if to convince not just them but himself too. He gave a small, forced smile. “Nothing more than that.”

Seunghyun raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Mm-hmm. Just friends? Sure.”

“Not this again,” Daesung laughed mostly to himself. Again? What did he mean by again?

“You guys are ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, trying to downplay the awkward tension growing between you and Ji-yong.

“Well, we’re not the only ones who think it’s pretty clear,” one of the girls from your group said with a knowing grin. “But if you insist…”

Ji-yong rubbed the back of his neck again, his smile faltering. “I mean it. We’re just friends. It’s not that deep.”

Seunghyun looked at you both for a long moment, still not convinced. “Sure, Ji-yong. You’re just friends,” he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “But I’m telling you, it’s pretty obvious to all of us.”

“You’re really good at pretending,” Taeyang said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

You quickly changed the subject, desperate to get away from this conversation. “Well, we didn’t exactly plan on getting caught by everyone in the kitchen.”

“I mean, it’s not like you tried very hard to hide it,” Daesung said, unable to keep his chuckle to himself. “You two always look like you’re in your own little world.”

Ji-yong sighed, a bit of frustration leaking into his voice. “Can we not make this a thing?” He shot a glance at you, but you weren’t sure what he was thinking—was he upset with the teasing, or was he frustrated about something else?

Seunghyun raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright, we’ll drop it for now. But you know we’re not buying the ‘just friends’ act.”

You quickly turned toward your room, eager to escape the conversation. “Guess we’ll work on pretending better next time.”

Ji-yong followed suit, offering a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll do better,” he said, his voice lacking his usual confidence.

As you slipped into your room, heart still racing from the teasing, you exhaled slowly, trying to shake the feeling lingering in your chest. It was ridiculous, really. Ji-yong was Ji-yong. One of the most sought-after idols in the industry, effortlessly charismatic, always surrounded by people who adored him. There was no way he’d look at you like that. You were just his friend—one of the few people he could relax around without the weight of expectations. And maybe that was why it stung a little. Because no matter how much your heart stuttered when he looked at you, you were certain he didn’t see you the same way.

Ji-yong barely mumbled, just out of earshot from you, before slipping into his own room, shutting the door behind him a little too quickly. He let out a quiet breath, leaning against it for a moment, rubbing his face with both hands. Why did it bother him so much? The way the others teased, the way they all acted like something between you two was so obvious. Maybe to them, it was. But to Ji-yong, it wasn’t even a possibility. You had never once looked at him like that, not in the way he caught himself looking at you. And why would you?

He sighed, pushing off the door and running a hand through his hair before collapsing onto his bed. You deserve someone better—someone who wasn’t always stuck in his own head, someone who wouldn’t second-guess everything the way he did. Someone who wasn’t him.

And so, just like every other night where his thoughts threatened to betray him, he shut them down before they could get any further. Because if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that whatever he felt for you… it wasn’t something you’d ever return. If only he knew this is exactly what you were thinking about him, just on the other side of the wall. So close yet so far.

But that would be the least of both of your problems when you finally found out that a video of you and Ji-yong, with your hands intertwined, running to the car had gone viral.

taglist (lmk if you'd like to be added!!):

@thanosscross

#kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #kwon jiyong #gdragon #choi seunghyun #daesung #taeyang #fluff #kpop #yg entertainment #late night drives #sneaking out #denial of feelings #bigbang #top bigbang #bigbang x reader #writers on tumblr #ao3 writer #artists on tumblr

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luvvyouforever · 7 days ago

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to be known - scott miller (twisters) x reader

synopsis: scott can't grapple with the fact that you've ended your tornado chasing fling with him. content: fluff, angst, argument, scott's an asshole duh, mentions of smut but nothing detailed, drinking/bar environment author's note: niche character time yayyyyy

the past year has been nothing but record outbreaks of tornadoes across the alley. for a month, you've been jumping back and forth between oklahoma, kansas, nebraska, and arkansas, chasing the storms that you had spent your life studying, understanding, learning, loving. your family hated what you did, going out and researching these things on your own, collecting enough data to begin your doctoral study on them. but each time you pulled into gas stations and motels collected with your little community of chasers, you felt at home.

of course, you liked some groups more than others. it was natural. tyler owens and his tornado wranglers were rather tolerable, using their money towards supporting broken towns and families. that group out of florida who drove around some rigged subaru were friendly, offering you to sit with them at dinner. then there were the tourists from england who were way out of their league, but kept to themselves mostly.

and then there was storm par. the corporatized storm chasers who collected data not to understand the weather phenomenons that so often wrecked southern america, but to profit from them. to sell land to their millionaire investors. to use their highly advanced equipment to take advantage of vulnerable people.

you ran into them more often than not, much to your dismay. you sat a reasonable distance from the tornadoes, jotting down notes from the bed of your truck about the striations of clouds and the conditions of the sky that led to the dark funnels forming. and then, four storm par vehicles would speed by, nearly sending your truck toppling each time, kicking up red dust on you.

assholes was what they were. especially scott miller, their co-leader next to javi who was essentially his exact opposite.

at the beginning, he looked at you with a smug confidence painted on his face, gum snapping in his mouth annoyingly. he thought your research would never get off the ground. when you came back the next year with a fully funded program in your belt, he shut up, but still watched you from afar with a look on his face you hated.

and then one night, something changed. it was like a tornado. perfect conditions that all equaled to something explosive. life-changing. it was a bottle of wine that had been sitting in your fridge that made you release the grip your hatred for him had on you. it was heavy winds outside the motel that drug every chaser out to their balconies. it was you looking over to see him in the room next door. it was the seltzer javi convinced him to have with him at a bar. it was the way his eyes glanced down your figure in nothing but a university t-shirt and shorts. it was the way his biceps looked in some god damned muscle tank top.

you still hate him, rest assured. but he was so good, you couldn't only see him once. you saw him throughout the rest of the year when your motels lined up.

it's a simple transaction between the two of you. he gives a faint knock on your door, leans against the frame, and gives you this stupid smirk that has your thighs clenching together. and then he crowds you onto the bed, fucks you till you're shaking and he's spent, then he leaves with little more than a goodbye. it was that easy. or, it was supposed to be that easy.

you caught yourself at the tail end of last tornado season thinking about him more. and when you drove from oklahoma to your hometown, all you could think about was him. he's been plaguing you since then. months have gone by where you've thought him at night time, hands working yourself to a half-assed finish, disappointed that it wasn't his skilled precision doing it.

this time, you knew you had to end it. you had to stop things with him. he was an asshole. he made it abundantly clear that what he wanted from you was a casual fuck. he wasn't a relationship man. he was too married to work to worry about commitment. but if he fucked you and kissed you like he always did, you worried you wouldn't let him leave so easy every night.

and that's an embarassing, scary thought.

luckily for you, storm par got a late start this season. they hadn't arrived until weeks into the season. you overheard one of their members in the gas station grumbling about scott putting off going, claiming it was a budget thing, a prototype thing, a timing thing. it made you wonder, if just for a fleeting moment, that he was putting off seeing you again.

the first day you saw him was in the field. what seemed to be an ef3 was forming in the farmlands of enid and everyone rushed out, hoping to catch a glance at the large funnel forming in the sky. you parked your truck about a mile from the path, watching with calculations already forming in your mind about the wind speed and the duration. dopplers beeped on a computer next to you, but you didn't bother to look at them.

and then, like it was something out of your nightmares, scott's truck pulled up next to you in a rush. he and another member jumped out, funny goggles on their face and white polos getting blown with the red dust of the road. you watched with disinterest as they pulled out their machines and locked them into the ground.

and then, as the tornado chugged along the road, scott looked back and connected your eyes. your stomach dropped. he got a haircut, that was for sure. and had his arms grown in the last year?

he didn't bother to greet you, but instead turned around, watching as the funnel slowly dissipated, turning into nothing but a few extra gusts of wind. with a slam of his hand against the trunk of the car, he hoisted the par into the back on his own. it was a view almost sinful.

he, nor his partner, said anything as they got back into the car. he did, however, give you a final glance before he drove off. it said something, you were certain. but you didn't have time to question it as he drove off too fast and too reckless.

that night, you heard the familiar sound of his knuckles hitting your motel door. you took a breath, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you debated even answering it. how he had even figured out this was your door, you'll never know. you tried to disconnect from his smirk, tried to forget about how good he made you feel. how he had shown up in your daydreams and fantasies since seeing him last.

you had made the decision to call it weeks ago. but seeing him made that action a lot harder. he knocked again and this time, you got up from the bed.

"hello?" you asked as you pulled the door open. he stood away from the door, eyes roaming the expanse of motel rooms all booked with sleeping chasers. he turned around at the sound of your voice and you could've swore his lips almost turned upwards in something more akin to a smile. like he was glad you answered.

"can i come in?" he asked, his deep voice sounding almost unfamiliar in your ears.

you didn't answer him, but opened the door wider, allowing him entry into your room. he was wearing some worn t-shirt from a sports team you didn't recognize and sweatpants. gray ones. his hair was still damp, like he had just gotten out of the shower and the smell of his body wash flooded your nose. it was masculine, warm, hot.

ending this would be a lot harder than you thought.

"you got a late start this season," you said, attempting to break the thick tension in the room.

he turned to look at you, eyes half-darkening. he popped his gum in the back of his mouth. you knew it was cinnamon from the scent alone. "yeah," he answered simply. "had to wait on some new prototypes. better ones."

you nodded, pursing your lips a little. you glanced around your room awkwardly, bouncing on the balls of your feet. you could feel his eyes roaming your body clad in pajamas. you were sure he could smell the floral scent coming from your shower.

your feet were planted, bolted to the rug, unable to move while the weight of your next words played over and over in your head. you watched with bated breath as he stepped closer and you knew you had to do it soon. like now. now. now. now.

just as he lifted his arm to brush your hair back from your shoulders, you spoke up. "i can't do this anymore," you said.

he backed up, looking at your eyes with confusion lacing his expression. his eyebrows knitted together and he stopped chewing his gum. "what do you mean?"

you shook your head at his question. "i mean i can't do this anymore. meet up with you. these flings. these one-night stands. i don't want it anymore."

his feet took him back a few steps, creating healthy distance between the two of you. "okay," he said, dragging out the last syllable. "are you gonna give a reason why?"

you shrugged, unable to give him the real answer. the answer of "yeah, i've been thinking about you and your stupid muscles and stupid attitude and stupid lips and stupid body and i worry that if i keep fucking you, i'm going to want to be your girlfriend and get heart broken when that's not what you want from me." you opted instead for, "i just don't like hook ups. it was fun, but it's not me."

he nodded and you could've swore there was some kind of disappoint that flashed across his eyes. maybe you imagined it, you weren't sure. "that's fine," he said deadpan. he started to leave and wrapped his large hand around the doorknob. he pulled, then looked back to you. "see you out tomorrow." then he walked out and shut the door behind him.

you practically deflated as he left, feeling that well-known lump rise in the back of your throat. you thought it wouldn't affect you like this. but then some cruel thing in your mind reminded you that you'd never feel his touch again, or his lips on yours again. you wonder if you would rather have him in some superficial, heart-clencing way, or never have him again.

you think it might be the first. it's too late now.

when scott goes back to his own room, he slams the door a little too loud, surely waking up the person next door. it came out of nowhere. just hours ago he had seen you in the field, your hair blowing in your face, eyes locked on the threatening clouds high in the sky. he admired your lack of fear and it was a thought that kept recurring in his head since he last saw you.

and yes, there were problems with the prototypes. and riggs was on his ass about getting the data right this time or else he'd pull several hundred thousand from the budget. scott had to deal with that, all while grappling with the fact that he'd be seeing you again and that was scarier than the ef5 tornadoes promised for tornado alley this year.

he felt so stupid for letting himself develop feelings for you. he was usually so disconnected. he could separate his life from his flings. every hookup he's ever had has been passionate, but done once he left the house. with you, it was different.

with you, he had to push himself to leave your bed. he had to push your floral scent out of his head. he had to remind himself that this was supposed to be a casual thing and that you shouldn't like each other.

and then you appeared in his thoughts when he jerked off and realized he was done for. he just hadn't gathered the courage to end it like you did.

he fell back on his scratchy, uncomfortable motel bed, hands on either side of his head in distress. why was he so torn up about this? it shouldn't matter.

he turned off the bedside lamp and pulled the comforter over his lower half. he shut his eyes, desperate to forget about the night and especially forget about you. but every time he got close to sleep, he was plagued with images of your smile in the gas station or your focused gaze out on the road. he thought about how good you were and how awful he was for what he was doing.

scott miller was screwed and he knew it too. he didn't sleep much that night.

some random chaser out of texas invited you out to a bar with her friends the next night. was your moping truly that noticeable? you said yes, of course you did. you needed scott out of your head. really, you needed him miles away in the distance, but until the season ended, he'd only be a short drive from you every day.

you hadn't bothered with really trying to dress well, considering it was just some local dive bar filled with tourists. what you wanted was some drinks, a little socialization, and go home.

you'd only been there for thirty minutes, only one shirley temple in deep, when javi and two other storm par members came in. a minute later, scott came in, clearly disinterested by the environment javi no doubt drug him into. you were really positive at the moment that the world had it out for you. you really hated storm par.

you also hated just how good he looked tonight. having really only seen him in his work clothes or pajamas, you felt as though you unlocked a new facet of scott miller. he was in some jeans on top of boots. instead of a storm par polo, he put on a t-shirt with some beer logo on it and it carved him out perfectly. heads turned as they walked in and you knew eyes were on him.

just as the group found some booth in the corner, scott looked up and for a second, your eyes met. your breath hitched and you turned around immediately, desperate for another drink from the bartender.

over on the side of the bar, scott's heart thumped in his chest, both from the loud country music coming from a jukebox and from seeing you at the bar. you looked effortless. you caught attention. you took sips from your drink with the soft lips he thought about kissing last night. jesus, he needed this season to be done with.

the whole day, he was distracted. he couldn't call out orders or focus on the data they were out there to get. he replayed last night in his head. all he could feel were your hands on his body. he hadn't known, until that moment, that this was what he wanted. he wanted you.

he wanted you and your passion. you and your witty remarks. you and your specific diner orders. you and your sweet snacks and energy drinks. you with your clipboards and computers in the bed of your truck. he wanted you and everything that came with that. javi noticed he was distracted, maybe a little sad, and thought it was a good idea to go out. it was a good idea, sure. he could have found someone else to flirt with a little at the bar, but now you're here and his heart is on the floor.

"man, you've been looking like a kicked puppy all day," javi said, bumping into his side. "which is saying something since you always got this superman stoic look."

scott glanced sideways at him, shaking his head. "i'm fine," he said, though his curt tone said a little more. javi, ever observant, followed scott's previous gaze to the bar where you sat, the bartender looking at you with a smile as he handed you another mixed drink.

"hmm," javi hummed. "don't you want a beer?"

scott glanced back at the bar, then to his partner next to him. "you getting them?" he asked.

javi shook his head and scott could see gears connecting together in his head, slowly turning. "no, can you? you know, my back just hurts so bad from hitting that ditch with the truck today."

scott sat there frozen, unwilling to head to the bar.

"unless, there's a reason you don't want to head to the bar."

scott looked at javi, his eyes widening just a fraction. he got it. he knew he did. "jesus, javi, don't you stop worrying about other people?" he asked, that same mean tone he usually carried slipping through. javi didn't take it personally, though, just leaned in more to scott so their conversation was quieter.

"she's a good girl," he said. "what's going on with that?"

scott stood up quickly, adjusting his shirt in the process. "nothing," he said. "i'll get the damn drinks." his large frame pushed through the crowds of people till he reached the bar. unfortunately for him, the only spot free was just a few stools down from you. he could smell your perfume, hear the ice in your drink clinking around. in some other world where things were easier and he wasn't so complicated, he'd go up and confess everything and head home with you.

in this world, though, he stood there quietly, trying so hard not to look in your direction.

you were trying to as well, focusing on the cherry in your drink that kept swirling around with your straw. scott, in his casual clothes and gelled hair, stood just a few feet from you and you couldn't give him that look that told him to come to your room later. you'd never get that again. you took a sip of your drink as scott ordered a couple beers for his group.

as he left, your eyes betrayed your mind and you watched him. he looked back, feeling eyes on him and he paused. he stood for a second, looking at you, and then walked away.

"jesus," you whispered, putting your head in your hands. with a wave of your hand, you called the bartender over and paid your tab quickly. you stood from the bar and headed outside, desperate for some air to clear your thoughts.

several minutes passed of deep breaths and watching the night sky. clouds formed and very distantly, thunder clapped. you knew tomorrow would be a busy day and that you should head home, but something kept your feet planted on the ground.

you knew what it was when the door to the bar swung open suddenly and you could've laughed when you saw scott walk out, rubbing a hand down his face like he was just as frustrated as you. when he turned around, he laughed, he really did.

instead of going back inside, he leaned against the wall across the door, keeping a far distance from you. the two of you played a stupid game of looking up, then looking down, then looking up.

unable to tolerate it anymore, you pushed yourself from the wall and went to head to your truck parked down the way, but then a firm hand wrapped around your wrist and you looked back, connecting eyes with scott.

"yes?" you asked, ripping your wrist from his grasp.

"i-uh," he started to say something, but stopped. "i'm sorry."

you looked at him shocked, as if you thought he'd never been capable of saying the words sorry. like he was too self conceited to do so. his jaw clenched and he took a short breath in and out.

"what is it, scott?" you asked, tired of his glances and looks. you thought in that moment that maybe you'd make it a point to never go to the same storms and locations storm par was. maybe you'd find tornadoes further north. maybe you could change your research purpose and find something new. just to be able to leave the grip he had on you.

"what are you doing tonight?" he tried. his voice was as casual as he could make it, as if he didn't want to convey through his voice the hope that you'd come back to him and forget your words. that he would be what you want.

you shrugged, finding his words out of character. "i don't know," you said honestly. "go to sleep. get an early start for tomorrow."

he nodded, glancing down at the ground. before you, scott would never act this way. he wouldn't be shy or unconfident or a beat around the bush kind of guy. he'd ask if you wanted to come back to his room still. he'd put on that smug smirk and his muscles would flex a little and he'd brush hair from your face with gentle, but firm hands. you changed him and god, he hated it.

"i'm gonna go," you told him, stepping away with an attempt at resolve.

"wait!" he said before thinking about it. he winced at your quick turn around, at the frustration clear on your face.

"what is it, scott?" you asked, biting down on your lip hard to keep from a tear slipping down your cheek at the way he looked at you then. you wondered what was going through his head. you noticed the break in his rough exterior and breathed out. "are you gonna say something or-"

"jesus," he breathed out, wiping a hand down his face roughly. he took strong steps towards you, his face set strong. "are you oblivious?"

you looked at him in shock, offense written on your face as clear as day. "excuse me? just because i broke it off doesn't give you a reason to be an asshole to me again."

"that's not--i'm sorry. okay? i didn't mean to say that," he said, hands reached out as if that would placate anything. "this is just fucking hard for me."

"what's hard, scott?" you ask.

his blue eyes bore into you and you were sure that a minute longer, you'd have a hole straight through your chest. "this! this is hard. talking to you. being around you. trying to be honest with you because i haven't felt this way for anyone else, yeah? so just bear with me for a damn second."

your heart dropped straight through your body and you were sure that if you looked on the ground, it'd be beating there, quicker than the winds you'd been dealing with for the past weeks.

"i don't know why you called this off," he started. "but i don't like it. i've been thinking about this and about you since last year. you keep making your way into my thoughts and i keep trying to push you out, but then i see you on the side of the road and i short circuit and i forget everything i'm here for. i don't want this to end."

"scott, i told you that i don't want to hookup anymore. i don't like it. i don't want that with you."

"then what do you want?" he asked, hands wrapping around yours that were hanging lazily by your side. "what can i do?"

"scott, just stop. this isn't what we need-"

"i know what i need. i need you," he said, voice breathy and frustrated. his jaw tightened and his eyes were practically unblinking. his chest rose and fell quickly. if you looked close enough, you could see the faintest shake in his fingers. he might've been scared in that moment.

"you don't know what i need. you don't need me, scott."

"i know you. i know you like sweet tea in the diner and you like it extra sweet with sweet-n-low packets. i know you keep cough medicine in your hotel room because the dust makes you sick every year. i know you watch sitcoms on bad storm days that shake you too much. i know you're scared your grant might lose funding if you don't get good results this year. i know you like hotels with balconies so you can read at sunrise before going out. i know that lightning scares you. i know you hate storm par and everything we do. i know you hate our polos and our stupid trucks and sometimes me."

he took a big breath, as if he had just torn out his heart straight from his chest and placed it in your hands.

"i don't hate you," you whispered, your voice heavy and full of emotion. "do you really notice that much about me?

he nodded. "you're all i've been able to look at and think about for the past year."

you smiled a little, just the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. instead of fighting back the lump in your throat, you let your eyes water and one tear slipped down your cheek. you wiped it quickly and sniffed, looking up at scott with a kind of renewed sense of love. "i didn't want to end anything," you confessed. "i was...i was having feelings for you. i never wanted you to leave when you came over. i wanted to wake up next to you. i wanted to see outside of all this. but i thought you'd never want that. so i ended it before i got hurt."

he let out a dry chuckle. "yeah, i used to not want that. but god, you just had to come in and change everything, huh?"

you smiled at that, copying his small chuckle. you breathed out, glancing to the side, then back to his bright blue eyes. "i do hate storm par. you're right. and i hate those polos. and your stupid trucks."

"i'll make sure we don't kick up any more dust in your way, okay? and i'll switch to the t-shirt more."

you nodded. "and you'll spend the night with me? not run off?"

"i don't think i ever want to leave your side again," he said, the grip he had on your hands tightening. "let me drive you back to the motel?"

you eagerly nodded, giving him a wide smile that he actually returned. his eyes roamed over you, not with the lust they used to, but with adoration, with the knowledge that you wanted this too. he moved one of his hands down to interlace your fingers together and he led you over to the stupid storm par truck to take you back home. to that motel with scratchy sheets where he could show you the things he'd been dreaming about for months.

you'd come get your truck in the morning, but for now, you could only focus on scott's firm grip on your hand, even as he drove. things felt a lot easier now. you glanced sideways at scott to see a permanent, small smile on his lips and you copied it with your own.

#twisters #twisters 2024 #scott miller #scott twisters #scott miller x reader #scott twisters x reader #david corenswet #david corenswet x reader #twisters x reader

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rezwrites · 8 months ago

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Since we are in October… is there any chance you could write a Vampire!Agatha x reader? Agatha finding the most delicious blood of her entire long life (Reader’s blood) and getting excited/horny when she drinks Reader’s blood

love your writing

thank you sm!!

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, TW needles/blood/phlebotomy/venipuncture, blood kink, violence, allusion to kidnapping, non consensual thigh riding, unconsciousness

a/n: sry for going overboard with this, but vampire!hematologist!Agatha was so fun to write, I had to make a moodboard! <3

Waiting in the hematologists office you wring your fingers with nervousness, simultaneously regretting not bringing a light jacket to combat the chill of the air conditioner. You’ve heard nothing but good things about this doctor, hoping for some form of a miracle after cycling through many specialists only to come up empty-handed. It’s worth the out-of-city drive if you get some answers this time.

The nurse calls your name, taking you back to an examination room. As the nurse takes your temperature and vitals, you explain what’s been going on, going through routine questions. After jotting everything down, she orders a quick blood test to test your levels. Leaving to retrieve her equipment you lied down as she instructed.

Turning your head you refused to see what was happening as she tied the tourniquet around your upper arm, the strong sting of the alcohol wipe wafting through your nose. Wincing at the poke of the needle entering your vein, you exhale deeply. The nurse patches you up, gathering the vials. You thank the nurse after she lets you know the doctor will be in soon, leaving the room.

Anxiety rises up again as you await the results, trying your best to keep your breathing steady. Running your eyes over the walls, you read the various degrees and accolades framed. It blew your mind that this woman has fifteen years of school under her belt, being a doctor is definitely not for the faint of heart. A sudden rapping on the door brings you out of your thoughts.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Harkness.” She steps into the room, casting a soft, comforting smile. Her wavy, brunette hair tied in a bun, some loose stands falling over her white coat. Closing the door, she sat on her chair.

“Well, your blood pressure was a little lower than it should be. Lab results showed that you have a decreased amount of red blood cells causing Anemia. Now, if it’s a sudden loss of blood somewhere or an underlying illness, we don’t know yet. It honestly astounds me how those other doctors failed to see this for so long.”

“From time to time I’ll wake up with a sore neck or wrist. And my problems will arise after that.” You added. She looks at you intently, cerulean eyes full of concern. Turning to her computer she started typing everything you had said into her system.

“Mhm and when was the last time you woke up like that?” She questioned.

“A few days ago.”

“And you said you noticed all this happening after you gave blood at a blood drive a few months ago.” She asked.

“Yes,” you confirmed. Finally, some form of an answer and one step closer to a treatment plan. It all hit you at once, there was no way to stop the floodgates.

She turned away from her computer, closing your chart, “I’d like to keep you overnight to observe your condition.”

Her face turned in worry and the sight of your tears, “Oh dear, I understand it’s scary.” She grabbed some tissues off the counter offering them to you.

Taking them you shook your head, drying your eyes, “I’m more relieved to have more or less an answer.”

She pulls some documents from the drawer, explaining that’s it’s a consent to overnight admittance form, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a note for work if you need one, but it is imperative we get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.”

You nod, signing the paperwork before she put a patient wristband on you. Directing you to follow her she leads you deeper into the building, the atmosphere becoming more homey and welcoming, “This is where I keep my overnight patients, it’s more relaxed and calming than a hospital.”

Opening a wooden door there was a single bed with a television mounted on the wall. A small restroom in the corner and a medical cabinet next to the hallway door. She pulled a medical gown from the cabinet, instructing you to change, then lie down on the bed before exiting to give you privacy.

Re-entering the room she placed an IV bag on the counter moving towards the bed, “I’ll just hook you up to the monitor. I’ll also put you on an IV drip for the night as well, so you can get the vitamins you’ve been missing.” She clips the pulse oximeter to your finger, walking over to the cabinet against the wall grabbing everything she needs.

Once Agatha turned around with the needle in her hand, you turned your head away holding out your arm. Prepping and cleaning the crook of your arm, she warns you, “Small pinch.”

“Good girl.” Agatha praises slipping the cannula into your arm, securing it with tape connecting you to the cannula hanging the bag on the IV hook behind the bed, “here’s the remote for the television, press the call button if you need anything. I’ll be back soon to check on you.”

Dr. Harkness checked on you multiple times throughout the afternoon, making sure you were comfortable and not in any pain. She took another blood sample telling you she just wanted to see if your red blood cell count has increased. You’re truly thankful for her thoroughness and thoughtfulness. The warmth of the evening sun seeping through the small window of your room was causing you to grow drowsy, despite your earnest to stay awake in case anything came up. Unable to keep your eyes open any longer you texted your family, updating them before dozing off.

A soft knock on the door pulls you back into consciousness. Turning on the lamp you called out allowing the person on the other side to come in. Dr. Harkness steps through the door apologizing for the intrusion so late. Her hair loose, coat gone; a different air around her.

“So, good news I know exactly what’s wrong with you.” Agatha starts explaining, striding to the end of the bed, hands in her pants pockets. You listen close to what she has to say.

“Bad news is I’m not exactly going to help you.” She states matter of factly. You blanched at her words, heartbeat quickening. Eyebrows pulled together as you sat up, pressing your back deeper into the pillows.

“I mean, of course, I want you to be as healthy as possible don’t get me wrong, but I found the perfect snack in you at that blood drive.” Fear gripping you as Agatha stepped closer to the bed, her sinister smile showing her fangs, “I settled for rationing twice a month on you, but now that you’re here, I’d be a fool to let you get away this time.”

The room was now energized with malevolence. This woman, monster, was the cause of your problems. Why you can’t get out and enjoy your life anymore because you’re so dizzy and tired to do anything. Balling your fist, fingernails digging into your palms; knuckles turning white, “And when the police come? People know I’m here, if I don’t come home they’ll-”

“Easy. You went out the back where no cameras are, it’s easier to get to the parking lot that way than circling the whole building again. What happened after that nobody would have a clue.” Agatha countered, her smile was sickening, your stomach flipping.

“Even if, small if by the way, you managed to escape and get help who would believe that the good Dr. Harkness, was a vampire.” She started laughing in disbelief.

You eyes shifted between her and the door. Throwing the blanket off you you attempt to jump out of the bed, but Agatha was on you in a second wrestling you back down to the bed. Managing to get an arm free you landed a solid punch to her jaw, the pulse oximeter flying off your finger. Paralyzed with terror when her smile grew, completely unfazed by your punch, her eyes maniacal., “It’s just us here, feel free to scream all you want.”

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. Not a sound would come out. Pinning both your wrists in one hand, her other hand sliding off her slacks.

“I believe I got your neck last time,” her knees pushing up your gown as she shuffled up your body. Letting out a pleased sigh Agatha settled herself on your thigh.

Bringing one wrist to her mouth she didn’t waste any time sinking her fangs into you. The sharp, piercing pain elicited a cry from you, tears falling down your face. Agatha’s cold hand held your wrist tightly as she sucked roughly, hips rocking frantically.

“Absolutely divine.” Agatha growled out her ruby eyes holding yours as blood ran down your arm and her chin. She licks the blood running down your arm, her thighs tightening around yours. Tossing her head back as she shudders on top of you moan loudly, “Always so delicious.”

Your breaths grow shallow, everything is cold as you stare at the gray ceiling. A small whine escapes you, vision blurring as you teeter on the brink of consciousness.

“That’s it. Rest easy now.” Agatha voice is fading, “you’re going to need it.”

#I lowkey want to make this a series #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #Agatha harkness x femal reader #agatha harkness x you #Agatha harkness x y/n #tw: medical equipment #tw: blood #tw: needles #tw: medical

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flickering-nightfall · 3 months ago

Text

Watcher Thoughts

Spoilers for everything!

This is a shortened version of a much longer essay where I jotted down all my thoughts about the campaign. This is still pretty long, but hopefully it’s digestible enough.

Gameplay

Loved the initial twist. Was disappointed that we'd have another repeat with the siblings for a second. I love them but after eight campaigns, I was ready for something new. I'm not put off about not having another iterator (yet? I’m not counting Prince) either. It would have been neat, but exploring different stuff instead is good.

Got stuck a couple times, as I didn't understand what I was supposed to do to progress. I had fun exploring the regions, but exploring the majority of the first three with no idea of what to do next was frustrating. It wasn't even about story progression either - I just wanted to see more regions! But region and creature discovery felt very rewarding at least.

Portal placements were pretty wack and regions felt disconnected - you've probably heard it all already at this point. Some improvements like portal markers on the map will help (I'm certain that they'll either add it officially, or someone will make a mod). I avoided playing any region mods before this to keep things fresh, so I have zero context for any of these places. They're certainly very pretty at least.

Story

Droplets forming ripples in the water…? Yes there's a stray pixel in one frame. I made this from a spritesheet, it's not my fault, I swear

Although I would have preferred something different, I respect that the devs wanted to explore new and frankly wild routes. If it were me, I probably would have done a rare working transit system or something. Keep things grounded, group the new regions by theming so that you can at least connect them to each other. (Like Badlands + Rusted Wrecks + Torrid Desert.) I would have liked exploring ideas like scavenger societies or new biome lore instead of... rift walking through time and space madness. But I can't deny it was fun!

I really enjoyed Spinning Top (the echo), I think they’re very funny. I’m not bothered by them being able to move around - Two Sprouts, Twelve Brackets kinda imply they can too, at least enough to watch the tunnels of Subterranean. Maybe it depends on the echo too.

The decision to make a proper, repeated character out of an echo was interesting. Though I’m on the fence about the demystification of echoes and ascension. I do like Spinny’s arc and their story, and it gave me strong feelings to see them finally choose to move forward. I liked what they had to say, in terms of more lore for the ancients, their own character, and also in their final scene.

Being tethered to the world by the sorrow of realizing you weren't loved in the way you should have been loved. Craving a warmth you can see but never feel again. The concept of peace after long-lived suffering. Able to move on because you had someone at your side, someone who cared enough to keep coming back to you, even if it was just a silent, peeping little creature. It resonated with me.

The purpose of the ending confused me at first. I thought Watcher playing with the toys was an example of their personality, maybe - distant, relatively unaffected by the events that just unfolded. And maybe that’s still true, but the emphasis on the spinning top in the campaign select screen… I’m not sure what yet, but playing with the echo’s namesake, their former beloved toys… there was something there.

I feel weird about Watcher being able to influence the world physically. I thought the point of echoes was that they were ghosts unable to interact with the physical plane. Only able to provide a bit of enlightenment for slugcat with their presence - stuck between one world and the next. Unless it’s all a dream (a trope I dislike and partially assign to Saint anyways), or Watcher is not quite an echo, in which case… hm.

Personally I'm tired of the rot, and I preferred it as a relatable and contained disease, rather than a sentient force that can corrupt worlds across time (and dimensions/timelines?). What they did with it was interesting, at least. You can explain it being Like That™ as a different strain of rot from Pebbles’, or it being because Watcher is a separate continuity. But it’s not about the explanation for me - it’s about the themes.

I enjoyed Prince as a character - I like the way they look, move and speak. But I didn’t get as attached as I could have due to my lukewarm feelings about rot stuff and Watcher’s rift powers in this DLC. Though, due to this campaign, I don’t know if I’ll keep headcanoning voidspawn as a lesser consequence (than echoes) of not being ready for ascension. The "stinging idiots" seem very intent on getting Watcher/echoes to finish crossing over into the next realm.

It seems like they want to portray the void as a force, to which the rot is the antithesis of. Prince spoke of wanting all life to go on forever, never lost - and then a force opposing its own. And it seems like that force may have won. I suppose all things must return to the cycle, or come to an end, eventually…

You can hear a single whispering iterator voice as you walk up to Prince’s puppet for the last time. That voice disappears after the karma flowers take over. Patches of them now bloom across all the regions. But the rot continues to spread! So hm I dunno what’s up with that.

Since they're adding more content later, I feel like they'll probably be character-centric threads too. Spinning Top and the Prince are probably two chapters in a broader anthology. I wonder where they’ll go from here. (Maybe a way I can unrot my save file? Haha.)

Regions

The art direction is great in my opinion. Some regions that stuck out to me:

Badlands (minus the locusts, they should really not see you while you’re invisible). The vibes are immaculate.

Torrid Desert. I usually find desert maps boring, but the sand dunes were a refreshing break from geometric tiling. In general, I really like breaks from the tile-based geometry. The first time I saw a scavenger templar/disciple (don’t remember which one) was a neat moment. I find the implications of those guys existing quite interesting.

Shrouded/Stormy Coast. Something about the warehouse crates and hanging platforms really tickled my fancy. I think the scale of it all, as well as the color provided from the crates, contributed to it feeling so good to me.

Desolate Tract: Conversely to the wavy desert dunes, this place being so flat, not boring due to the uniqueness of that, and backdropped by the wind tunnel really made me curious about this place. I hope they fix the bug that makes your FPS tank here though.

Outer Rim: Rife with secrets, both left and right. The desert portion reminded me of Kingdom Hearts' Keyblade Graveyard. Against all odds the scavengers continue to survive, and like in Torrid Desert they have strange, powered garb. Void-infused clothing? It’s interesting.

Ancient Urban: Even if I'll argue about ancient scaling forever, the actual presentation of this place was amazing. I was eating it all up and now I really want to get around designing my ancient OCs. You think it was named this as a nod to the popularized fandom term? Haha.

Unfortunate Development: The dead coral corpse of Pebbles 2 electric boogaloo. The void worm is weird and all (is it rot-corrupted or just a faceless facsimile the rot created?), but I enjoyed the environment more. The background was a tesseract-like frame that stretched on seemingly forever. That was what really spooked me.

Brightness and contrast adjusted for viewing ease. Where is your head?

What are Starcatchers? They look iterator-like. Maybe it’s an alternate dimension thing, just as Signal Spires has the pyramid concept art iterators in the background? They could be structures that aren’t iterators, a different build type of them, or an alternate timeline, I guess. Starcatchers probably perform a function related to their name, regardless.

I remember before this DLC, some people interpreted iterator bricks as cylinders instead.

In the files Outer Rim also has a curving sky and a placeholder background where the earth is crumbling at the edge. And it’s literally called Outer Rim. Could also be a floating landmass, or sinking into the void sea, if you wanted to try out some other explanation. But I think that flat planet Rain World theory has some more evidence with this one. (I don’t think I can use flat planet RW for my space-involved AU but it is still interesting)

At the edge of the world...?

Someone (I think it was a reddit comment, I've been brain blasted with so much Watcher stuff that it's all starting to mix together) pointed out that spreading rot in the past doesn’t influence their future versions, so alternate dimensions aren’t out of the question. (Unless all regions are separate places - I wasn’t sure if places like Stormy Coast vs. Shrouded Coast were supposed to be the same or not. Or if the karma flowers kill the rot in the past, only for it to crop up again in the future and die again, but that seems overly convoluted.)

Time and space riftwalking shenanigans were already a lot - timelines/alt dimensions feel like quite a step further. In this case you are not following just the one “thread,” as Spinny puts it.

Final Thoughts

Initially I had a poorer reaction to Watcher's story, but some of it was defensiveness over the tone and headcanons I had come to like about RW and DP. After a few days of it settling in, I find myself warming up to Watcher more. I may have liked something different more, but I can enjoy and appreciate Watcher for what it is.

If people can differentiate the canons of the DLCs (...it might be a little easier than vanilla vs. DP, because Watcher is so fantastical), I think I can have a fun time with both.

Speaking of headcanons, giant ancients are pretty inconsistent with a lot of the environmental clues about ancient size, even the new regions within the DLC itself. I’ll post some stuff about it with screenshots and drawings later.

Here's a couple of them...

I think literal hand puppet iterators are a good reminder that an iterator is more than its puppet. I can really imagine them as a giant machine waving a cute toy on a stick, a form more palatable for their audience. (Although that does make Moon being stuck in the PoV of one feel a little weirder too.) It emphasizes the way ancients likely thought of them as well. The concept is just neat.

However, I don't know if I would have fixated on iterators so hard without seeing puppets as more of a proper body. The superstructure is fantastic - but the puppet avatar makes it easier to identify with them as people and characters. The puppet being completely toylike rather than closer to a body-like vessel makes that a little more difficult.

For a lot of stuff I’ve already written, especially interactions between ancient and iterator OCs, the size discrepancy is too much. So I just won’t adhere to giant ancients or tiny everything else hahaha

In general I mostly see myself using the snippets of ancient lore, region stuff, new creatures. If possible, I'd like to see what secrets can be uncovered about the new regions.

I’m not interested in using stuff like the sentient rot when it comes to the continuities I more deeply engage with. My opinions may continue to evolve over time, we’ll see. But these are my thoughts after a few days of processing.

#rain world #rw watcher #rw watcher spoilers #watcher spoilers #rw spoilers #text #images #watcher ending spoilers

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idontwanttospoiltheparty · 4 months ago

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“I often felt like I was his priest” – Paul McCartney in The Lyrics, 2021

Scene from Give My Regards To Broad Street (1984) PAUL: They tell me you just got out. HARRY: (sighs) I'm not a bloody criminal. Look, no mask, I ain't got any dynamite. Left it all at home. Paul watches him quietly. HARRY: Nah, really, I was set up – by this nutty copper, y'know, framed. It's always been like that with me. Even at school they had it in for me. Boy scouts. I got sent home from camp! Caught smoking. I wasn't the only one… They said I was a bad influence on the others. Same in prison. This cop frames me, I said, "But I didn't do it, your honour." … Didn't believe me. I'm not a bad boy. Not really. I'm just… manipulated. PAUL: Tell you what, I'll give you a chance… But if you're fibbing and you do one thing wrong, you'll be out. I mean it. But if you're straight with me, you'll be in. HARRY: Yeah, I'll be in. PAUL: Okay, that's it. It's a pact. HARRY: Packet of what? PAUL: A pact. A deal. HARRY: A pact. They shake on it.

"Not Such A Bad Boy" (1984) by Paul McCartney

Screengrab from Give My Regards To Broad Street (1984) – Paul jotting down the lyrics to "Not Such A Bad Boy"

“I always find myself wanting to excuse John's behaviour, just because I loved him. It's like a child, sure he's a naughty child, but don't you call my child naughty. Even if it's me he's shitting on, don't you call him naughty. That's how I felt about this and still do.” Paul McCartney in Many Years From Now (1997)

Scene from Give My Regards To Broad Street (1984) During a band rehearsal and after catching a glimpse of the crook Harry used to work for, Paul becomes distracted by a vision of Harry betraying him by selling away Paul's master tapes. PAUL: DON'T DO IT! DON'T DO IT… Er… sorry. My fault. Let's have a quick break, eh? Cup of tea or something.

"He [Brian Epstein] and Paul had some kind of collusion... to keep me straight, because I kept spoiling the image." – John Lennon, St. Regis Hotel interview (1971)

Scene from Give My Regards To Broad Street (1984) "Well it's not my fault – I didn't hire him." PAUL: Let's spit it out, shall we? It's all my fault; bad judgement – Once a villain, always a villain, right?

"We could be making this whole thing up, y'know. I mean, a man is missing; he once, a long time ago, had a bit of form. And now here we are we've judged him, found him guilty, and sentenced him, all in one day." – Paul in Give My Regards To Broad Street (1984)

"Wanderlust" (1982) by Paul McCartney (also included on the soundtrack of Give My Regards To Broad Street)

Scene from Give My Regards To Broad Street (1984) Sandra, one of Harry's closest, breaks down over the possibility of Harry having stolen the tapes. Paul comforts her, despite being plagued by his own visions of a guilty Harry running away with the tapes and being apprehended by the police. SANDRA: She [Harry's wife] drove him to it. He only did it because of her. PAUL: But we don't think he did it. Do we. Sandra meets his gaze and shakes her head.

#IS THIS ANYTHING????#sorry. one million thousand trillion thoughts #head so fucking full #jp #my analysis #(sorta)#gmrtbs #paul #web weaving #fiona.docx

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naffeclipse · 1 year ago

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I'm sorry if this question has been asked in some form or another but... How would Eclipse, should he have ever moved away from the Arctic in search of a new home, react if he encountered a pair of orphaned Orca Siren Calves (Sun and Moon) being raised by a reclusive writer human Y/N? Like either their sibling got the Siren Transformation and the whole pod is just now... gone due to some unfortunate events... Or the Y/N just found the two orphans in the shallows near their very secluded home and the parents never came back?

Point is human Y/N is trying their best, but that means things aren't going all that great. Both kids can read and are cared for. Moon is a master of the door dash app when using the tablet kept on land near the water for them. But there's love... Lots of love.

How would he react to this?

Oh, I love this

You wanted to be left alone, unfortunately, the two... babies, didn't get the memo. They're so small. You have no idea what to do with the mythical creature children. Sirens. Sure, you've heard of them. So why aren't they taking care of their young? Why are they wailing at the edge of the icy land you've made your home on? It doesn't take long for you to take pity on the small things and feed them some chewed fish (but only this once).

Somehow, you end up with a small ice shelter where you've carved two breathing holes under the ice to let the seawater and the babies swim for a day, keeping a careful watch on them while jotting down a few ideas you've had for your writing (perhaps inspired by sirens). Then, at the night's end, you lovingly pick up both toddler-sized sirens, tucking one into each arm to carry them to your home where your bathtub has become a makeshift crib of seawater and half-chewed rubber duckies.

You believe they're twins despite their different appearances, one touched with cream-colored orca markings and soft yellow frills framing his face. The other brother is black and white and has a slippery dark blue tendril behind his head, trailing into a luminous bulb. They have mismatched eyes but share one blue iris.

So much for only feeding them once. The tiny fish got you wrapped around their little claws.

They growl and chuff and softly whine whenever you're not within sight, and each of them demands time alone to snuggle against your chest before you set down your bedding on the bathroom floor and urge them to sleep through the night. You're right here if they need you. Somehow, one or both end up on you, dripping wet, and you can only groan and softly hold the babies through the night despite their constant wiggles and slick, sheeny bodies.

This goes on for a few years before you start to worry that your bathtub is too cramped for the children. Sun and Moon (oh gosh, you gave them names; now you're really attached) are so smart and excel at reading and writing, making use of markers and whiteboards, and remembering to let their hands dry before grabbing the paper from the floor of the ice shelter to draw doodles of the icy waves.

There were learning curves, such as when you had to scold Moon for biting you so hard his sharp teeth drew blood, but he cried, so you stopped being angry and showed him how to help you bandage your hand. See? All better. But no biting. Another time was Sun growing impatient with your slow pace as you gathered your writing materials before joining them in the ice shelter, and he grabbed your leg and halfway pulled you into the frigid water, shocking your system with the sheer cold before you scrambled out and had to retreat to your home to undress and get warm. Sun hid away from you, unwilling to come out despite your coaxing once night fell. You had to lay down a new rule: they cannot pull you into the water. You are not built like them. He clung to you and apologized, and you forgave him with a kiss on the forehead.

You wanted to be left alone with your children. (Yours. Your babies.) Unfortunately, they're not the only sirens around. You sense another presence just at dusk when you're preparing to take Sun out of the breathing hole (you can only carry one at a time now, and even then, it takes all your strength to lift with your legs—when did they get so big?) and pause with your hands under Sun's arms, his hands still opening and closing for you. Through the slight opening in the flap of the ice shelter, out into the shallows of the icy sea, you see two pairs of eyes, yellow and red, and piercing.

A siren.

You react with adrenaline and fear, fueled by the intention to protect your children no matter the cost, and pull Sun and Moon out of the breathing holes in a second. Placing them in the far corner, you shield them with your body. The strange siren pokes his head through the breathing hole not a moment later. Eyes wide, breathing harshly, you stare each other down, siren against human. His gaze slips past you, and he grins upon finding Sun's and Moon's big eyes peeking around you as they cling to your shoulders, confused and frightened. Their flukes flip anxiously.

The siren grinned at you, and for the better half of the night, you conversed with the siren about how you came upon your children. His intentions remain sinister and masked until he at last tells you how perfect he finds you and the boys. You stare, standoffish, but he assures you, he will be the father that they need, and the mate you deserve. You don't believe him. You don't trust him with your babies, but when he grabs your leg and rips you away from your children, much to their protests and small cries, you're caught under him and his caressing claws before you realize that his hunger is more.

It starts to make sense. Of course, Eclipse can teach them far more than you can about how to navigate their marine existant and how to properly hunt and not only take food from your hands. He teaches them how to sing, how to watch prey, how to use their strength and teeth to conquer. And you... you watch, realizing that you miss those bathtub days, but your boys are happy. They love Eclipse and Eclipse, well, when he's not tending to the children, he's spending time with you, laying his crossed arms on your lap to gaze up at you, insisting you accept a dead seal from him.

Maybe he has a bit of charm. And maybe you begrudgingly let you sing you to sleep when you're left fretting about Sun and Moon swimming late into the night on their own, but they're growing big. They don't fit in your arms anymore. You start to feel a little forgotten before you find all three sirens acting very suspiciously, your boys whispering before telling you that Dad—Eclipse wants to give you something. He softly presses a beautiful black pearl into your palm. You've never been much for anything that isn't practical, but it's beautiful, so you take it. Eclipse is pleased and so are the Sun and Moon. He steals a kiss from you. You don't mind.

You wanted to be left alone, but you find yourself in the siren's arms as you both watch a burning orange sunset and your sons playfully fighting in the small waves.

#man that found family really do be hitting hard ya know?#augh #apex polarity #idk what to call this i'm too emotional about it #orca!eclipse #orca!sun #orca!moon #recluse!reader #naff writing

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teddiee · 5 months ago

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Into Each Life: Chapter 13

Summary:

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Words: 9,914

Tony scribbles feverishly into his notebook, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the quiet room. His Art and Duty of Childrearing textbook lies abandoned on the floor beside him, pages bent and cover askew.

A casualty of negligence.

Propped up in bed, he leans against his and Arnie’s thin, mismatched pillows. The faint yellow glow of his bedside lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered surface of his nightstand, highlighting the smudges of graphite staining his fingers.

He nibbles on the end of his pencil as his eyes flick between messy calculations and intricate sketches.

The thing is, he had sworn off this nonsense weeks ago.

It had been a fucking headache, if anything. A dead end, something better left to time and the patience he didn’t possess.

Besides, the memory was still fresh—sharp words, sharper fists, and an ugly, lingering threat that Tony couldn’t dismiss, no matter how hard he tried to shove it into a deeper crevice of his mind.

And yet, here he was, defying all logic and better judgment, pencil in hand, letting curiosity pull him back in.

Because, like all bad ideas, this one had resurfaced with a vengeance.

(And had been sparked, no doubt, by both the mind-numbing drudgery of his current coursework and the glaring absence of a certain Alpha to distract him.)

His notebook is a chaotic sprawl of equations and diagrams, the pages covered in his usual chicken scratch, lines overlapping in a barely organized frenzy.

At the center of his muddled, distracted focus was the concept of a crystalline core—a theoretical medium to focus and amplify the radiation. Around it, he had scrawled potential materials, rough calculations, and the faint outline of a containment chamber: lead-lined walls to shield against leaks, an observation window made of reinforced glass, and a rudimentary control panel. The dials for adjusting intensity and duration are painstakingly labeled, though their precision remains theoretical at best.

In the margins, as if shouting at him from the page, he had scrawled the words “BIG RED BUTTON” in blocky letters, a failsafe to terminate the process in case of catastrophic failure.

The numbers sprawled across the page are rough, a messy mix of intuition and rapid estimations, but they start to form a picture.

He jots down an energy output estimate of 12.7 kJ/kg, scribbling question marks beside it, and notes that such an output might just activate Erskine’s super secret magic serum. The challenge, he knows, will be distributing the radiation evenly across a six-foot frame.

As he flips back through earlier pages, more questions fill the margins: What’s the long-term stress tolerance of synthetic quartz? What happens if the subject’s heart rate spikes? Could sub-threshold pulses mitigate the worst of the unintended effects?

He bites harder on his pencil, splintering the wood further as his scowl deepens. The textbook he’s supposed to be “studying”—yeah, right—mocks him from the floor, its neatly printed title a sharp contrast to the chaos of his thoughts.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last hurried calculations, he underlines a phrase he’s written in bold, steady handwriting—a mantra that’s guided him through countless inventions and disasters alike: "Stark Rule #1: Always build it twice. The first one’s for the mistakes.”

He stares at it for a beat longer than necessary, then lets out a guttural groan, the kind that could rattle the hinges off the lab door. With a flick of his wrist, the notebook sails across the room, slamming into the wall before hitting the floor with an unimpressive thud.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Very mature.”

Fingers rake through his hair, tugging at strands as if loosening them might untangle the chaos in his head. He doesn’t even notice the caffeine buzz anymore—too much shitty dining room coffee, not enough food, and exactly zero good ideas.

“Some mastermind you are, huh?” He laughs, short and humorless. “Mastermind of digging your own grave, maybe. Idiot.”

A mastermind who will inevitably end up disowned, or worse, a victim of casual manslaughter, for this brilliant little detour.

He drops onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. The mattress groans beneath him in solidarity—or maybe protest. Above, the ceiling stares back, its cracks and water stains sprawling like some ancient, forgotten map. He traces the imaginary continents with his eyes, trying not to notice how the edges seem to blur.

"This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done," he announces to the empty room. His voice sounds small, swallowed by the radiator’s low, steady hum.

Hopelessly foolish endeavor or not, the itch won’t leave. It burrows deeper, demanding attention, like a stubborn splinter lodged under his skin.

The crystalline core. The perfect medium. The impossible dance of energy and matter, balanced on the razor’s edge of genius and disaster. It taunts him like an ancient spell, daring him to solve its riddle or perish painfully trying.

He turns his head toward the notebook lying facedown on the floor, pages splayed like a wounded bird. The edges flutter slightly in the breeze from the cracked window. For a second, he considers leaving it there—letting it rot alongside the other half-finished ideas that litter his life.

But a stronger, more reckless impulse wins out.

Tony rolls off the bed with a graceless grunt, landing in a crouch on the floor. He snatches up the notebook, ignoring the torn page at the corner, and flips it open to the most recent entry. His eyes scan the scrawled notes, his brain already working to untangle the mess of ideas.

"Okay," he mutters, dragging the pencil back to his mouth for another absent nibble. This is what happens when he skips supper—he starts eating his stationery. "What’s the play here, Stark? You need power—stable, scalable, non-lethal power. Sure. That’s easy. No problem at all. Just rewrite the laws of physics while you’re at it.”

He grabs a fresh sheet of paper from the nightstand, smoothing it out against the uneven surface of the bed.

"Step one," he says aloud, sketching a rudimentary diagram of the core’s containment unit. "Figure out the heat dissipation. No point in building a glorified bomb. Step two..." He pauses, pencil poised mid-air. "Find someone stupidly altruistic enough to let me test it on them.”

That thought makes him pause, his posture deflating as his expression twists into something sour. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, and for a moment, his hand hovers uncertainly over the page. He knows better than most what unchecked ambition can lead to. The wrong hands, the wrong intentions, the wrong test subject—it could all go sideways so quickly.

He sets the pencil down and exhales, his breath shaky.

"Stark Rule #2," he says quietly, repeating another mantra he’s lived by since childhood. He thinks of flying cars. Stolen glances at classified files on his father’s desk—nuclear bombs. "Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. But even as they settle, his eyes wander back to the notebook. The diagrams. The equations. The tiny, insistent kernel of possibility that won’t let him walk away.

Tony knows himself too well to believe he’ll leave it unfinished. He never does.

He lies sprawled on the cold linoleum floor, the growing ache in his neck a distant afterthought. His mind hums with restless energy as he conjures equations from nothing, the numbers unfurling like spectral ribbons. They stretch toward the ceiling, forming intricate patterns—floating variables that shimmer and shift, like constellations only he can decipher.

The ceiling becomes a canvas for his imagination, an infinite expanse where equations morph into possibilities. Variables twist and curve, dancing in a chaotic ballet as he tries to tease meaning from the mess. His lips move silently, murmuring numbers and theoretical principles, the words barely audible over the soft creak of the radiator.

A sharp knock breaks his reverie.

“Go away,” Tony grunts, rolling onto his side and sliding his notebook under his bed with a sharp shove.

The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent. Tony scowls, sitting up on his elbows and glancing warily at the door.

It’s past curfew. Room checks were hours ago.

It’s clearly not enough to stop Tompkins and his pathological need to catch Tony in some imagined act of delinquency and debauchery.

Well, maybe not so imagined, not anymore. To the trained, prying nose, his sheets most definitely still smell like Bucky.

Tony had been writhing in his lap only twenty-four hours earlier, after all, before Bucky had so graciously flipped him around and pinned him to the mattress, spread Tony’s hips with his thighs, sucked a bruise to his collarbone, and rocked him to a swift, messy orgasm before Tony could even unbutton his pants.

“So easy, doll,” Bucky had laughed into Tony’s throat, squeezing Tony’s hip as Tony’s pleasured aftershocks ebbed into a more heated type of mortification.

“Gonna have to hand wash these, you animal,” Tony groaned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and hiccuping weakly as Bucky punished him with another slow drag of his hips, relishing in Tony’s overstimulation.

“Not my fault you’re on a hairpin trigger, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid’ when you just made me blow a load into my pants, Barnes, gross.”

It’s too late now for Tony’s sheets. Besides, until Tompkins catches Tony ‘in the act,’ so to speak, Tony has just been heavily relying on his best friend—plausible deniability.

Straightening his tie (askew since breakfast) and brushing graphite smudges from his hands, Tony clears his throat. "I'm studying," he says, loud enough for the words to carry through the door. “You know, like a model student.”

There’s no response—no impatient drawl, no snide comment about Omegas needing discipline. Just a muffled sound that sends a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Byron?” he tries again, this time more cautiously. His hand hovers over the doorknob. “If this is another surprise ‘search and seizure’, you’re too late, sir. My harem’s already disbanded for the night.”

Still nothing. He presses his ear to the door, straining to catch even the faintest sound. Then, almost imperceptibly, a sniffle.

Tony freezes.

He finally swings the door open, the sight on the other side rooting him to the spot.

Becca Barnes’s shoulders tremble under a plain uniform sweater, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Her hands tremble as she clutches a crumpled telegram to her chest, fingers gripping it like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“Tony,” she whispers, her voice cracked and broken. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his, filled with a grief so deep it takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Becca? What—” He stops short, stepping aside to let her in. She sways slightly as she crosses the threshold, and Tony catches her elbow, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed.

Her shoulders shake with barely suppressed sobs, and Tony drops to his knees in front of her, uncertain, his mind racing.

Tony, historically, doesn’t do well with tears. Other people’s or his own. He doesn’t know how to handle them—what to say or where to start—but something about the way she trembles makes his stomach twist.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stares down at the telegram clutched in her lap, her knuckles white and trembling.

“It’s Joey,” she finally chokes out, barely managing the words before her voice breaks.

Tony’s brain stalls, caught between relief that it’s not Bucky—it’s not Bucky, he hasn’t gotten his orders yet—and a sharp pang of guilt for the thought. His eyes flick to the telegram in her hands, and though he doesn’t ask for it, she thrusts it toward him like it’s burning her.

With hesitant hands, Tony unfolds the paper. The words hit him all at once, stark and clinical against the cheap yellow stock.

“We regret to inform you that Private Joseph Proctor is missing in action. Further updates will follow as they become available.”

Missing in action. The phrase lingers in his mind, carrying with it the weight of all its implications. Not dead, not confirmed—but not safe, either. Not home.

“Becca,” he says carefully, setting the telegram down on the bed beside her. “I—” His voice falters, and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

Her shoulders shake harder, and before he can figure out what to do, she collapses forward into him.

Tony freezes. She’s clutching at his shirt now, sobbing into his shoulder, and he’s absolutely, completely out of his depth. He sits stiffly, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, panic rising in his chest.

What is he supposed to do? Hug her? Say something? He glances around the room as if the peeling wallpaper might offer some guidance.

“Uh, hey,” he tries, his voice thin. “It’s—uh—okay?”

She doesn’t stop crying. If anything, she sobs harder, her entire frame trembling against his. Tony’s heart hammers in his chest, and finally—finally—he manages to drape one arm around her shoulders in the most awkward, tentative hug imaginable.

“There, uh… ” He clears his throat, patting her back stiffly. “There, there?”

She doesn’t respond with words, just cries harder, and Tony’s awkward pats slow until he’s holding her in a loose, uncertain embrace. The position feels strange, foreign, like wearing a suit two sizes too big.

He doesn’t... comfort people. He’s not good at it. But Becca is falling apart in his arms, and for once, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It’s… it’s not over yet,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, less stilted. “They said he’s missing, right? That means there’s still a chance. He’s probably out there thinking about you. About how much he wants to get back home to you.”

Becca hiccups, her tears slowing enough for her to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes searching his. “What if… what if he doesn’t come back?”

Tony’s throat tightens, and his own breathing suddenly feels constricted in his chest. He forces himself to hold her gaze as he says, “Then… you’ll deal with it when you know for sure. Until then, don’t let yourself lose hope, okay? John wouldn’t want you to.”

“Joey.”

“Joey wouldn’t want you to.”

Tony’s grip on Becca spasms momentarily, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of her cardigan, before he loosens his hold again, uncertain. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into him, her weight anchoring him to the moment. Her breathing hitches, soft hiccups breaking through the stillness, and Tony focuses on those tiny sounds because they’re easier to manage than the chaotic storm brewing in his own head.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to do this. Comforting people, sitting with their pain—it’s all alien to him. It feels like trying to hold water in his hands, everything spilling through the cracks no matter how tightly he tries to hold on.

He’s failing, isn’t he? He must be. Becca’s still crying. His words hadn’t helped. His presence hadn’t helped. He’s just a placeholder—just here because she needed someone, anyone, and he happened to open the door.

She’s trembling in his arms, hiccupping breaths that shake her small frame, and he doesn’t know what to do with it—with her grief, with her fear.

Because it isn’t just her fear anymore, is it? It’s his, too.

The thought twists something sharp and bitter in Tony’s chest.

He’s spent months shoving it down, locking the fear away behind the endless buzz of equations and ideas and the warmth of Bucky’s grin, the way his voice drops when he teases Tony, the way his hands linger like they never want to leave.

Tony had told himself that was enough. That as long as Bucky was still here, still with him, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Do you ever think about the war?”

The crumpled telegram sits on the bed beside them, the stark, clinical language burned into Tony’s mind.

Missing in action.

It’s Joseph Proctor's name on the paper, not Bucky’s, but for the first time, Tony lets himself consider—really consider—that it could be.

That one day, some faceless messenger could knock on his door, hand him the same slip of paper, and tear his entire world apart in one word.

He swallows hard, his throat tight and dry. The thought feels too big, too heavy to hold in his chest, and yet it’s there, pressing down on him all the same. He’s spent weeks pretending the war was something far away, something that happened to other people.

Other Alphas. Not Bucky.

Not his Bucky.

But the war isn’t far away anymore. It’s here, in his room, in Becca’s shaking hands and tear-streaked face. It’s in her sobs, and the weight of the paper she’d handed him like it was burning her alive.

It’s in the question he’s been too afraid to ask himself: What if?

Becca shifts slightly against him, and her words pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers, her voice breaking again. “I don’t know how to… to sit here and not know.”

Tony closes his eyes, gripping Becca a little tighter. His breath feels too fast, too shallow, and he forces himself to focus on her instead of the spiral pulling at him. She’s here, crying, looking to him for something—comfort, answers, anything—and he has nothing to give. Nothing that doesn’t sound empty or wrong or too much like a lie.

“You just… keep going,” he mutters, his voice thin, shaky. The words feel foreign in his mouth, like they belong to someone else. “You block it out. You don’t think too much. And you hold onto…” He trails off, his grip loosening as he glances at the telegram again. His throat tightens as the words hang in the air between them.

Because he doesn’t want to imagine the empty days and nights Becca will have to face, the silence stretching on without answers. He doesn’t want to imagine himself sitting in this same position, staring at a piece of paper with Bucky’s name on it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t let it in. That’s how he’s survived so far, isn’t it? By not letting it in?

Becca pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes full of a quiet kind of devastation. “Is that what you do?” she asks, her voice soft, hesitant, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it.

Tony’s breath catches, and for a moment, he can’t meet her gaze.

The truth sits bitter and heavy in his chest, impossible to spit out. He’s been doing exactly that—blocking it out, refusing to think about the letters piling up in mailboxes, the names of boys shipped off to fight wars they might not come back from.

Refusing to think about Bucky and the unspoken inevitability hovering over them both. Because once he lets himself think about it, there’s no turning back.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, his voice quiet and strained. “Maybe.”

Becca’s hand brushes against his, tentative but steady, and it jolts him like a live wire. He glances down, startled, as her fingers curl lightly over his. “Tony,” she says softly, her voice still trembling, “Bucky’s not going anywhere. Not yet.”

The words hit him square in the chest, a mix of comfort and something sharper. Not yet. It feels like a countdown, like the moment the other shoe will drop. And yet, it’s also true. Bucky hasn’t left. He’s still here, sneaking through Tony’s window, teasing him, stealing kisses when no one’s looking. He’s still here.

Tony nods slowly, forcing himself to meet Becca’s gaze even as the weight of everything presses harder against his chest. “Yeah,” he says, the word barely audible. “Not yet.”

Before Tony can fully process the weight of his own words, the air shifts around him, subtle but inescapable. He feels it before he understands it—a presence folding into the room, slipping between the stale heat of the radiator and the sharp tang of Becca’s distress.

And then, it’s there. Firewood and snowfall.

It wraps around him in a way that’s both grounding and unbearable, soothing and terrible all at once. It floods his senses, pulling him from the moment even as it tethers him more tightly to it. Tony’s breath catches, his pulse stumbling over itself as the scent settles deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.

The window creaks.

Tony stiffens, his heart kicking hard against his ribs—equal parts anticipation and dread—as Bucky hauls himself through the narrow opening. He moves with the same practiced ease as always, his boots landing softly on the floor, his shoulders rolling loose as though the weight of the world has never once touched him. His hair’s mussed, wild from the wind, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing arms dusted faintly with soot. And then there’s the grin.

Lopsided, easy, and warm, like the night is his to command.

Tony can only watch, frozen in place, as Bucky brushes dust from his shirt and casts a glance around the room, oblivious to the weight pressing down on it. “Evening, sweetheart,” Bucky greets, his voice rich with its usual warmth as he runs a hand through his windswept hair. “Didn’t think you’d still be up. Know I wasn’t supposed t’stop by tonight, but…” He shrugs, his grin widening. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

For a moment, Tony feels like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, every part of him stretched thin under the collision of two worlds. Bucky, carefree and teasing, full of life and ease. Becca, trembling in his arms, her grief still a raw, open wound. The contrast is jarring, the shift too sudden to reconcile, and it leaves Tony paralyzed under the weight of it.

Bucky doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s still unwinding his tie, pulling it loose with a casual flick of his wrist. “Miss me?” he teases, stepping further into the room.

Then he sees her.

Bucky’s steps falter, the grin freezing halfway across his face before it dissolves completely. His gaze sharpens as it locks onto the bed, his brow furrowing deeply as he takes in the scene: Becca, curled tightly against Tony’s chest, her face blotchy and red; Tony, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, his body wound so tight it might snap.

“Becks?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, sharper now, tinged with alarm. He steps forward, his movements slow but purposeful, his steel-grey eyes darting between Becca and Tony. “What’s going on? Why is she—” He stops, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingers on Becca’s trembling frame. “Why is she crying?”

Tony tries to respond, but the words catch in his throat, jagged and unsteady. “It’s…” His voice falters. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. “It’s Johnny.”

“J-Joey,” Becca corrects between hiccupping sobs.

Bucky freezes, his entire body going rigid. The name seems to hang in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, his expression shifts, the confusion melting into something darker. “Joey?” he repeats, his voice quieter now, lined with a growing edge of dread. “What about Joey?”

Becca doesn’t answer. She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she presses her face harder against Tony’s shoulder, her sobs rising again, fractured and uneven.

Tony swallows thickly, his gaze darting between the siblings as he wordlessly gestures to the crumpled telegram on the bed.

Bucky’s eyes follow the motion, narrowing as he steps closer. His hand trembles faintly as he picks up the telegram, unfolding it with a deliberate precision that belies the storm gathering behind his gaze. Tony watches the exact moment the words hit him. Bucky’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as his eyes dart across the text.

Missing in action.

The words seem to knock the air from his lungs, leaving him standing there, silent and still, his jaw working silently as though trying to chew through the implications.

“Goddammit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his voice low and rough as he rakes a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t turn to Becca right away. Instead, his gaze flicks to Tony.

His expression is unfamiliar. Raw, unguarded—emotions that Tony isn’t sure he’s meant to see, and it makes his chest feel too tight, like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

Tony meets his eyes, the breath catching in his throat as the unspoken passes between them. He feels the weight of it settle in his chest, as heavy as the telegram.

Bucky sighs, sets the paper down on Tony’s nightstand, and takes a cautious step closer. His hand moves before his words can, reaching out to settle lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is brief, almost fleeting, and Tony flounders under the weight of it—his own nerves fraying at the edges.

For just a moment, the world seems to still. Bucky’s thumb brushes against the edge of Tony’s neck, the faintest, almost imperceptible movement—and Tony’s breath hitches, his gaze flicking to Bucky’s face. There’s something uninhibited in the way Bucky looks at him that makes the knot in Tony’s chest loosen, if only slightly.

Tony swallows, nodding once in acknowledgment, though his heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Bucky’s hand twitches but lingers for another heartbeat before he pulls it away, his movements deliberate as he shifts his attention to Becca.

He moves quietly, his boots barely scuffing the floor as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, Becca doesn’t react. Her small frame remains hunched over, curled against Tony’s chest, her fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.

“Becks,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and gentle as he leans toward her. He reaches out, his hand hovering near her back before settling lightly against her shoulder. His touch is cautious, careful, as though afraid she might break beneath the weight of it. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Becca hiccups softly, her sobs catching in her throat as her head shifts slightly, her cheek brushing against Tony’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Bucky soothes, his other hand sliding under hers with practiced ease, his fingers curling lightly around her trembling grip. “C’mere, Becks. I’ve got you.”

Tony feels the moment her hold on him falters, her hands slipping from his shirt as Bucky gently coaxes her away. There’s no resistance, only a quiet surrender as she turns toward her brother. Her movements are slow, almost hesitant, but when she finally collapses into his arms, it’s with the full weight of her grief.

Bucky pulls her close, his arms wrapping tightly around her as she buries her face against his shoulder. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances that Tony can’t quite make out. His hands move in soothing circles across her back, anchoring her to him.

Tony exhales, the sound shaky and uneven, as he sits back on his heels.

He should leave; he knows this, but he feels rooted to the spot.

The quiet of the room feels oppressive, broken only by Becca’s uneven breaths and the faint creak of the wind pushing through open window. Tony’s fingers twitch against his knee, the urge to do something—anything—gnawing at him. But there’s nothing to do, no easy fix, no clever quip that could make this moment any less harrowing.

His eyes drift toward the window, the cold air seeping in from its slightly warped frame. He tells himself he should get up, close it, climb out it—do anything to give them some privacy. But he doesn’t move.

Because Bucky’s eyes keep finding him.

Over Becca’s shoulder, Bucky looks at him with something unspoken, something open and unguarded that Tony doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s not an invitation, exactly, but it’s not dismissal, either. It’s something in between, a thread pulling Tony back every time his thoughts stray toward leaving.

Becca shifts slightly in Bucky’s arms, her quiet sobs giving way to hiccups as exhaustion begins to weigh her down. Her fingers clutch at Bucky’s shirt, trembling as her breaths stutter unevenly. Tony watches as Bucky presses his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring something so low that Tony can’t catch the words. But the cadence of it—the quiet, steady rhythm of Bucky’s voice—settles something fragile in the air.

Tony swallows hard, looking away to give them some semblance of privacy, though there’s nowhere else for his gaze to land. The room feels smaller than ever, the three of them compressed into this tiny, suffocating space. He lets his gaze trail back up to the ceiling. Wishing he could find answers instead of constellations full of equations and improbable variables.

Tony shifts his weight, his knees protesting the hard floor, and eventually leans back onto his palms, his body folding into the silence.

The stillness stretches, minutes bleeding into what could be hours, until Bucky’s voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“She fell asleep,” Bucky says eventually, his voice breaking through the quiet.

Tony’s head snaps back down, his gaze darting to Becca. Sure enough, her breathing has evened out, her face slack against Bucky’s chest. She looks younger somehow, smaller, and the sight makes something twist sharply in Tony’s ribcage.

Tony swallows audibly, his mouth opening and closing a few times before his gaze darts across the room.

“Yeah, no,” he says, shaking his head and blinking as his mind catches on the words. “Sure. You two take the bed. I’ll crash on Arnie’s. No big deal.”

Bucky’s expression softens. “Tony,” he says quietly. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly, pushing himself up onto his feet and wincing as the feeling comes back into his legs. I have extra sheets… somewhere. Probably. And I’ve been stealing Roth’s pillow, anyway. Seems silly to drag Becca back to her room—”

“Tony.”

Tony freezes, mouth tense, a hand tugging through the messy strands on the back of his head. He looks at the Alpha.

The Bucky that Tony knows is… effortless. All easy grins and self-assured confidence.

But now, sitting on the edge of Tony’s shitty, too-small twin bed with his little sister cradled in his arms, Bucky looks different.

Tired. Resigned, maybe, or weighed down by something Tony can’t quite decipher. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem deeper, Tony’s usual favorite crooked grin replaced by a faint downturn of his lips. His broad shoulders, always so solid and unyielding, slump just slightly.

It’s disarming, Tony realizes, seeing him like this.

There’s no bravado, no easy grin to shield the cracks in his armor. He looks unpolished. Vulnerable in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache and his breath hitch.

The realization pulls something sharp and uneasy through him, and Tony’s gaze flickers away, but there’s no escape from the weight of it—or from Bucky’s scent, which hangs thick in the air now, impossible to ignore.

It’s still familiar in its warmth, still steadying in the way it grounds Tony when everything else feels too loud. But now there’s a bitter undertone curling beneath it, subtle but unmistakable—a quiet sorrow that lingers like the first sharp bite of frost before a snowstorm. It seeps into every corner of the room, clinging to Tony’s senses and wrapping around him in a way that makes his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He inhales without meaning to, the scent pulling at something deep and instinctive, something he doesn’t want to name but can’t shove down any longer. It presses against his ribcage, heavy and unrelenting, and he feels himself teetering between the urge to offer comfort and the impossible desire to fix it, even though he knows he can’t. Not this. Not tonight.

“Tony.”

The quiet rumble of Bucky’s voice slices through the haze, steady but laced with a softness that catches Tony off guard. When he glances up, Bucky’s sharp, perceptive eyes are already locked on him, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Tony want to squirm. Concern, sure—but also something deeper, something Tony’s not ready to face.

“Stop scentin’ me,” Bucky murmurs, though the words carry no real command, only quiet insistence. His jaw tightens as he glances away, his fingers flexing gently against Becca’s back. “Didn’t mean for it to get to you. Just…” He trails off, his voice lowering as he nods slightly. “Hold on.”

Tony flinches, heat crawling up his neck. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, digging his nails into his palms. “It’s fine,” he says, too quickly, his voice sharp with defense.

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers for a beat longer before he shifts his attention back to Becca. Moving with a quiet deliberateness, he adjusts her until she’s lying on the mattress, her head propped against the pillow and her small frame tucked carefully against the wall.

Tony watches in silence as Bucky leans down to slip her shoes off, his movements careful and precise, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile peace they’ve built. Once Becca is settled, Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his own boots with slow, deliberate motions.

Still, Tony doesn’t move. His feet feel like lead, his body rooted to the spot as he watches Bucky without meaning to, caught in the quiet gravity of him.

Bucky straightens, his boots landing softly on the floor beside Becca’s. His hands rest briefly on his knees, fingers flexing like he’s bracing himself for something. Then, without hesitation, he looks up at Tony and holds out his arms.

“C’mere,” Bucky says.

Tony blinks, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He shifts on his feet, his arms tightening across his chest. “What—”

“Just come here, doll,” Bucky says, his voice gentle but firm.

Tony hesitates, his gaze darting between Bucky’s open arms and Becca, who’s still fast asleep, her breaths slow and even. The bed is tiny. There’s barely enough room for Bucky and Becca as it is, and the thought of squeezing himself into that cramped space feels… impossible.

“Bucky,” Tony starts, his voice awkward and stilted. “There’s no room. I’ll just—”

“There’s room,” Bucky interrupts, his arms still outstretched. His expression softens, but there’s an edge of stubbornness in his tone now, the kind that always leaves Tony feeling off-balance. “You love havin’ this argument, don’t you? Just humor me.”

Tony snorts, shifting his weight uneasily. “Probably not gonna get much humor out of me tonight, Buck.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Bucky says, his lips quirking in a faint, tired smile. He nods toward the bed, his gaze steady and insistent. “Come here, baby. Please.”

The please is what gets him.

Tony swallows, the sound loud in the stillness, and finally takes a cautious step closer. “This is stupid,” he mutters, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the words fall flat. He toes off his own shoes as he drags himself forward. “You don’t need me crowding you two all night.”

Bucky shakes his head, the smile fading into something quieter, more earnest. “I do,” he says simply. “I need you here.”

The words stop Tony in his tracks. He stares at Bucky, his mind scrambling for a witty retort, something to deflect the heaviness of what’s hanging in the air between them. But nothing comes.

Instead, he just exhales sharply and mutters, “Fine. But if I fall off the bed, I’m taking you down with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches out and catches Tony’s wrist in a firm but gentle grip. His hand is warm, calloused, and before Tony can process what’s happening, Bucky tugs him closer—not onto the bed, not yet, but to the space between his knees where he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Tony stumbles forward, blinking in surprise. “What are you—”

“Just… hold still for a second,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and steady.

Tony freezes, his pulse ticking sharply against his throat as Bucky’s hands reach up to the knot of his tie. The movements are deliberate, careful—nothing like the hurried, heated way Bucky had tugged at his clothes a few nights ago, impatient and hungry as he backed Tony against his desk.

The memory flares briefly, unbidden, making Tony’s face burn. He remembers Bucky’s hands then, quick and sure, undoing buttons and pulling fabric aside like it was in the way. The way his lips had followed, leaving a trail of heat against Tony’s skin, drawing soft gasps and murmured protests that neither of them had meant.

This is nothing like that.

Now, Bucky’s touch is unhurried, almost reverent as he loosens the tie from Tony’s collar. There’s no rush, no teasing smirk, no deliberate press of his body against Tony’s to ignite sparks. Just quiet, deliberate movements and a weight in Bucky’s eyes that Tony can’t quite name.

The tie slips free, and Bucky sets it aside before his hands move to the buttons of Tony’s blazer. His touch lingers briefly, just enough to make Tony’s breath hitch before the first button pops open.

“You don’t have to—” Tony starts, his voice coming out shakier than intended, but Bucky cuts him off with a soft shake of his head.

“I do,” Bucky says simply, his gaze meeting Tony’s as his hands move to the next button. “Just let me.”

Tony swallows hard, the words catching in his throat as he nods, barely perceptible. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he lets Bucky work, his hands steady as they ease the blazer from Tony’s shoulders.

The quiet intimacy of it all feels strange, too raw for Tony to handle, but he doesn’t pull away. He stands there, frozen but compliant, as Bucky folds the blazer and sets it aside with the same care he’d shown with the tie.

When Bucky’s hands settle lightly on Tony’s waist, Tony’s breath catches again, his gaze darting away. But before he can spiral too far into his own head, Bucky leans forward, pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead.

Tony exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re really… something tonight,” he mutters, his voice quieter than intended.

Bucky hums faintly, his thumbs brushing lightly over Tony’s hips. “Yeah, well…” His gaze flicks to Becca, nestled behind him, her face slack in sleep. “Guess everyone’s a little off tonight.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. The warmth in Bucky’s voice pulls at something deep in his chest, but before he can dwell on it too long, Bucky shifts, his hands steady as he guides Tony toward the bed.

“C’mere,” Bucky says softly, his voice calm but insistent. “We’ll figure it out. Just… stay.”

Tony swallows hard, his throat tight with something unnameable, and doesn’t argue. He lets Bucky guide him, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles hesitantly beside him. Bucky leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Tony adjusts awkwardly, curling into Bucky’s side and fisting his hand into the material of Bucky’s tear-soaked shirt. “Don’t blame me if I elbow you in my sleep,” he whispers, his tone pitched low and uncertain. The bed is small, and Tony’s already bracing himself for the inevitable fall if Becca so much as shifts.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky murmurs, his hand settling lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is steady and warm, grounding Tony in a way that makes his throat tighten.

They fall into silence for a long moment, the quiet filled only by the faint hum of the radiator and the soft sound of Becca’s breathing. Tony lets his eyes adjust to the dark, his gaze flicking to the faint outline of Becca tucked against Bucky’s side. She looks smaller than usual, her face peaceful despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Bucky says suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. It’s soft, but there’s a weight to it, something heavy and resigned. “Joey… he’s a good kid. I’ve known him his whole life. Never thought it’d get this serious between them, but she loves him. Always has. Since they were little.”

Tony swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He’s never met the Alpha, of course, but the way Bucky talks about him—steady and low, tinged with quiet fondness—makes him feel like more than a name on a telegram. It’s easy to picture the boy through Bucky’s eyes: the neighbor kid with a shy grin and a good heart, someone who grew up alongside Becca and earned her love in a way that feels unfairly fragile now.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s just a kid. Fifteen. She should be worried about dances and sneaking out to see a picture show, not… not this.” He exhales shakily, his grip on Becca tightening slightly. “Not waiting for news that might not come.”

Tony presses his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the scent of cedar and smoke washing over him—sharp and steady, but tinged with sorrow. It anchors him and unsettles him all at once, pulling at something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters after a moment, his voice barely audible. “Guess not.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around him slightly, pulling him closer, and Tony doesn’t resist. He lets himself sink into the warmth and the weight, the quiet presence of the man beside him. It feels like too much and not enough all at once, but for now, it’s all he has.

“You’re good at this,” Bucky murmurs after another long pause, his voice soft and low, breaking through Tony’s spiraling thoughts.

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no real humor in the sound. “What? Squeezing into a bed too small for three people?”

“No,” Bucky says quietly, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow, soothing motion. “This. Being here. Taking care of people.”

The words hit something raw and fragile inside Tony, and he stiffens slightly, his breath catching. “No,” he mutters, his voice rougher now. “I’m not.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Tony’s head. His lips linger there for a moment before he rests his cheek against Tony’s hair. “You take care of me,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Hey, sweetheart?” “Yeah?” Tony croaks.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends. But… thank you. For being there for her.”

Tony bites down on the inside of his cheek and buries his face into the Alpha’s armpit to hide the warmth coloring his cheeks.

“We’re not friends. She forces me to eat breakfast with her. Steals my breakfast and cheats off my homework.”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t do ‘homework’.”

“Exactly,” Tony mumbles, his voice muffled against the soft fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s how much of a menace she is. She cheats off assignments I don’t even do.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest that Tony can feel more than hear. It’s warm and familiar, and for a moment, it cuts through the weight pressing down on the room. Tony’s grip on Bucky’s shirt loosens slightly, his fingers flexing before curling again, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

The darkness around them feels impossibly heavy, but it’s not suffocating. Not quite. It’s the kind of weight that settles rather than smothers, wrapping around them like a blanket too thick for the season. Tony closes his eyes, letting himself focus on the faint, steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, the quiet creak of the bed as it shifts under their combined weight.

“Hey, Bucky?” He says quietly.

Bucky hums. “Yeah, baby?”

Tony hesitates, his question lingering on the edge of his tongue. He knows he shouldn’t ask—knows the weight of it—but the thought has been gnawing at him for weeks. Tonight, though, with Becca curled against Bucky and Joey’s absence casting a shadow over everything, the words slip free before he can stop them.

“Why haven’t you been called up yet?”

Bucky’s hand stills, his breath catching just enough for Tony to notice. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and for a moment, Tony regrets asking. He lifts his head slightly, glancing up at Bucky’s face. “Forget it,” Tony mutters, his voice rougher than intended. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky interrupts gently, exhaling a slow breath. His gaze shifts to the ceiling, distant and thoughtful, before it falls back to Tony. “Guess we have to talk about it, sooner rather than later.”

Tony doesn’t respond. His chest feels like it’s caving in, his lungs straining against the weight of the conversation he’s been avoiding since the beginning.

“When Ma and Dad died,” Bucky begins quietly, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier, “it was just me and Becca. She was thirteen, still a kid, and there was a pile of debts bigger than anything I’d ever seen—hospital bills, the funeral, everything they left behind. Someone had to take care of it. Someone had to take care of her.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “So when the notice came, I went down to the recruitment office and told them I wasn’t tryin’ to dodge it. Just… asking for time.”

Tony blinks, caught off guard. “They let you do that?”

Bucky shrugs faintly. “I think I got lucky. This was before things really took off. Before Japan attacked us. Maybe they took pity on me, y’know? Some kid fresh outta school, no parents, trying to hold things together for his sister. Told them I’d go if I had to, but I couldn’t leave her with nothing.”

Tony swallows hard, the image of Bucky standing in front of some indifferent bureaucrat, pleading his case with the same quiet determination that Tony’s come to know so well—it twists something deep in his chest.

“And now?” Tony asks, his voice quieter.

Bucky’s hand falters for a moment before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm. “Now our grandparents are helping. Paying for her schooling. She’s with them when she’s not here. They’re good folks. But… that doesn’t mean the clock’s not ticking.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m on borrowed time, Tony. Just waitin’ for the day the letters start coming again.”

Something in Tony’s stomach lurches. It feels like dread, but heavier.

Anguish.

There’s no point in masking it. He knows Bucky can smell it.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. His hand continues its steady rhythm on Tony’s back, grounding and patient, giving Tony the space to sort through the tangled mess of his emotions. But Tony can feel the Alpha’s gaze on him, sharp and searching even in the darkness.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to dump this on you,” Bucky says softly after a long stretch of silence. His voice is quiet, apologetic in a way that twists something deeper in Tony’s chest. “Not tonight. Not…like this.”

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no humor in it. “What’s one more thing to worry about?” he mutters, his voice muffled against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “Might as well pile it on.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand stills briefly before resuming its soothing motion, firmer now, as though trying to ease the tension out of Tony’s frame. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Tony asks, his tone sharper than he intends. “Be realistic?”

“Minimize this,” Bucky counters gently, his fingers brushing against the back of Tony’s neck. “You’re allowed to feel this, Tony. You don’t have to… bury it.”

Tony scoffs, though the sound comes out weaker than he’d like. “Yeah, well. In my experience, burying my crap tends to work better than facing it.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Bucky knows what “it” is. The war. The draft. The inevitability of Bucky’s name coming up, of the letters arriving, of him being sent off to fight in a war that’s swallowing up everything and everyone in its path.

Tony shifts abruptly, pulling away from Bucky’s warmth and turning onto his side, his back facing him. He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the weight in those steel-grey eyes, the resignation that’s already settled in. It feels too much like an ending, and Tony doesn’t know how to hold that in his chest without breaking apart.

“I don’t want you to go.”

The confession trembles in the air, so quiet and raw that Tony isn’t even sure Bucky heard him. His voice cracks on the last word, the sound splintering like glass, and Tony clamps his mouth shut, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop anything else from spilling out.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the mattress dips, and Tony feels the warmth of Bucky shifting closer behind him. A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder, hesitant, before sliding around his waist. Bucky’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back against the solid warmth of his chest. The weight is steady, grounding, and Tony’s breath catches as he feels Bucky press his forehead gently against the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and heavy with something Tony can’t name. “I know.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his body stiff in Bucky’s embrace.

He can’t help but think of the last time they’d been tangled together in bed—only a few nights ago, at the tail end of his heat, when the world had felt far away and distant. Bucky’s bed had been too warm, their limbs intertwined, Tony too boneless and content to care about anything beyond the four walls of the bedroom.

He thinks of the lazy, indulgent smile on Bucky’s face, the way his mouth had trailed patterns down Tony’s bare shoulder, both of them sticky with sweat but too relaxed to do anything about it. They’d talked about nothing and kissed endlessly, the kind of careless behavior that felt safe because the world outside hadn’t crept in yet. Tony’s heart had been full that morning, his body humming with the comfort of Bucky’s scent and the warmth of his skin.

Now, the bed feels cold despite the heat of Bucky’s body against him. There’s no teasing, no smirk, no lazy contentment. Just the weight of what’s coming and the words they can’t take back.

“You don’t—” Tony’s voice falters, breaking apart before he can finish. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be left behind.”

To be cast aside by everyone you know.

Bucky exhales softly, the sound shaky in a way that makes Tony’s stomach twist. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t. And I’m so damn sorry that you have to feel this. That Becca has to feel this.” His arm tightens slightly, his hand resting against Tony’s side. “But you’re never gonna be alone in this, okay? I need you to know that.”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust himself to. His throat feels like it’s closing up, his chest aching as he fights to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Bucky’s scent surrounds him—heady and incensed, still tinged with that quiet sorrow that makes Tony’s heart hurt—and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside him, something that makes him want to stay wrapped in this moment forever.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony whispers finally, his voice barely audible. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Petulant. Selfish. “You don’t have to go.”

Bucky’s breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, his hand moves, his fingers brushing lightly over Tony’s side in a way that’s both comforting and devastating. “I do,” he says softly. “You know I do.”

Tony clenches his jaw, his hands fisting in the sheets as he presses his face against the pillow. He doesn’t want to accept it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But the reality of it looms too large, too undeniable, and it feels like it’s swallowing him whole.

Bucky shifts closer, his arm tightening around Tony as if he’s trying to hold him together. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice steady despite the ache that lingers there. “I’ll come back. No matter what, I’ll come back to you. You have my word.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tony mutters, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “No one can.”

“I can,” Bucky insists, his voice firm but gentle. “And I am. You hear me? I’m coming back, Tony. I swear it.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and fragile, and Tony wants so badly to believe him. But all he can do is nod, the motion small and uncertain, as he lets himself sink back into the warmth of Bucky’s embrace. His breathing is uneven, his heart racing in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, pressed against Bucky, and lets the Alpha hold him like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Bucky’s hand moves again, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing circles against Tony’s side.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve got you, Tony.”

And for now, in this quiet, fragile moment, it’s enough.

Tony doesn’t recall falling asleep; the crushing weight of his thoughts must have eventually dragged him under.

He wakes before dawn, the pale light creeping into the room, casting everything in a faint gray haze. The mattress beneath him is too warm, crowded with too many bodies. Becca is still curled up against the wall, her face slack in sleep, while Bucky’s arm remains slung protectively around Tony’s waist, holding him in place.

Tony untangles himself with slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake either of them. He doesn’t look back as he slips out of bed, his bare feet cold against the linoleum floor. His mind is already racing as he pulls on his blazer, though his tie remains slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He doesn’t need to be presentable for what he’s about to do. Just… prepared.

The hallways are eerily silent at this hour, the oppressive quiet broken only by the soft creak of Tony’s footsteps. The early morning chill seeps into his skin, but he doesn’t care. His destination is clear, and his purpose even clearer.

Byron Tompkins’s office door is closed when Tony reaches it, the plaque on the wood catching the dim light. Tony doesn’t bother knocking. He grips the handle, twists, and pushes the door open with enough force that it smacks against the wall, rattling the frames hung with awards and irrelevant accolades.

The headmaster is seated at his desk, his glasses perched low on his nose as he reviews the morning paper. He jumps at the sudden intrusion, his head snapping up, and the color drains from his face when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Stark,” Tompkins says sharply, though his voice wavers. “What on earth—”

“Becca Barnes is excused from finals,” Tony announces, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Tompkins blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. “Excuse me?” he says, recovering enough to feign authority. “Christ—you don’t have the authority to make that call, Stark.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s voice is calm, almost bored. “She received a telegram last night. She’s grieving, you absolute cretin. Do you expect her to sit through exams and recite poetry while her world is falling apart?”

Tompkins clears his throat, clearly flustered. “This is an institution, Stark. We have protocols—”

“To hell with your protocols, Byron,” Tony snaps. He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to phone her grandparents and explain the situation. Tell them to come pick her up. She’s excused from finals, and she’s excused from the rest of the term.”

Tompkins glares, his indignation flickering behind a thin veneer of control. “You don’t get to decide that, Omega.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smile, and he leans forward, planting his hands on the headmaster’s desk. “You know who my father is. You know what he could do with a single phone call. Do you really want to test me on this?”

Tony won’t test this. He’s completely bluffing. His father wouldn’t give a shit.

But the threat works, anyway. It’s worked for two years.

Tompkins visibly swallows, his eyes darting away as the weight of the unspoken threat settles over him.

“She’s a child,” Tony hisses. “A grieving child who doesn’t need some bureaucratic leech like you making her life harder. And while you’re at it, write a note excusing her from every last responsibility she’s got. Outstanding assignments, obligations, whatever else you pencil-pushers are dreaming up to make kids here miserable. She’s done."

The headmaster shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders sagging as he realizes he’s lost. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ll… make the call.”

"Fabulous."

Tompkins scowls as he reaches for the phone on his desk. Tony doesn’t leave until the first dial tone sounds, ensuring that the man follows through.

As he steps back into the hallway, the burden in his ribs doesn't lift; it just shifts. For a moment, he stands still, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw tight, like he’s daring the weight of the morning to press harder.

The faint hum of the headmaster’s voice drifts from the office, low and reluctant as the call begins. Tony doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t need to. The message has already been delivered, the balance of power tilted just enough to leave Tompkins scrambling to save face.

He exhales slowly, his breath sharp in the quiet, and begins walking again. His steps echo in the empty corridor, steady but heavy, like each one carries the weight of something he can’t shake.

There’s no satisfaction in the victory—only the dull ache of inevitability settling deeper.

Lodging itself firmly into his chest.

#winteriron #bucky barnes #tony stark #wip #ao3 #steve rogers #alpha/beta/omega au #captain america #ao3fic #tony stark x bucky barnes

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strangetomato · 1 month ago

Note

do you have any advice/things you wish you knew starting out for a neurodivergent person wanting to work on a sims story as ambitious as SHWC? particularly related to workflow, burnout, and other periods of mental unhealth. (also patiently excited for the next update — i first started reading SHWC in high school and seeing your ripp and ophelia again feels a little like coming home in a way i can’t explain)

This is a great question.

It is honestly very pleasantly surprising to me that I've been able to persist and come back to this story, and I'm not sure what’s been different about this project to keep me coming back. I think it comes down to loving the game and the source characters so much and then diving so deeply into developing them. They are so fully formed for me that they will just resurface in my mind from time to time, even now after 7+ years after the last update. I dream about them sometimes.

I tend to cycle through interests/fixations in the way many of us NDs do. Some come and go after a good run and never really seem to return. Others are perennial faves that I know will resurface eventually. The Sims 2 has been the most significant one in my whole life so far, so I think that really helps.

So as for advice: pick something you love. I'd say even do one better than me and zero your focus in on your favourite characters, your favourite character, period. Really weed out anything that isn't exciting to write about for you.

Upon returning this time, I’ve given myself permission to not bother with the stuff that doesn't interest me as much, or that once did but doesn’t so much now. If you're struggling with having enough spoons or getting enough dopamine to get through the work, forcing yourself to tell a story you aren't that interested in is not going to work. I previously stalled out mid chapter in a Veronaville side story precisely because I really wanted to be writing about JRO or the other main cast instead.

Posing scenes with characters you love provides you with dopamine because it just brings joy to get the shots looking just right, seeing their expressions, etc. I also like doing sorta arty things with the images, because that tickles my brain and keeps me interested, too. Or decorating. Sometimes decorating the set is what does it for me. Find what interests you the most and do it.

I'd also say simplify the image-making, too. Cut corners. Don't pose everything! You don't have to illustrate every little movement. Use the text. I can't count how many times Ophelia has ruffled Ripp's hair, but I have never once shown it. You can get away with so much in just the writing. If posing it all out sounds fun and the result would please you, then do it. If not, describe it in the text. Easy. Done.

Similarly, you can have a scene, say, where two characters are talking or someone is thinking and the image is just a close up of a picture in a frame. Vary things up and it will keep things interesting and your attention span will thank you.

And vary things between closeups and wide shots, use different perspectives. Do a birds eye view… then you don't even need a facial expression. A shot of just the feet. Why not? Wide shots with a lot of very posed characters in them takes a lot of effort. Use them wisely. You simply don't need to do that all the time. Varying the perspective and closeness of the shot conveys different things in the story as well. It's part of the storytelling, particularly the emotion.

Okay, what else…

Keep a tiny notebook or document on your phone with you at all times, so you can jot things down as they come to you. Take your best advantage of those moments when your brain is firing, even if you’re in the lineup in the grocery store, etc. I have written entire scenes in my brain while driving on the highway, then pulled over to jot it all down. (Obviously, pull over to write, if you’re driving, lol.)

I have a very nonlinear brain, for better or worse. I tend to work up a bunch of stuff simultaneously, rather than going from point A to B. Currently, I have documents for about 5 or 6 updates, which I jump around in. Also one for “story bits’ where I dump any little snippet that pops up in my brain. I've stopped doing images that far in advance, though. Too often I change things and it helps me to focus on the update at hand if I only shoot scenes within the current update.

Working so far ahead in writing can be helpful with sticking it out, because I have good stuff I really want to share further down the line.

That said, I've also had success doing Camp Nano and sitting down and just writing. For me, this is also still jumping around and doing a lot of little scenes. But sometimes just starting to write and letting it all randomly flow out will be surprisingly productive.

Burnout is very real. Taking a break is really the best idea. Playing the game or posing very indulgent shots just for fun for can help. Rest as much as you can, and do things you enjoy.

Mental health concerns are tough when it comes to this stuff. Again, taking a break and focusing on recovery is for the best. I find that when my mood goes off, I need to get off of all social media. If you find you are feeling bad more often than good when in the sims community, it’s probably time to get offline for a while.

I'm still feeling out the difference between ND burnout and depression in my own life, even in my past. For myself, the mood stuff is more of a seismic shift (and has the more distressing negative thoughts) while burnout does still settle in from time to time, even when I’m otherwise well. Burnout needs rest. Depression needs movement. Both need sleep. This obviously goes beyond what I’m going to get into here. Try to find a good psychiatrist.

In general: take your meds, get enough sleep, get some physical activity, find community.

I really like going for a walk with headphones on. (Be careful, obviously.) I have a nature trail nearby, so that works well for that. Like many, I use music to inspire me with writing/creating, so this is a nice combo of exercise/nature/sensory immersion/creative inspiration, and I can easily stop to jot down notes. Or do it really sloppily while I’m still walking.

I’m not sure if that fully answers everything.

Workflow is not my strongest area. I do think having smaller goals is helpful. If you have the writing all completed, try not to think about the chapter as a whole and how much is left to do. Set a small goal, like doing something every day, no matter how small. I make physical checklists to feel the progress more concretely as well. You can storyboard things out to help guide you, or give yourself permission to freestyle it and not worry about it matching the text perfectly. I have changed the text to match the image when something new came up like that. It’s nice to have the ability to do that.

Thank you so much for the kind words. :) Coming back to work on the story has given me a positive obsession that I’ve been lacking in more recent years, despite being otherwise mentally well. The update is coming along. It’s hard to predict exactly when I will complete it, but it is steadily approaching. Thanks for the great ask and have a nice day! :) Good luck with your project.

#replies #gratitude #sims storytelling talk #very much on brand this is a chaotic ND mess lol #but that's what I've got right now

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richea · 11 months ago

Text

Tales of Hearts Worldbuilding

There's a lot of worldbuilding in Hearts that's either very obscure within its game, blatantly wasn't explained in it at all, and in a number of cases, was in DS and removed from R.

I skimmed the glossary from its guidebook and jotted down some interesting details from it that people might not know about the game. This isn't a full study on Hearts' worldbuilding, as this is only information borrowed from that specific book, and I only included things that I think people would be interested in knowing about. This excludes really obvious information that everyone probably knows or is easily found in a casual Hearts playthrough (though I did include some of it), and random pointless things like the fact that there's sheep in Layve who produce tea milk. (That stuff is fun too, but this post took me long enough to put together!)

Also, this post uses my own preferred romanizations for everything, as we can all agree that the localization was a huge mess.

If you enjoy this post and want more random Hearts trivia, check out Aera's old post too!

Characters

Side character ages: Creed (20), Fluora (21), Incarose (19), Seraph Bros (25), Corundum (10), Grossular (50), Kornerupine (44), Striegov (37), Zirconia (61), Byrox (22), Paraiba (20), Labrador (39). (Peridot is also 19.)

Shing is the youngest in the playable party at only 16. (In R he’s the youngest tied with Chalcedony)

Kohaku has such a strong, natural affinity for hugging people that this feeling was embedded in her even when she lost her emotions and ability to talk. She also gained her fear of heights from falling out a window once.

Lithia told Kohaku and Hisui to leave Norqueen “to find the Forest of Thorns”.

Kohaku and Hisui’s dad is dead. He died when Hisui was “very young” like Iola did.

Hisui can’t swim due to his upbringing in a snowy region.

Kunzite was injured in a fight with Incarose 170 years prior to the story, and then was held by the imperial army. This is the state the party meets him in. In order to reboot him, Lithia passed along this chant to Kohaku to recite: “Shape of man cast from iron’s true flame. With a solid bronze soul, and pure mercury veins. Swear on Quartz’s white moonlight, that you shall be our shield, and our sword, and our might. Platinum heart etched with a Quartz name, run so as to give life to your metal frame.”

Incarose was named by Creed after her eyes. She has 7 bodies in total but by the time Creed gets his body back she’s down to 4.

The person who made Corundum and the Seraph Bros was a famous Quartz named Eusite. Despite his genius, a lot of his mechanoids had varying defects (like Chlorseraph does) and they were scrapped a lot.

When the Seraph Bros were installed with their synthetic Spirias, they had a defect that made them assault everything around them. They were going to be disposed of but Fluora took them under her wing and made them her knights. This is why Clinoseraph feels such strong loyalty to her.

Fluora named the Seraph Bros after a famous bird known as the seraph.

Iola used to be of the Velleia faith. The details of her death are that after being injured by Creed, she fled to the land that would later be known as Norqueen, made the barrier around the area, gave birth to Kohaku, and then died shortly after. Her sister Sheila is actually the one who named (and subsequently raised) Kohaku, after the Kohakuzakura tree.

Sheila was a follower of the old Velleian teachings, but Arkham labeled her and others who follow it a heretic and denounced them when forming his “new” Velleia teachings. Due to this Sheila blames him and the church for Iola’s death and distrusts the Crystal Knights. Despite her harsh attitude in the story and as chief, she’s actually quite a nice woman who cherishes Kohaku and Hisui, and every year she treats the villagers to handmade sakura mochi.

Dona lost her emotions from the strain of transferring Creed to Shing, was brought to Seable by Zektz, and then died at some point during Shing’s early childhood. The villagers remembered her for being a quaint, kind woman but before she lost her emotions, she was very rowdy and crude, to the point that Iola once scoffed about her attitude in front of Zektz. Nobody knew who Shing’s father was, but Zektz suspected that he was a man who was likeminded to Dona and dedicated to a life of battle.

Silver was only 29 years old despite his grey hair and his high military rank. A lot of his actions (and role as Garnet) can be explained by his hatred of the military, after they forced him to have his wife and daughter present for a military Will Cannon experiment that took Pearl's life.

Despite Silver’s military ranking, Pearl was a very ordinary woman who was family-oriented.

Lapis was in a coma for 3 years.

Arago looks out for Helio “as if his own family” whenever Beryl leaves her alone in Blanche.

Helio was a famous nurse in her youth. (She doesn’t have an entry in the guides; this info is taken from an unnamed NPC text in game and felt like a shame not to include.)

The reason Chen had his eye on Beryl is that he actually used to paint himself, but he gave up on his dream and tried to support hers instead.

Sango’s unmarried and Chen has tried 99 times to get her a man to marry, but she’s just uninterested. She also can’t sleep without hugging a plushie despite her strong personality.

Ecaille was brought in to Chen by his daughter Sango. Despite choosing to stay as Chen’s secretary after getting her memories back, she does accept Ameth’s proposal.

The first emperor of the Max Empire was named Chrosite de Rais. He also sponsored the coliseum and reigned as champion for a decade, from the 1st to the 10th. The name Lion Grand Prix later came from the lion crest that was affixed to him.

Diamante is the name of the philosopher who defined what a Spiria is.

Tetsu Hagane tells the tale of his three sins: the Sin of Love (making women in his family cry by being mean to them), the Sin of Grief (making his "blood brother" sad by accidentally leaving the window open and a cat eating his pet goldfish), and the Sin of Power (flaunting his strength by telling the tale of him taking down a xerom despite not being a Somatic).

Species

Powerhogs (the pigs you can find in Shing's hometown) are a medium-sized variety of rappig (popularly known from Abyss). They're kept as pets but the adult males are known to be as ferocious as monsters.

The eloi are a species that lives on an island north of Marquise. They have strong vitality and powerful Spiria. Thanks to the proto xerom Lisia, who wanted to exploit those Spiria, they're almost extinct.

Windum is an eloi who considers himself an "intellectually, culturally advanced species" of eloi. His favorite food is mabo curry. He develops the Sorcerer's Ring for the party and tasks the party with taking down Lisia and saving his brethren.

Quartzia had “mocking things” as pets. They were loyal to their masters and could breathe fire. This is a reference to Mieu from Abyss. This is one of three Abyss mascot references in the game (along with Barrelow as “Bellow” in this game, and Tokunaga.)

The DS version has a variety of monster known literally as “shadows monsters”. These are clumps of black mass that personify as monsters (birds, wolves, blobs, etc.). They’re an “embodiment of fear”. They’re similar to xerom but differ in that they vanish once their feeling of fear disappears. (As a gameplay mechanic, these are what the overworld enemies in the game are.)

Lore

Asteria (Shing’s Soma) has the same name as a flower that Lithia, Creed and Fluora planted on Quartzia, which was said to represent the bonds between people. The name means “shining star”.

Kunzite’s Soma, Vex, has the meaning of “knight of antiquity” in the ancient language. There’s a fairy tale written about it called the “Four-Armed Beast”.

The "Forest of Thorns" project was proposed by Fluora, but was mocked by other Quartz for the fact that Soma Links were never formed despite how many experiments she ran. (This is why Lithia is so in awe of the party's ability to Soma Link throughout the story.)

The Quartz knew about Volgajoz, the dragon that lives in Bamel Volcano.

Gardenia spans over 5,000km. The reason it went out of control is because its synthetic Spiria, which was based on Creed's, craved loved and absorbed everything around it instead of just the feelings of strife and war that it was intended to.

Mechanoids were made by the Quartz as their servants. They helped them in their daily lives, doing menial tasks, to researching, to protecting them; anything the Quartz could think of. Some of them were affixed with synthetic Spiria (like Kunzite) though only the special ones (likes ones intended to be personal bodyguards for special people), as most of them are just regular androids. Jacks help with daily tasks such as cooking and cleaning, Queens excel in Will Artes, Kings are non-humanoid, Jokers excel in research skills and Aces excel in combat. Kunzite is a Jack and in fact was not really intended for combat but was instead made to cook and clean, like many of his skits touch upon. (There's a sub event where he says he's actually tired of having to fight and the only reason he continues is because he wants to protect Lithia.)

Synthetic Spirias are not easy to manufacture and are only able to be installed on high-specs mechas. They're intended to give robots human-like capabilities. Mechas with synthetic Spiria are not actually intended to be able to use Soma and it's considered an abnormality that a lowly Jack type mecha like Kunzite is able to use one.

It's not just the people who were calcified on Quartzia but all remnants of life, period.

Spirmazes reflect the state of the person. If someone's life or emotional strength is running out, it'll get smaller. If it disappears entirely, this means they're dead. (In DS, there were different maps for Spirmazes which reflected the mood of the owner, instead of R's one uniform design. They also had a BGM associated with them, Sadness, Anger and Happiness respectively.)

Somas are useable by anyone, but Spirlinking itself is a grueling task, and if someone not fit to do one attempts one, they'll get ejected immediately.

The Quartz used to rule over the people of Celland, in part because their Spirias had a lot more "vitality" to them, so the Quartz wanted to exploit this.

Xerom are actually Will Arte weapons developed by the Quartz. Their intent was to absorb the Spiria of the people of Celland, which in turn would develop the xerom further. Lithia sealed them away once but as her power weakened over time, they were resurrected.

Soma were originally intended to link people's hearts together, but Fluora didn't have time to finish developing them before the Gardenia incident, so when Celland got its hands on them, they ended up finding use as weapons more than medical instruments during the Unification War.

There's a very limited edition doll called the DX Mega Tokunaga. There's only 30 in existence and Kohaku has one. Sango missed her chance to get one so she begs Kohaku to let her hold it at least once.

The incident with Zirconia (possessed by Creed) being fought off by Dona, Zektz, Tekta, Iola and Labrador is called "The Tragedy of Pransule Strait".

Norqueen was formed only 17 years prior to the story (which lines up with Kohaku's birth) as a safe haven for followers of Lithia's faith, after Arkham labeled them all heretics.

Followers of the Velleia faith are called "dolphins," as their sacred beast is the Winged Whale.

The Max Empire was restored to glory by Chrosite, first as a small country on Oldmine, and then during the Unification War, ruling over all of Celland.

#seines translation #tales of hearts

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 2 years ago

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Malleus x Reader Drabble

I write Reader as female

Masterlist

You really should be paying attention to what Malleus was saying, considering how considerate and enthusiastic he was. It was sweet of him, really, to offer you the seat next to him during break time when you offhandedly mentioned eating lunch alone in the library instead of at your usual table at the cafeteria because of Ace and Deuce’s shared detention - in fact, he even offered to help you with your Defense Magic essay. And what were you doing as a response to his kindness? Letting his words fade away as you observed how the sunlight did an exquisite job at highlighting his orphic beauty.

Despite being a creature of the night, a puissant being who can play with and control the nocturnal elements of his as easily and elegantly as he does his beloved violin, he looked just as ethereal under celestial rays as he does bathed in the colours of his domain.

You never really understood his cloak-and-dagger reputation, considering the fact that the same fairy whose name never failed to drain the blood from your schoolmates’ faces was also the one who’d pout childishly when Lilia would deny him his second box of ice cream or light up giddily whenever his Gao-Gao Dragon-kun would so much as move a pixel. Of course, you yourself felt the chill of intimidation slither up your spine when you saw the way he presented himself in public, from the way authority and might would adhere his form in every step he took, to the way resolution was laced in every word he spoke, to how he could rebuild an entire demolished building from crushed rubble to brand new in a blink of an eye. You were more than aware that the companion to your nighttime rendezvous was someone who should be respected and feared.

But the strangest thing was - you never felt scared. Sure you had your moments of awe and outright reverence whenever his pure, unadulterated power was displayed, but you could never really feel anything other than that tempting allure that would tug you towards him, the tendrils of curiosity that made you want to know more about him. When you first met, you felt a kinship, a fondness to another lonely soul who felt out of place amongst their peers.

“Are you feeling well, child of man?” a deep velvety voice pulled you out of your reverie and you sheepishly noted how the page of your notebook was still mainly blank, your traitorous fingers having chosen to absentmindedly swirl your pen between them instead of jotting down what he was saying.

“Oh well I-,” you felt your face heat up at your obvious distracted mind, “I’m really sorry Tsunotarou, truly I - I guess I was just uh-”

“‘Away with the fairies’ is the correct term, I believe,” he gave you a fond smile.

“Well, yeah, I suppose,” you agree shamefully, completely embarrassed at how technically true his statement was and wishing that the ground would swallow you whole, “I am really sorry. You’re here doing me a huge favour and I’m not even paying attention. I guess - oh.”

Your still fiddling fingers had lost grip of your pen, letting it clatter against the marble floor and roll under the table.

“Sorry,” you were really getting more and more frazzled as the seconds went by, “let me just- ”

“Please, child of man, allow me,” and before you could even comprehend what was happening, the sixth foot supernatural dorm leader of Diasomnia had abandoned his seat and knelt down to retrieve your pen before holding it in front of you, a coy smile on his face, not making a single move to get up.

This nyctophilic fairy prince, whose entire existence is shrouded in fear and mystery, was kneeling before you in broad daylight, handing you your pen as if it was worth more than quadruple its weight in gold. Underneath the static in your head, you could hear the shocked exclamations of Grim and Sebek and Lilia’s ever suspicious snickering and you could feel the burning gazes of the entire cafeteria scalding against your frame. Dumbly, you simply took your pen back, all cerebral functions doing absolutely nothing - you couldn’t even remember how to breathe.

Unaware, or unbothered, of the looks being thrown your way, Malleus sat back in his chair, just as regal and refined as he does everything else before turning to you with a secretive smile, “as we were, my dear. However, this time let’s try to keep your thoughts on me alone.”

#malleus draconia x reader #fem reader

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eddiemunson-reader-shame · 7 months ago

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A Freak and a Basket Case— The “Seven Inches of Satanic Panic” Edition

An Eddie Munson x OC Fanfic

The good lord (me) intended this to be an OC x Eddie fanfic, and by god, that’s what y’all are getting from here on. The original reader insert series will be discontinued for now, unless I really get the urge to go back and revisit it.

For now, just enjoy what I originally wanted. Which was over 3,000 words of self indulgent OC fanfic to help me get past these dark times. Life is too short to worry about being cringy.

Warnings: period typical racism, swearing, mentions of suicide, mentions of abuse (more tags to be added as the story progresses).

Divider by: @strangergraphics-archive

Pairings: Eddie Munson x OC

Word Count: 4,088 words

[Next Chapter] — [Master List]

Chapter One - Don’t Talk to Strangers

“I'm danger, I'm the stranger.

And I, I'm darkness, I'm anger, I'm pain…”

Hawkins, Indiana was going to be hell on earth. Of that, Alejandra Perea was certain.

She didn’t want to move here in the first place. This whole situation was horseshit. Spur of the moment pendejadas from the family matriarch in command of a newly formed triad where there had once been a quartet. Leaving everything behind, even if it meant new and exciting things on the horizon, it wasn’t necessary. The family did not need a fresh start over in a new state.

No, what everyone needed to do was to start looking harder. She could still remember the advice given to her nearly a year ago, as it was the only solid and reliable advice she had received at the time. Expand the search area, but make sure at least one person stays at the home base. Keep the name in the media as much as possible, even if it meant taking out another loan to buy airtime on the radio stations locally. Question everything. Look for abnormalities, and above all: report, report, report!

Doing something was better than doing nothing, and if Alejandra’s family was any kind of concerned, they would be more aware of the rampant corruption and blatant conspiracy afoot throughout this whole situation. She could see the truth laid out in front of her, especially when there was a way to physically connect the dots. Soon she’d need another Big Chief Tablet to jot down her notes, and since the one sad little general store in town didn’t even have what she needed, the lack of consistency and the unfamiliar stationery was already making her panic.

So instead of playing pretend— telling herself that she would bide her time until she could find a way back home— Alejandra decided she was going to do what she did best when she wasn’t listened to: shut out the entire world, and focus her attention inward as her plan formulated.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer…

“Sit up right, huevona! You’re going to mark my seats.”

Reluctantly, Alejandra slid her feet off the tan leather bucket seat, hoping that the battered treads of her Chucks left marks. Instead of facing her mother’s lecture, Alejandra spent the morning commute looking out the window with a scowl. She wanted to be anywhere but here. This podunk midwestern vibe was horrible. Unfamiliar. A hostile environment of mostly blue collar workers that could sniff out even the most light skinned Latina in a crowded room. Like a petulant child, she kept her thick framed glasses smudged with the oil from her cheeks. Just so she wouldn’t have to actually see Hawkins.

Her mother – Carla Perea– obviously noticed the scowl, and she sighed deeply before trying to speak again.

“I know you’re not happy, but this is a new start for us. Try to make the best of it, huh?”

Alejandra kicked at her blue Jansport backpack.

“And why couldn’t we just have moved somewhere else in New Mexico?! Chingao, you didn’t even think about it, you just put your finger on the map and ya!”

“Watch your mouth, Alejandra.” mom snapped, “And stop with that mocho talk! You know it wasn’t just putting a finger and ya. We needed a fresh start, and Hawkins was the best choice we could make. It wasn’t as impulsive as you make it out to be, it’s what’s best for all three of us.”

“And what the hell about dad?!” Alejandra demanded. “Huh?! How the shit are you honoring your marriage vows by just abandoning him like that?! Better or for worse my fucking asshole!”

Her mother's eyes narrowed as she drove. Obviously her daughter’s backtalk had hit a raw nerve. One of Alejandra’s new found talents was shit talking, the same venomous spitting that only cobras in certain parts of Africa and Asia had mastered. It had only been a year and some change since she’d honed the skill, but this kind of irate wit was too well honed for it to be new.

This talent had been latent. As if waiting for the perfect opportunity…

“What’s done is done.” Carla hissed, knuckles going from tawny brown to white grip, tightening her hold on the steering wheel.

“It’s been over a year, it’s time to accept he’s not coming back. Basta!”

“Bullshit…” Alejandra hissed.

And she would have kept going, if not for Carla deciding that morning to wear her leather belt around the waistline of her denim dress. And not just any belt. Oh no… It was the thick one with the sterling silver Gary Reeves buckle.

The thing about Gary Reeves: his silver work conchos with the fine needlepoint lines hurt like a motherfucker. Especially if there weren't any soft turquoise chunks on the front to cushion your ass from a chingazo. Alejandra wasn’t wearing the right kind of clothes for a fight, anyway. Months of trial and error taught her that her Wrangler culottes – along with a paperback copy of Heretics of Dune tucked in the back pocket– were the only acceptable armor if she wanted to talk shit back to her mother.

So instead of pushing her luck, Alejandra quietly resigned herself to her repetition. Unwilling and unmotivated to start a battle, when her mother was armed and willing to pull off into a Hawkins public parking lot to humiliate them both.

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

The Dodge Aspen continued down the unfamiliar streets at a snail’s crawl. Cars boxed them into the single lane going down Cherry Street towards the cluster of schools. Even though the realtor had boasted about the house’s proximity to the finest education in Roane County, the motorists of Hawkins, Indiana managed to turn a ten-minute drive into almost forty-five minutes. Luckily, Carla had anticipated this.

By five thirty that morning, mom was already blasting a mixtape of los classicos, banging on Alejandra’s bedroom door and setting off the barking of the family’s two dogs. Tiffany had almost tripped Alejandra in the bathroom, both dog and girl yelping as Alejandra stumbled and nearly smacked her head on the counter. Scruffy had refused to go outside into the dog run, so everyone stopped what they were doing and aided in chasing him out the back door into the yard with Tiffany at his heels.

And then that darned cat…

Unruly and orange Ripley had puked all over Jaime’s work pants, while he screamed at Alejandra to help him find another pair in his mess of a room. Useless from years of mi hito syndrome, he complained when his sister refused vehemently to take time from blow drying her curls to iron his creases. They’d gotten into a screaming match, until Carla finally conceded to do it for her son to “keep the peace”.

It had been a shitshow of a morning, an omen of things to come.

Carla blasted the horn at a green Gaucho with a white stripe that nearly sideswiped her, the dented vehicle trying to cut in front of their sedan into the lane and nearly taking out a couple of other cars with it.

“Pinches babosos!” Carla growled under her breath.

Alejandra was too pissed off to laugh.

The two women stayed in silence for some time, until at last Alejandra spoke up.

“You couldn’t have picked somewhere with raza at least? Like California?” she muttered, watching the faces of a group of younger teens crossing on bikes at the light.

“I’m light skinned, and I bet I’m the darkest one at school… A la chingada mujer.”

“What does it matter if there’s no raza here?!” Carla demanded, pounding her fist on the tan leather of the middle console, “Get over it. There’s no way we could have managed in California. I’m not going to kill myself working three jobs with your tios in Lynwood!”

“Enserio, mom?! You waited until right at the start of senior year, you didn’t want to wait?” Alejandra whined.

“Wait for what? Wait for you to fail another year in Pojoaque?!” Carla hissed, clearly fed up with her daughter’s bullshit, “I’m not waiting on you to pull your head out from your ass. So shut your mouth, and quit complaining or I will pull this car over. I swear to God.”

Alejandra shut her mouth. She tucked herself into the side of the passenger door with arms crossed, laying her head on the cool glass of the window and curtaining her teary brown eyes with her dark hair.

What could she say back to that?

Her mother was right. A reminder that she was a failure wasn’t necessary. The reminders of lost scholarships and a tanked GPA would follow her the rest of her life. And sometimes, if Alejandra pressed hard enough on the backs of her thighs, she could still feel the sting from the welts she’d gotten for failing senior year back at Pojoaque High School.

This change was stupid. A lot had changed in the past year. Too many things.

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

The reasonably happy, vibrant teenage girl that her mother knew was gone. Instead she was replaced by a bitter, angry young adult at eighteen years of age that had her innocence ripped away too young. Alejandra was now compulsive in her actions. Self-soothing in the oddest ways as old, pre-established habits became worse or new symptoms developed.

Pacing up and down the hallway listening to music on full blast was not anything new, chewing on the cuffs of her clothes or on the floss of her friendship bracelets was. As was the rebellion of dyeing all of her clothes some shade of black or gray. Carla had lost her mind when she saw all of the blouses, skirts, and Gunne Sax dresses had been dyed one weekend. It had taken hours to get the stains out of the washer and out of the bathtub at the old apartment back in New Mexico. Chalk that up to another lesson from the Gary Reeves belt.

And then she started failing all of her classes…

Much like any child, Alejandra had always been a bit of a space case. Living half in her imagination and reading weird books, or bothering her parents with second hand anecdotes of aliens and weird monsters. Like any other student, she wanted to spend her afternoons at play rather than at the family dinner table doing homework. Yet that had all been innocent fun. Science fiction books and fairy movies did not a troubled teen make, but lately that vivid imagination was shrouded in grimdark. She read gory novels of true crime and abductions, of both the supernatural and natural genre, rather than bothering with anything like cracking open a chemistry book or meeting her tutor at the library for help with remedial math.

Obsessive thoughts, spiteful biting comments, obsessions with dark media, lashing out and isolating away from everyone… This was not normal. This was not Alejandra Perea’s normal. To everyone else, it wasn’t like her not to care about things.

But she did care. Just not about the things everyone else thought was important.

She currently cared only about two things: the death of Frank Herbert, and Hector Filemón Perea.

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration…

“Mija, I know this isn’t ideal. But you’re strong. You’re going to do fine. Just please… Please try to make the best of this situation. Do it for me, huh?”

The scenery of green trees scattered among the brick-and-mortar buildings of Hawkins held no interest for Alejandra as she ignored her mother. Normally, she would have been captivated by all the greenery. Save for a few day trips to the Jemez Mountains, Alejandra had spent the majority of her life staring at the same desert scrub brush, sand wastes, clay mountains, and adobe houses. Along the road, there were trees and quaint little homes painted daisy yellow, gray white, or the occasional brick and mortar Georgian style home if the occupants were wealthy.

Not one person had the familiar mud brick walls or coyote fencing made of latillas and bailing wire.

Hawkins had boasted four seasons, farmlands with adorable animals, and that unique charm only available in a majority blue collar midwestern town. New Mexico had maybe three seasons and pissed off raza, but she would have given up four seasons and Midwestern charm for the sand and red clay mountains any day. New Mexico was closer to what was important.

New Mexico was closer to dad…

It only got worse as the car approached the high school. Carla pulled into the drop lane; the car still idle as she stared her daughter down with a hard gaze.

Absolutely no move was made to exit the vehicle despite the impatience of the cars behind them. Alejandra stared at the collective student body of Hawkins High with disdain, downright disgust even. As if she would rather swallow glass than get out of the Dodge. She began chewing on the sleeve of her large jacket, already beads of sweat were forming on her forehead from the balmy morning with high humidity.

“Stop chewing on it, you mensa, you’re going to ruin the sleeve!” Carla barked, swatting her daughter’s hand.

Alejandra moved the cuff away from her mouth but said nothing. Instead, she focused on fishing in the pocket of her oversized jacket for her one escape that didn’t have wheels. She produced a battered Walkman with a scratch and sniff sticker on the back. After opening the tape deck, she rooted through the various jewel cases of cassettes in her Igloo Playmate, yanking out a well loved tape from the depths and popping it in.

She pressed play. The volume was turned up so high that her mother scowled when she heard what was blasting from the orange foam speakers of the headphones.

“Come on mija, you couldn’t pick something happier for your first day?”

“Nope.” Alejandra growled, pushing the Walkman into her jacket pocket, “I’m not picking shit else. I’m going to play this fucking tape so loud, that everyone is going to stay far the fuck away from me. Fuck these people, and fuck you too.”

Despite her mother’s sputtering protests and grabbing hands she unbuckled herself, threw open the car door, slung the backpack over her shoulder, and slammed the car door on the way out as she ran towards the double doors.

Not even a whole minute had passed, and already Alejandra was making enemies out of the preppy crowd of Hawkins High. Stomping her way through throngs of students to the front office, she bumped the shoulders of anyone who got in her way, nearly sending some lanky string bean of a freshman flying into his little group of friends.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, frigid bitch!”

She barely heard him over the music, but she did catch the insult.

Who cares? Kick rocks. Kiss my ass. Fuck yourself with a bent tire iron, you little fucking twerp.

I will face my fear… I will permit it to pass over me and through me…

She hoped the coordination of the day would repel everyone too, not just her shitty attitude. Unlike everyone else who had set up their first day back ensembles with care the night before, Alejandra threw whatever she had on hand on. That morning she came to school in a black cardigan layered over top a gray linen dress, black tights layered with dirty socks, beat up Chuck Taylors that had been everywhere from White Sands to TRC, and her dark brown curls straightened with her trusty Gillette Supermax, sprayed in place with a liberal amount of Aquanet. The piece de resistance was the jacket. Even though it was the end of August, she wore a large Carhartt jacket covered in kitschy buttons and patches. Even in the hottest months of the year, that damn thing never came off.

“What are you wearing that jacket for?” asked the school admin assistant, in lieu of a good morning.

Alejandra shrugged noncommittally as she removed her headphones. She stood awkwardly in the front office, and was about to say some smart ass remark when the admin’s hard stare stopped her sharp tongue short.

“... you’re going to boil alive before lunch…” muttered the admin, fanning her neck with a manilla folder, “Heavens to Betsy, I’m sweating just looking at you!”

“... I’m a new student. May I have my school schedule, please…?” Alejandra grunted.

“Ah.” nodded the admin, pulling open one of the drawers on her filing cabinet, “Name?”

“Alejandra Perea…”

“There’s no one here by that name. I only see an Alexandra Pera here.”

Alejandra winced.

Are you fucking kidding me, bitch? Where on my fucking birth certificate did it ever say fucking “Alexandra”?! And how in the hell is “Perea” too difficult for you to say?!

“Yeah… That’s me.” she admitted, then couldn’t help herself, “Alexandra Perea.”

The admin stared down from her imposing cherry wood desk, eyes laser focused at Alejandra from over the top of her large bifocals. Evidently, she did not appreciate being corrected.

“Young lady…” snapped the admin, tapping her eggplant colored nails against a file folder, “We do not tolerate troublemakers at this school. I suggest you quit playing your little games, and say your name correctly when asked. Is that clear?”

Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you-...

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am…” Alejandra muttered, looking at her shoes as she took the class schedule and locker assignment from the admin.

The headphones went back on as soon as the admin was done talking. That poor Walkman was blasting so loud, everyone else in the hallway was forced to listen in on James Hetfield’s vocals. That fucking bitch of an admin pissed Alejandra off so much, she could not help but lunge at and startle a few innocent girls in pastel color culottes as they passed by. It was her one line of defense; to deter the general populace of Hawkins High, she had decided to be a goddamned menace to anyone who could not give her a detention.

It was unfortunate really, because no matter how hard Alejandra tried to deter everyone away, it took her ten minutes to realize that Hawkins High– home of the Tigers– had fangs that could snap even the most ironclad of wills in half.

She was drastically underprepared for the high schooler’s reception to her take no shit attitude. One big dude in a letterman that she shoulder checked did not hesitate. He checked her right back, right into the tan lockers lining the halls. The resounding crash of her body colliding with metal was loud and embarrassing, causing a few passing members of the pep squad to point and laugh. As they passed they said hateful, evil, ignorant shit, screaming it into Alejandra’s ear while yanking her headphones off. They wanted her to hear everything. One even yelled out a slur.

All the hate caught her off guard, and she almost checked someone else by accident.

“Watch where you’re going, fucking gap tooth bitch!”

A foot flashed out from some wastoid and sent Alejandra toppling. She would have hit the floor and broken her glasses, had not her oversized jacket caught on the door handle to the girl’s bathroom. She hung there for a few seconds, and felt everyone’s eyes on her. Ugly peals of laughter followed. Her face turned crimson.

I will permit my fear… no… I will allow… No! I… I will permit my fear to pass over me and… and through me…?

It was fucking humiliating. She wanted everyone to go away and leave her alone. Yet in her hubris and rebellion, the attempts at being a badass only ended up attracting every kind of attention she did not want.

Pulling herself off the handle, she immediately threw open the door and hid in the girl’s bathroom. Pushing past a girl in a blue gingham sundress and a strawberry blonde side ponytail, she ran for the nearest empty stall to lock herself in. The tears could not wait until she was sure the bathroom was empty. Loud and uncontrolled sobs began to emit from her throat, the noises so awkward she did not hear the whispers of the other girls as they exited the facilities.

Fuck this day. Fuck this town. Her arm was hurting from where she hit the lockers, her pride was wounded, and Alejandra wanted out. If she could just run away now and hitchhike with the first car she saw, she would do it.

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

This was not how the second senior year was supposed to go. Senior year was supposed to be the last hoorah. A happy time to start preparing for reality. For college plans. Not a time to be stuck in a small Midwestern town that felt like a foreign country. And certainly not a time to be dealing with racist, shit attitudes.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration…

Dainty footsteps approached the stall as Alejandra bawled like a baby, a soft knock on the door making her freeze.

“Go away!” she cried, voice small and hoarse from the sobbing.

I will face my fear…

“… Hey it’s… It’s going to be okay…”

A soft, delicate voice answered. Not one familiar tone in that voice, the only hint to the identity of the one speaking was a pair of powder blue pumps at the opening of the bottom of the stall. Alejandra did not know the girl, nor did she want to.

“Go away…” she begged, face burning with embarrassment as she groveled like a prisoner for her freedom.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me…

“Please… Please just go away and leave me alone!”

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see that you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes, cabrona… Quien te tiene?

The blue pumps hesitated, but eventually walked away. Leaving Alejandra to her sobbing.

She sat there on the toilet crying until the late bell rang, and everyone had cleared out of the bathroom to their first period class. With her glasses all smudged up from tears and snot, she took a moment to wipe them off with the hem of her dress, and eventually exited the stall with her tail between her legs.

Stopping at the sink, she began cleaning up. Alejandra took off her glasses and began washing her face with cold water. Blotting with a paper towel, she took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled, before making up her mind.

She would not be going to class today, or ever again for that matter.

Every part of her mind was made up. Now it would only be a matter of time to find an out.

The gears were turning as she put her headphones on, fast forwarding the cassette to her favorite song before sliding the orange headphones over her ears. Maybe she could walk home, steal Jaime’s ranfla to make her escape. No, probably she should walk down the road to the elementary school and steal the Aspen. Mom’s sedan was inconspicuous, and it would blend into the sea of cars on the freeway better than Jaime’s well loved blue 1972 Chevy Monte Carlo.

Besides, the Chevy was out of the question until Jaime got back from work at the Hawkins Water Utility, and she was not going to wait that long for him to come home. The elementary school was a closer walk, and as she walked out of the girls bathroom without checking if the coast was clear, she began to formulate how she was going to break into and hotwire her mom’s car (she knew how to do neither of these things, but she thought a good old college try couldn’t hurt).

As Alejandra power walked to the front entrance double doors, she heard nothing. Saw only the sweet promise of freedom. Walking quickly, unaware of the noise she was making, and drastically underprepared for the biggest shock of her life.

She felt herself being snagged by the backpack straps, her heart dropping into her ass as she was pulled to a chest.

The headphones were yanked from her ears, and a low voice with hot breath began muttering in her ear.

“You’ve got bitchin’ taste in music there, princess.”

Alejandra jumped ten feet, and screamed.

“FUCK ME FREDDY!”

“ Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken. ” - Frank Herbert

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x original character #eddie munson x oc #stranger things original character #stranger things oc #original character #original character fanfiction #A Freak and A Basket Case

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r3-ese · 11 months ago

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tides

pairing : sdv elliott x reader

contains : fem!farmer, slight angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending

word count : 2k

note : elliott got me into stardew but i ditched him for an emo boy, skater boy, and rock eater so i owe this to him 💀 also im too weak to write angst without a happy ending. so. here's this 😁

Elliott stood at the end of the dock, enveloped in the tranquil embrace of the morning. The rhythmic dance of the waves below was a mesmerizing sight, their undulating motion reflecting the golden hues of dawn. The dock itself, worn and weathered by countless seasons, creaked softly underfoot as if whispering ancient secrets of the sea. The air was filled with the tangy, invigorating scent of salt, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly caught fish, a scent that comforted him like an old, familiar friend.

This place, this dock, was his sanctuary. It jutted out from the edge of Pelican Town, extending into the expanse of the ocean like a lone finger reaching out for the horizon. Here, Elliott found solace from the hustle and bustle of the town. The constant chatter of the saloon, the clamor of daily life—everything faded away once he was on this dock. It was his personal retreat, a place where he could immerse himself in thought, free from distractions.

He settled onto a bench that had seen better days, its wooden planks polished smooth by years of exposure to the elements. The bench overlooked the vast expanse of the sea, where the gentle waves sparkled under the early morning sun. Elliott’s gaze was drawn to a figure silhouetted against the light—a newcomer to Pelican Town. The farmer, with her mysterious aura, seemed perfectly at home amid the tranquil setting. Her movements were fluid and graceful as she cast her fishing line into the shimmering water, her presence blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the ocean.

The farmer’s silhouette was framed by the soft light of dawn, her form casting a long shadow that danced with the waves. Elliott couldn’t help but be intrigued. The way she moved—deliberate and serene—contrasted sharply with his own chaotic thoughts. He watched her with a mix of curiosity and admiration, feeling a connection that he couldn’t quite explain.

“Good morning,” Elliott called out, his voice carrying gently over the water. He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving the farmer’s figure.

The farmer turned, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of surprise. Her face was partially hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, but her eyes, a deep and earthy brown, conveyed a quiet strength.

“Morning,” she replied, her voice soft yet clear, like the distant call of a seabird. She returned her focus to the water, her hands deftly working the fishing line.

Unperturbed, Elliott settled deeper into the bench, the wood groaning softly under his weight. He pulled out his weathered notebook, its cover worn and creased from years of use. The pages within were filled with scribbles and sketches that mirrored the world around him—depictions of the sea, the dock, and fleeting glimpses of his own thoughts. Inspired by the natural beauty of the dock and the enigmatic farmer, he began jotting down notes for his latest story, occasionally glancing up to observe her.

“So, do you come here often?” Elliott ventured, hoping to engage her in conversation.

The farmer’s eyes flicked towards him briefly before returning to the water. “Most days,” she said, her tone measured. “The fish are plentiful, and it’s peaceful here.”

Elliott smiled, the corners of his lips lifting in appreciation. “I find it peaceful too. It’s where I do most of my writing.”

She looked up, her gaze meeting his with a spark of interest. “You’re a writer?”

“Yes,” Elliott confirmed, a note of pride in his voice. “I write novels, mostly. Though I haven’t published anything yet.”

The farmer nodded thoughtfully. “What do you write about?”

Elliott shifted back on the bench, the weathered wood creaking beneath him. “Various things—love, adventure, mystery. Lately, I’ve been searching for inspiration for something new.”

Her eyes returned to the water, reflecting the dappled sunlight. “I like science fiction,” she said after a moment. “Stories about distant worlds and possibilities beyond our own.”

Elliott’s interest was piqued. “Science fiction? That’s fascinating. I’ve never explored that genre before.”

“It’s my favorite,” she admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “There’s something thrilling about imagining what could be.”

Their conversation flowed naturally, an unexpected bond forming between them. They discussed books and stories, the farmer sharing her favorite sci-fi novels while Elliott described his writing process. The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the dock. Elliott felt a sense of camaraderie with the farmer, a kindred spirit who understood the allure of a quiet life by the sea.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

As the weeks turned into months, their regular meetings by the dock became a cherished routine for Elliott. Each morning, he would find solace in their conversations and the farmer’s insightful comments. The dock, with its weathered planks and the ever-changing patterns of the sea, had become a backdrop to their growing connection.

One crisp autumn morning, as the air grew cooler and the leaves on the trees surrounding the dock began to turn vibrant shades of orange and red, Elliott had a sudden inspiration, a thought arriving like a wave crashing over the shore.

He looked at the farmer, who was carefully tending to her fishing line. “What if I tried writing a science fiction novel?” he mused aloud.

Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she turned towards him. “That would be incredible. I’d be thrilled to read something like that from you.”

Encouraged by her response, Elliott made a decision. “Then it’s settled. I’ll write a sci-fi novel, and I’ll dedicate it to you.”

She blushed slightly, her cheeks tinged with the soft hue of the sunrise. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to,” Elliott insisted, his voice firm with conviction. “You’ve inspired me so much. It’s the least I can do.”

In the months that followed, Elliott immersed himself in his new project. His cabin, nestled in a secluded part of Pelican Town and surrounded by the lush, dense forest that rolled down to the beach, became a haven for his writing. The interior of the cabin was a reflection of his solitary life—a small space cluttered with stacks of books, scribbled notes, and half-empty mugs of coffee. The walls were lined with bookshelves, their contents spilling over with manuscripts and literary classics. The air was thick with the musty scent of old paper and the faint, tangy aroma of sea salt that had seeped in from the open windows.

Elliott’s desk, positioned by a window with a view of the ocean, was his workspace. It was covered in an assortment of notes, plot outlines, and crumpled drafts. The window, framed by heavy curtains that were often drawn back, offered a glimpse of the sea—once a source of inspiration, now seeming distant and detached. The cabin felt increasingly claustrophobic, its walls closing in on him as he lost himself in his writing. The outside world, including the dock and the farmer, felt like a distant dream.

Despite his growing isolation, Elliott pressed on with his manuscript. Each day, he poured his emotions into his writing, driven by the hope of creating something worthy of the farmer’s spirit. The manuscript became his focus, a labor of love that consumed his every waking moment.

Unbeknownst to Elliott, the farmer had not forgotten him. Each day, she left small tokens of encouragement at his cabin—a carefully wrapped package of his favorite wine, a collection of rare shells from the beach, or a bouquet of hand-picked wildflowers. These gestures were meant to remind him of her support, but they went unnoticed as Elliott remained engrossed in his work.

The beach, where Elliott often walked to clear his mind, became a somber reminder of the farmer’s absence. The once-pleasant strolls felt empty without her presence, and the ocean, with its endless expanse, seemed to mock his sense of isolation. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore, once soothing, now felt like a relentless reminder of the distance that had grown between them.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

One evening, after months of relentless writing, Elliott finally completed his work. The novel, dedicated to the farmer, was held in his hands—a tangible manifestation of his efforts and emotions. Eager to share it with the world, he decided to release it the following day.

That night, seeking solace and clarity, Elliott wandered to the beach. The sky was a deep, velvety blue, dotted with stars that shimmered like distant beacons. The cool night air was refreshing, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea. As he walked along the shoreline, he noticed a chest partially buried in the sand, near his cabin.

Curious, he approached the chest and opened it. Inside, he found a collection of items that held sentimental value: bottles of wine he had mentioned in passing, rare shells he had admired, and flowers he had once expressed a fondness for. On top of the chest lay a note in the farmer’s neat handwriting:

“I know you’re focused on your work, but please take a break now and then. I understand the dedication it takes… just know that I’m here for you. - Farmer ꨄ”

Elliott’s heart ached as he read the note. The realization hit him like a tidal wave—he had been so absorbed in his own world that he had failed to see the farmer’s attempts to stay connected. Guilt and regret surged within him, but so did a renewed sense of hope.

The note was a lifeline, pulling him from the depths of his isolation. He felt immense gratitude for the farmer’s patience and understanding, her gestures a reminder of the bond they shared.

Determined to make amends, Elliott rushed to the farmer’s home, his heart pounding with urgency. The journey to her farmhouse, nestled in the rolling hills and surrounded by blooming crops, was filled with anticipation. When he arrived, he knocked on the door, hoping for a chance to explain.

The door creaked open, revealing the farmer’s surprised face. Her eyes, though weary, held a spark of curiosity. “Elliott? What’s the matter?”

“I finished the book,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I wanted to apologize for shutting you out.”

Her expression softened, and she stepped aside to let him in. The interior of her home was warm and inviting, with wooden beams and a cozy hearth that crackled with a gentle fire. “You didn’t shut me out, Elliott. I knew you were focused on your work. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Elliott felt a wave of gratitude. “I found the chest you left me. Thank you. It means a lot to know you were thinking of me.”

The farmer’s smile was genuine, her eyes reflecting the warmth of the hearth. “I care about you, Elliott.”

Taking a deep breath, Elliott asked, “Would you like to hear the story? I want you to be the first to hear it.”

Her smile widened, and she led him to a comfortable seating area near the fire. As they settled onto a plush couch, Elliott began reading his manuscript. The crackling of the fire provided a soothing backdrop to his words, and the farmer listened intently, her presence a calming influence.

As the night wore on, Elliott read the entire novel to the farmer. The dawn began to break, casting a soft, golden light across the room. When he finished, the farmer’s eyes were shining with admiration. “That was incredible. You captured everything I love about the genre.”

Elliott felt a surge of pride and relief. “I’m glad you liked it. I wrote it for you.”

She took his hand in hers, her touch warm and reassuring. “Thank you, Elliott. It means more to me than you know.”

In that moment, Elliott knew their connection had endured the distance and silence. They had found their way back to each other, their bond strengthened by their shared experiences. As they sat together, hand in hand, Elliott felt a renewed sense of purpose and a deep, abiding love for the farmer who had inspired him. The waves of the sea, the crackling fire, and the warmth of their shared space were a testament to the journey they had undertaken together.

#to be loved by a writer #elliott is a yearner for sure #he sits by the ocean and laments as if farmer isnt RIGHT there #hes so sweet i luv him #stardew valley #sdv #stardew valley x reader #sdv x reader #elliott #stardew valley elliott #sdv elliott #stardew valley fanfic #sdv x farmer #sdv x y/n #stardew valley elliott x reader #sdv elliott x y/n #sdv elliott x farmer #elliott x farmer

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wiselyghost · 3 months ago

Text

"Did you just... take a photo of me? What do you want an autograph with that?"

Kōtarō Bokuto x Yearbook!fem!reader part: 1

Fluff, Fluff, and wait is it?... MORE FLUFF

Click here for part 2!

summary: With only two weeks to perfect the volleyball page for the yearbook, the pressure is on. But when you meet Kōtarō Bokuto, the charismatic outside hitter/wing spiker, things take an unexpected turn. He’s not just aiming for the spotlight—he wants to be the star of the cover. As deadlines loom, will you and Bokuto ace this project… or will sparks fly in more ways than one?

WEEK 1

It was a typical, chaotic Saturday when you found yourself standing in front of the volleyball team, camera in hand, mentally preparing for what would be one of the most demanding weeks of your high school career. The yearbook deadline was closing in fast, and it was your job to capture the essence of the team—their victories, their moments, their spirit. But nothing could prepare you for the whirlwind of energy that was Kōtarō Bokuto.

You had never spoken to him before, but you knew of him. Everyone did. He wasn't just the ace of the volleyball team—he was a walking headline. The kind of guy you could hear before you saw. his voice carrying through the halls with an energy that could liven up even the dullest of school days. Even though he can be a bit much sometimes. some found him exhausting. Others found him hilarious. Ether way, Bokuto was a name that carried weight in your school, and now, he was about to be the center of your project.

Stepping into the gym felt like entering another world. The rhythmic squeak of sneakers against polished floors echoed through the space, blending with the sharp sounds of the ball being passed back and forth. The air was thick with the scent of sweat (which, honestly, wasn't the most pleasant part of the job).

You adjusted your camera strap and approached the team's manager, exchanging a few words before getting to work. Snapping shots of drills, quick plays, and mid-air spikes, you carefully documented every moment, occasionally pausing to jot down notes from the coach. At one point, he mentioned the upcoming away games, offering you a ride on the team bus if you needed it. Since you didn't exactly have a ride lined up, you agreed without hesitation.

Just as you finished scribbling down game dates, something caught your eyes—a flash of movement, powerful and precise. You instinctively lifted your camera, squatting slightly to get the best angle. The moment froze in your frame. A tall figure launched into the air, his form sharp against the gym lights. Messy dark and silver hair and an effortless grin left him as the undeniable focal point.

You exhaled, mesmerized by the image on your screen.

A shadow loomed over you.

"Did you just... take a photo of me?"

Startled, you looked up—straight into the golden eyes of none other than Bokuto himself. He leaned in slightly, a smug grin stretching across his face.

"What?" His grin widened. "You want an autograph with that?"

"Uh, yes and no" you stammered, trying to shake off the initial shock. "I'm, uh doing the photos for the volleyball section in the yearbook. Capturing the team's spirit and all that." You gestured vaguely at the practice happening around you.

Boluto's eyes lit up at the mention of the yearbook. He straightened up, his already impressive height seeming to grow by the second.

"The yearbook, huh?" He grinned even wider, clearly excited. "Well, you know, l'm basically the star of this team, right? l mean, who else would be the front page material? You have to put me on the cover. l'll even give you an exclusive shot!"

You blinked. unsure whether he was joking or completely serious, but from the confident look in his eyes, you had a feeling this was all too real for him.

"Wha—? The cover?" you repeated, still processing. "But the yearbook isn't just about one player, it's about the whole team."

"Yeah, yeah, l get that!" Bokuto waved a hand dismissively, clearly not bothered by the concept of teamwork. "But come on, who wouldn't want a shot of me slamming a spike on the cover? I'm practically made for it! Look at this face!" He pointed to his own grin, which only seemed to grow wider with every word.

You couldn't help but laugh at his over-the-top enthusiasm. "You really want to be the star of the page, huh?"

"Of course! l mean, the whole team is great, but l'm the one who makes things exciting, don't you think?" He puffed out his chest, striking what could only be described as a ridiculous pose. "The ace, the big shot, the one everyone's watching. It's practically destiny."

You bit back a smile. Honestly, it was hard to argue with him. His energy was contagious, and even though he was obviously full of himself, there was something endearing about his excitement.

"Well, l guess l could try to get a few more shots of you, then," you said, still laughing. "But no promises about the cover. It's not just about one person, after all."

"Ah, come on! You know it'll be perfect," he insisted, his tone playful. "How about we take a few exclusive action shots? You won't regret it."

Before you could respond, Bokuto was already getting back into position on the court, waving to his teammates to set up a play just for you. You raised an eyebrow, amused by his complete lack of modesty, but you raised your camera anyway, preparing for the show.

After Bokuto declared himself the inevitable star of the yearbook page, he made it his personal mission to make sure you got "only the best" shots of him. Which, in Bokuto's terms, meant dramatically calling your name across the gym every time he did anything remotely impressive.

"Did you get that one? That was definitely yearbook material!" he yelled after a particularly powerful spike, turning to you mid-play with an expectant grin.

You sighed, lowering your camera slightly. "Bokuto, you can't just pose mid-game! l need natural shots. Not whatever this is" you point to the picture.

He huffed, wiping sweat off his forehead. "but my spikes are natural! l can't help it if l look cool all the time!"

Akaashi, the team's setter, walked past and patted him on the shoulder. "She's got a point, Bokuto. Mabey if you stop staring at the camera, she'll actually get a good shot."

You snorted, nodding in agreement. Bokuto groaned dramatically before jogging back onto the court. Despite his antics, you couldn't deny that Bokuto was incredible to watch he played with so much heart, and even through the camera lens, you could see the raw passion he had for the sport. Every spike, every block, every moment he was on the court it all demanded attention. And somehow, against your better judgment, you found yourself being drawn to it.

Or maybe... drawn to him.

That was a dangerous thought. You were here to finish the volleyball page, not to get distracted by a ridiculously confident volleyball player with a way-too-charming grin. It was probably the pressure getting to your head right?

But as the first week of your project progressed, He made it harder and harder to ignore him.

TUESDAY

The bus was already alive with noise by the time you climbed on, camera bag slung over your shoulder. You had barely stepped into the aisle when you heard your name being called—loudly

"[Y/N]! Over here!"

You turned your head just in time to see Bokuto waving at you from his seat, his grin as wide as ever. Unfortunately, the bus was already pretty packed, and your options were limited.

"You saving this seat for me or something?" you teased, raising an eyebrow as you stopped in front of him.

"Obviously." Bokuto scooted over a bit, patting the open spot beside him. "I figured you'd want the best seat on the bus."

You snorted, but there really wasn't much choice left, so you slid into the seat next to him, adjusting your bag on your lap. The moment you did, he leaned in slightly, smirking.

"You sit next to me, that has to mean something, right?"

You rolled your eyes. "It means there were no other seats left, Bokuto."

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if you had just delivered a fatal wound. "That hurts, [Y/N]! Here l was, thinking we had something special."

You shook your head, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. "Pretty sure I've known you for, like, four days."

"And yet!" He leaned in closer, eyes gleaming. "Here we are, sitting together like fate intended."

You gave him a flat look. "Bokuto."

"Yes, my dear yearbook photographer?"

"You are so dramatic."

"Thank you," he said proudly. "Now, let's get to the important stuff—have you finally decided to put me on the cover yet?"

You sighed, reaching for your camera and flipping through your gallery. "Not if you keep asking."

Bokuto groaned, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he peered over your shoulder as you scrolled. "Ohh, let me see!"

You turned the screen to show him a particularly funny candid shot—you had caught him mid-sentence, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open, like he had just been caught off guard.

“That is not cover material,” you declared.

Bokuto gasped again, grabbing the camera from your hands. "That's a terrible angle! Oh no, my reputation—Akaashi, look at this! l look like l just found out my pet fish died!"

Akaashi, seated across the aisle, barely glanced up from his book. "You always look like that."

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as Bokuto groaned dramatically. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "I'm being slandered in my own team."

"You're the one who asked to see it," you reminded him, taking your camera back. Bokuto huffed and crossed his arms, but his grin returned almost immediately. "Alright, alright. You're playing hard to get. l get it."

You raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“With the cover, obviously,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re making me work for it. It’s fine, I love a challenge.”

You shook your head, amused. “It’s not a challenge, Bokuto.”

“Of course it is! I just have to impress you even more.” He leaned back against the seat, a smug look on his face. “Don’t worry, I got this.”

You let out a sigh. This guy was too much.

The bus rumbled along, and as the noise settled into a mix of conversations, low music from someone’s headphones, and the occasional burst of laughter from the team, you focused on reviewing your notes. Bokuto, for once, had gone quiet.

Which was… odd.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, only to realize that sometime during your note-taking, his head had started to tilt ever so slightly… and now, it was resting heavily against your shoulder.

Your entire body stiffened.

Oh no.

Bokuto Kōtarō—loud, energetic, never-still Bokuto—had fallen asleep.

And not just that. Since he was considerably bigger than you, his head wasn't just lightly resting—it was full-on leaning, his weight pressing into you as he breathed evenly.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his silver-and-black hair was now just inches from your face.

What do l do?!

You could wake him up... but he looked so peaceful, to almost felt wrong to disturb him. His usual dramatic expressions had melted away, replaced by something softer, more relaxed. Your heart beats a little too fast.

Carefully, you adjusted slightly, trying to ease some of the pressure of his weight without waking him. The movement made him stir just a little, his brows furrowing, before he mumbled something incoherent and shifted closer.

Your breath caught.

Akaashi, who had definitely been watching this whole time, finally spoke. "You can push him off, you know."

You turned to glare at him, whispering, "And wake him up? l don't want to deal with a grumpy Bokuto right now!"

Akaashi hummed, flipping a page in his book. "He wouldn't be grumpy. He'd just say something embarrassing and make this even worse for you."

You groaned internally because he was so right.

So instead, you stayed still, letting Bokuto rest against you as the bus continued its journey. You refused to acknowledge the small part of you that didn't really mind.

FRIDAY

By the time Friday rolled around, you were exhausted.

A week of chasing down the volleyball team, attending their practices, editing photos late into the night, and keeping up with your other

yearbook responsibilities was starting to take its toll. You had spent so much time around the team that you were beginning to recognize everyone’s quirks—the way Akaashi barely reacted to Bokuto’s dramatics, how the libero, Komi, always cracked jokes when practice got too intense, and, most noticeably, how Bokuto’s energy never seemed to run out.

Until tonight.

Practice had been long. The team had pushed themselves hard, and it showed in the way most of them dragged themselves off the court once the whistle blew. You, however, stayed behind, sitting cross-legged on the bleachers as you scrolled through your camera.

You were so focused on reviewing your shots that you didn’t even hear footsteps approaching until a shadow fell over you.

“You’re still here?”

You glanced up.

Bokuto stood in front of you, sweat still clinging to his skin, jersey slightly untucked, and hair messier than usual. His usual dramatic energy was toned down, replaced by something quieter, something… thoughtful.

You blinked. “Yeah. Just making sure I got good shots before heading home.”

Without a word, Bokuto plopped down next to you on the bleachers, leaning slightly toward you to peek at the camera. His shoulder brushed yours, warm even through the fabric of his jersey.

“You take a lot of pictures,” he murmured, watching as you flipped through the gallery.

“Well, yeah,” you said, suddenly aware of how close he was. “That’s kind of the whole point of the yearbook.”

Bokuto hummed but didn’t pull away. Instead, his golden eyes flickered toward you, his expression unusually soft. “Do you like it?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “What, photography?”

“Yeah.” His voice was quieter now, lacking its usual booming energy. “Taking pictures of moments like this.”

You swallowed. “I do. It’s… nice, capturing things people might not notice otherwise.”

Bokuto didn’t respond right away. He turned his gaze back to the camera screen, watching as you scrolled through more photos. One caught his eye—a shot of him mid-spike, muscles tensed, determination sharp in his expression.

“Whoa,” he breathed. “That looks so cool.”

You smiled. “Yeah. It does.”

He turned back to you, his grin returning. “Admit it. I should be on the cover.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re so obsessed with that.”

“Well, obviously!” Bokuto leaned in slightly, and for a second, you thought he was about to say something else—something different. His eyes flickered to your face, his grin softening just a fraction.

Your breath caught.

And then—

“HEY, BOKUTO! YOU COMING OR WHAT?”

The spell was broken.

Bokuto blinked, his head snapping toward the gym doors where some of his teammates were waiting. “Oh! Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!”

He turned back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I gotta go.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the weird little twist in your stomach at the loss of his attention. “Right. See you Monday.”

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then, with a small smile, he nudged your knee with his.

“See ya, [Y/N].”

And with that, he jogged off, leaving you staring after him—unsure why your heart was beating just a little too fast.

This belongs to @wiselyghost. Please don't copy or translate my work. Thank you! Part 2 is coming sorry for the wait :/

#bokuto koutarou #bokuto x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu bokuto

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