#poster and reference don't count

[antisquare]

Every tadc au creator should commission me for drawing their Pomni for the sake of pomniverse balance

[fairmerthefarmer]

I don’t know how I never played any of the Nancy Drew games as a kid, I love point and click and I love Nancy drew and I would have been all over them!! My sister and I are playing through them together now and it is just an absolute joy. (She is however much better at puzzles than me so idk maybe they would have frustrated me as a kid)

Also it’s giving me some inspo to ~actually~ practice drawing and backgrounds etc. so anyway here’s treasure in the royal tower WIPS. I really want to do some actual illustrations from these games.

Also Evelyn/gabsmolders streams are just prime content for background comfort noise when pain flares or fatigue keep me in bed.

[redeemingvillains]

veritaserum - mattheo riddle

summary: when mattheo drinks veritaserum on a bet, he's confident he doesn't have anything to hide... until you show up.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: gosh i love this messy boy. just a little something sweet + fun!

"I don't know... shouldn't we save it for something... important?"

"Like, what Blaise?" Malfoy responded, exasperated.

"Yeah, got any plans you want to share?" Theo asked.

"All ears, bud" Mattheo joined in.

Blaise threw his hands up. "Fine, fuck it, do what you want with it" he said, resigned, referring to the small vial in Malfoy's hand that had the group's rapt attention as they huddled in the corner of their dormitory like they were first years at a sleepover.

"We should put it in somebody's goblet at dinner."

"We should slip it into Dumbledore's cup, Merlin knows what the geezer would say."

Theo got a wicked look on his face, "I'll give any of you lot 100 galleons to drink it."

Eyes widened around their circle at that.

"You're joking."

"Piss off."

"No, listen to me, we think we know everything about each other, don't we?" Theo continued, letting the sentiment linger "Which means the things we don't know are deep."

He grabbed the vial from Malfoy and dangled it in front of them; Veritaserum, the most powerful truth serum in the wizarding world, even having it in their possession was breaking about 15 Ministry laws.

Members of the group stared shiftily at one another, but Theo found Mattheo's gaze staring boldly at him as he leaned casually against his four-poster, a smirk on his face.

"Make it 200 and you've got yourself a deal" Mattheo grinned.

Snickers of laughter took the group as they punched one another in amusement and excitement.

"Bottoms up" Theo said, tossing the vial at him.

"I've got nothing to hide" Mattheo replied with an air of emblazoned confidence as he deftly popped the cork and threw the liquid back like a shot of firewhiskey before anyone could stop him.

It didn't taste like anything other than water, and for a moment Mattheo thought this was the easiest 200 galleons he'd ever make, but then he felt a sort of bubbling in his chest, like every feeling, every sentence he'd ever held back wanted to burst forth.

"...Well?" asked Malfoy, cautiously, leaning in, "How do you feel?"

"Bloody weird" Mattheo said, looking down at the empty vial in his hand. "And apprehensive, like I definitely don't want you to ask me things." His eyes widened at the words that had come so truthfully and vulnerably out of his mouth before he could stop them, suddenly realizing that he'd made a horrible mistake.

Theo was howling with laughter, leaning in and rubbing his hands together as he got ready to obliterate his best friend for being so cocky; he was going to make every galleon worth it.

"Did you take Blaise's Chudley Cannons scarf last term?" he asked.

"Yup, sold it to a fifth year for a bag of weed— SHIT" Mattheo said quickly, eyes wide before slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Mate, what the fuck?—" Blaise started, but Theo was on a tear.

"—Did you cheat off of Lorenzo's potions exam this week?"

"Of course" Mattheo admitted, the words blasting by his hand, "I've been doing it since fourth year, his handwritings the size of my fist, thanks for that by the way" he said, looking at Enzo.

"Prego, amico" Lorenzo said smiling and shrugging, "happy to help."

"Alright then" Blaise said, the anger and frustration clear in his voice as he eyed Mattheo, "better own up, didn't you slip McLaggen a galleon to let Theo score on him last match?"

"Yeah, fuck, and I'm not sorry about it. I'm tired of hearing Theo piss and complain about losing when he barely shows up to practice and lets the rest of us down."

"OOHHH!" shouted several of the guys.

"Fucking harsh mate!!"

"What the fuck?!?" Theo shouted angrily as he lunged for Mattheo and the others tried to hold him back.

Amidst the shouting and commotion, they didn't hear you knock on the door.

"Guys?" you asked, raising your voice to be heard.

Five heads turned your way as they stopped mid-brawl and began to stand up and right themselves, adjusting their ties and smoothing their robes. For his part, Mattheo's heart nearly shot out of his chest. No, no no no not right now he thought as you pushed your way into their room. On any other occasion he'd be thrilled to see you, but now the bubbling in his chest was reaching its peak at the sight of his deepest, most tightly held secret: you, and every single thing he felt about you.

He took in your amused smile, the light laughter on your lips, the way it made your eyes sparkle and he felt his palms tingle with sweat as he grasped them into fists and swallowed deeply, like he could ingest his own thoughts. You were his best friend, had been since the moment he met you on his first train ride to Hogwarts and he had no illusions about ruining your friendship by trying for anything else; girls like you didn't end up with guys like him.

"Are you alright?" you asked, looking at him strangely before his friends chimed in for him.

"S'fine!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

"Never better!"

"What do you need, love?"

"I am NOT fine!" Mattheo said boldly and rather loudly before he could stop himself and your eyes shot to him with concern.

"Wait, what's wrong Matty?" you asked, using the nickname he only tolerated coming from you.

He pursed his lips tightly and shook his head, averting his eyes to the floor, physically warring with the words that were flooding his subconscious.

What's wrong? A lot of things are wrong, YN. For starters, I love you. I love you so much it physically pains me to spend as much time as we do together and not to grab your hand, to pull you onto my lap, to nuzzle into your neck, to kiss you; I have a list of things I want to do to you every time I see you. Especially in that godsdamn skirt you're wearing. It's my favorite. You should know that. And I wish you would stop wearing it, you have no idea the ways guys look at you. I wish you'd wear it only for me. I wish you'd want me the way I want you, because I want you so badly. I wish you were mine, but I'm scared, no, fucking terrified of the way I feel about you because love is vulnerability and vulnerability is weakness and I can't tell you any of this so please, please don't ask me anything and please, please stop looking at me like that.

"Matty?" you asked again, now thoroughly concerned as your best friend slammed his hands over his ears as you walked towards him.

Theo was burning hot with anger, stewing over what Mattheo had said about him, he wanted to take him down a notch, to embarrass him in return. "Admit it" he interrupted, staring at Mattheo "you have a thing for Pansy and you've tried to make a move on her even though she's with Draco."

You stopped short of approaching Mattheo and stared at Theo.

"What?" you whispered, feeling physically ill, jealous and hurt even though you had no such right.

Mattheo straightened up and glared at Theo.

"What the fuck did you just say?!" Draco said, brushing past you as he came for Mattheo.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Theo pushed further, so smug, so certain he was right.

"No you fucking prat" Mattheo spat at him.

Draco grabbed Mattheo by the front of his robes. "You swear it, you haven't made a move on her?"

"I swear it."

"Not even before we were dating?" Malfoy pressed.

"Not even before you were dating" Mattheo confirmed.

"What the fuck is going on?" you said, exasperated, almost to yourself as you tried to calm down.

"Veritaserum" Blaise said by way of explanation as he leaned in to be heard over the continued shouting of your friends. "Theo bet one of us to drink it and, well..." he said, gesturing his hand by way of explanation at the calamity in front of you.

Malfoy was shouting questions at Mattheo who looked genuinely surprised if not annoyed, and Enzo was looking back and forth at them like it was a tennis match. Theo had a deeply skeptical look on his face as he listened on, "No, you're always weird around Pansy and YN though, I thought..." then, like a lightbulb went off, Theo looked at you, to Mattheo and back again.

"Do you think Pansy's hot?" Malfoy continued.

"Bro, give it up" Blaise said finally, stepping to pull him back, "I think you're in the clear."

"I mean yeah she's hot, but she's not my type. FUCK!" Mattheo replied, rubbing a hand over his face at the admission.

"She's not, but YN is" Theo said finally.

Mattheo bit his bottom lip and stared at the floor, concentrating very hard on the tassels of the rug beneath his feet as he shook his head, a grimace on his face.

Your heart trilled in your chest, which was literally rising and falling in both panic and excitement. Mattheo was shaking his head no, but his whole body was fighting something, there was something he didn't want to say... about you.

"So, she's not your type? Not attractive to you at all?" Theo pushed.

Mattheo's face was turning a dark shade of red as pursed his lips closed and shook his head vehemently, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, his own nearly watering with the exertion of fighting the potion within him.

"Totally platonic? Didn't give a shit when Seamus Finnegan asked her out last term?"

Mattheo glanced at Theo, gathering himself, as he tried desperately to say the only truth he wanted to share. "He's a prick, no secret I didn't think it was a good idea—"

"—You never told me that" you said quietly, confused, and not a little bit angry. "But you avoided me for a few weeks after, I remember..." you said, trailing off as you stepped closer to him, and Mattheo's looked genuinely afraid, outstretching his hands to stop you from coming any closer.

"What don't you want to say?—"

"—I don't want you here right now!" he said loudly.

You physically reared back at the harshness of his words. You caught his eye, trying to communicate the way you often did with one another, to ask things that could only be said without words, but you got nothing in response.

"R-Right" you said, your voice wobbling as you turned to leave, thoroughly embarassed.

And the sound of it nearly broke Mattheo's heart.

"Wait, wait, I didn't meant it like that, I don't want you to be upset, please don't be upset" he said, moving to reach for your hand urgently, the unmasked care and compassion in his voice making you turn and making Draco and Blaise bat at each other's arms in excitement like school girls at the scene unfolding in front of them.

"I don't want you to hear my truth" Mattheo said quietly, and just like that it was just the two of you, you who knew more than any of these idiots, you knew about Blaise's scarf (you had told him not to sell it), about him cheating in potions and paying off McLaggen, but even you didn't know his most deeply held secret and this isn't how he wanted it to come out.

"Please" he begged, in way none of his friends had ever heard him speak before.

"I just... I thought I knew all of your truths?" you said vulnerably, your chin wobbling, saddened at the idea that there was a part of him you didn't know.

"You don't. I'm sorry" he said simply.

"But they get to hear them?" you said, gesturing towards your friends.

"No, they don't know them either."

"What would be so bad that you wouldn't want anyone in your life to know, Matty?"

He bit his tongue as he tilted his head. "It isn't bad. I didn't say it was bad" he said.

You could tell he was playing with you, selectively choosing his words. Your curiosity piqued as you turned to face him fully with your arms crossed.

"What don't you want us to know?" you asked.

"How I — FUCK — feel — mmhmm" he tried to physically shove the words back into his mouth, clapping his hands over his mouth again as his body betrayed him.

Theo stepped forward, trying to pry his hands back. "Say it!" he said.

Mattheo tried to wiggle out of his grasp, the two of them thrashing back and forth.

"C'mon mate, time to earn those galleons! Cough it up! How you feel about what?" and Theo yanked Mattheo's hands away from his mouth just long enough for Mattheo to all but shout:

"HER!" he said, loudly, pointing to you. "About YN. I — FUCK — fucking love her."

You could have heard an owl feather hit the floor.

"Oh shit" Malfoy whispered.

Theo took a step back as he realized the enormity of what he'd just done. He'd thought Mattheo had a little crush on you, I mean, didn't they all? He thought it was just a bit of fun. But love? He'd know Mattheo for 7 years and he never so much as heard him say the word, let alone direct it at another person, in fact he knew just how much the concept had been beaten out of him as a child.

"Mate, I'm—" he started.

Mattheo glared at him in way that reminded you for a moment about the family he came from, and it was the first time you'd ever seen Theo genuinely afraid as the smile dropped from his lips and he took an unconscious step back.

"Fuck you" Mattheo said, stepping towards him, the measured control in his voice somehow more frightening than the alternative. "You always take shit too far, you know that? That's why—"

"—Matty?" you said, your quiet whisper and the questions that lingered behind it tugging at his heart and pulling his attention back to you.

He met your eyes and the fury he felt at Theo dissolved in an instant, like it had apparated from the room, because the way you were looking at him was an expression he'd only seen in his dreams. You didn't look angry or confused, you weren't laughing or embarrassed, the sparkle in your eye was back and a soft smile rested on your lips, your eyes were blown wide, hopeful even, with a hint of something else underneath that had a sensation like melted honey spreading throughout his entire body.

"Can we maybe talk... outside...?" you asked.

"Yes, for the love of the gods" he said, walking quickly to your side, letting his hand rest gently at your back, the intimate gesture not lost on anybody as your friends wolf-whistled and snickered and he flipped them the finger over his head.

Now that the truth was out, there was nothing stopping the words that flew out of Mattheo's mouth as you led him to a nearby secluded corridor.

"I really want to talk to you about this" he said, the moment you were outside of the dormitory, "I am so embarrassed that it came out that way, that's not at all how I wanted to tell you, well, I didn't want to tell you at all, I was terrified actually. I've liked you for a long time, really since the first day we met, do you remember? On the train? You were wearing that blue jumper, you smelled like cinnamon and vanilla... You always smell so fucking good—"

You laughed as you pulled him with greater urgency by the hand away from prying eyes as he continued to ramble on, the truth serum creating a veritable waterfall of words out of his mouth.

"—You're so fucking beautiful, I love your hair, your eyes, your smile, your nose... that sounds weird, but it's true, it's so fucking cute—"

"—Mattheo" you said, as you stopped, placing your hands on his chest and pressing him gently against the stone wall to get him to slow down. "Breathe."

He shook his head.

"No, it's out now, and I don't know how long this shit lasts and if I don't say this stuff now, I'm not sure I'll ever have the balls to say it to your face, I've held onto this for 7 years YN."

Your lips curled into a small pout at how sweet he was being, at the idea that your best friend had been pining for you since you were 11 years old.

"I love you" he continued breathlessly, "and not like a little bit. Like, a lot. I don't know..." he said, carding his hand through his brown curls, "I've never felt this way about anyone, anything. I'm all consumed with you. You're the only thing I think about, the only girl I want, I'd do anything for you. And I'm sorry if this is going to totally wreck our friendship, if you want things to stay the way they are, I will try my level best—"

But his words were cut short as you pressed your lips to his, capturing his truth, letting it wash over you, every word you had been desperate to hear, every thought you'd shared the same. It surprised him for only a second before his hands grasped your face and he pulled you further into him.

"You're fucking perfect" he whispered after a moment, his eyes dancing over your features.

"Remind me again why I didn't give you veritaserum like years ago?" you said, smiling against his lips.

"It's a felony?" he said, laughing.

"...Right" you said, laughing back.

You were only gone a few minutes, but as you scurried back to the dormitory you tried to fix your hair, and wipe the lipgloss off of Mattheo's face as he smiled down at you with puppy dog eyes.

"They're going to lose their mind" you said quietly just outside the door, "let's just play it cool, alright?"

And before he could respond that there was no way on earth he could possibly do that, you pushed the door open and all conversation stopped.

"...Alright?" Theo asked, turning to face you both, nervous at the potential mess he may have caused.

"Fine, we were just talking—"

"—She macked me!!" Mattheo shouted truthfully with a huge grin on his face as he wrapped his arm around you.

You gasped and swatted at him playfully, your cheeks blushing a rosy pink as your friends erupted into cheers, hoot and hollers, descending on you both as Mattheo looked down at you, glowing, happier than you could ever remember seeing him.

taglist: @girllblogging777, @iamdnb, @bookworm124, @zatannasrealgf, @r-a-c-h-e-l

[peanutalergy]

would you write something where Spencer finds reader's lost cat and brings it back to her then they keep in touch + they both develop a little crush on each other?

your writing is wonderful!! <3

-🪲

tags: fluff fluff fluff but there's making out (?) idk if that counts as anything; also lots of cursing lowkey; reader is lowk penelope garcia coded

w/c: 1.8k

a/n: tysm for the req that's an adorable idea unfortunately not such great execution from my part also I wrote this in like an hour I'm so exhausted I should go to sleep but whatever I also don't know if this what you meant anon I'm sorry if it's not 😭 yeah I hate this sorry idk what to say it sucks

MISSING CAT

orange, green eyed, really chubby cat, last seen at ~3:30pm on november 9th. he will answer to garfield or little fucker; most likely the latter, despite that not being his name. he's very clingy, he’ll probably come up to you and start rubbing on your leg like the little freak he is but he's actually just a baby who needs his mom (me) so please call this number if you find him.

reward: $10 and a kiss maybe if you’re nice enough

spencer chuckled when he reached the end of the text and saw the adorable picture of a ginger fat cat. he read over the number on the poster, making sure to keep it stored in a folder at the back of his head along with the image of garfield as he returned to his walk.

not even an hour later, when walking past a not-so-nice smelling trash can, he heard some loud purring coming from one of the boxes surrounding it.

if it were any other day, he would have ignored it, guessing it's just another stray cat, but he was still thinking about garfield and his seemingly interesting owner.

“garfield…?” spencer called out from afar. silence. he took a few steps closer, trying to peek over the box while keeping his distance so as to avoid getting jumped at and attacked. “little… fucker…?” he choked over the nickname.

immediately, the animal that had been in his mind since seeing his picture jumped out of the box, purring louder as he started rubbing on spencer’s legs. he chuckled despite being scared.

garfield wasn't nearly as well kept then as he was in the picture, due to the days he had been on the streets. still chubby, but dirty and with a few patches of dried blood in his fur. spencer tried to move away, seeing his pants getting smudged, but the cat just started following him.

spencer pulled out his phone and started dialing the number seen on the poster, still trying to avoid the animal. after a few rings, you picked up.

“hello?...”

“hi, is this garfield’s, uh… owner?”

“yeah, why? have you found him...?”

“i think i did, yeah.”

“oh my god, wait, actually? is he okay? are you serious?” you mumbled excitedly, sitting up from the position you were comfortably lying in, the show on your tv already forgotten.

“i am serious, yeah. i'm just out on a walk, and, uh… he was in a box near a trash can. he's all dirty and bloody, but he seems okay.”

“my poor baby” you said with a pout “where are you? wait– who are you? who do i owe my son’s life to? my savior, my hero?”

“oh, i’m just… just spencer, really.” he said with an awkward chuckle, giving in and leaning down to caress the cat, who immediately leans into his hands as if he's never been pet before, “spencer reid.”

“mm, cool. anyway, where are you? i’m going to pick him up. tell him mommy’s coming. actually maybe don't. don't refer to me as mommy, please.”

“uh, well, i wouldn't mind dropping him off at your place, if you want.”

“i thought you were on a walk? you're gonna walk all the way to my apartment with that fucker in your arms?”

“yeah, so… yeah, actually. does he… is he fine with being carried?”

“oh, totally, he loves uppies, but it's–”

“sorry, what? uppies??” he cut you off, confusion and disbelief clear in his voice.

“yeah…? uppies… like… when you carry an animal? in your arms?...” a bleach and tone, like???

“oh, okay…”

“yeah, so, he loves uppies. but it's just inconvenient, no? carrying him like that? where even are you, dude? is it not far?”

after you tell him your address, spencer decided it's close enough to walk there with an overweight cat in his arms. however, when he took forty minutes to show up at your door, panting and sweaty, you realized that probably wasn't a good idea.

“jesus, man, you could've just said you can't walk that long with this fucker.” you said as you opened the door, letting him in and taking the cat in your arms, talking to him in that tiny, baby voice. “oh my god, my baby, thank you so much. you poor thing. where were you, sweetheart? i missed you so so so much…”

spencer stood awkwardly in the doorway, wiping away the dirt that the animal left in his shirt, as you kept mumbling to him.

it must have been around another half hour before you set him down on the ground again, but when you did so, you looked at spencer and gasped, “oh, where are my manners? i'm so sorry, i forgot you were there. come in, jesus, come on in.”

he walked in, and after offering him a glass of water, you led him to sit on the couch. settling awkwardly beside you, he said “so, uh… is he alright? hurt..?”

“no, he's okay. i mean, as far as i can tell. not a vet, or anything. i don't think the blood is his… although that doesn't make it any less worrying. i'll give his vet a call. maybe stop by the clinic. yeah, i should probably stop by the clinic, shouldn't i?”

“yeah, probably. does he have all his vaccines?”

“of course.”

“still, there's a chance he would have caught a disease or eaten something that could have been infected. it's always good to make sure.”

“yeah, i know. i’ll give them a call, see if they can see us today.” you said, to which spencer replied with a nod, the two of you falling silent for a moment. “oh, right, the reward.”

you stood up and walked to the table, taking your wallet and a $10 bill from it. “there's no need, really… it's okay. don't worry about it” he argued, shaking his head when you offered him the money.

“no, oh my god, no, this is the least i can do. you walked so far, with that little heavy fucker. please, just take this. actually, you deserve more. i can barely handle to hold him for more than a few minutes, i'm not sure how you–” you look him up and down “–managed to walk with him for so long. just take the money.” you mumble, taking another bill from your wallet and handing it to him.

"no, no, really, it's fine, i swear."

"no, stop it. you're not leaving until you take this money."

he took it with a scoff, seeing how you won't take no for an answer.

“i should give you the other part of the reward, too.” you said with a chuckle as you sat back down beside him.

“what, the kiss?” he stammered, shaking his head as his face goes red and his eyes widened slightly.

“yeah, you want it?” he started stuttering when you said that, so before he got a proper word out, you added “nah, man, i'm just joking. i put that there to be funny, i'd never kiss a stranger like that.”

“oh, yeah, that… that makes sense.” he laughed shyly, nodding.

the cat showed up again, and you went back to talking about him, until spencer decided it's time to go home, which was only around a few hours later.

now, you're not sure when that turned into what it is now, but you're glad it did.

maybe it was the day after that, when you took garfield to the groomers, and sent spencer a picture of him when he got home, wearing the cute tie they always give him.

maybe it was when you started sending every picture you took of garfield to spencer.

or maybe it was when you started talking about things unrelated to the animal.

you're not sure. but now, spencer reid is at your place again, wearing a colorful hat and singing happy birthday to your cat.

of course, he's the only other person at the party. he's the only friend you were certain would show up. and that he did, after rambling about how the cat didn’t even know it was his birthday.

“woo hoo!! happy birthday, baby!” you exclaim when the song is over, taking the cat in your arms and giving him kisses.

“yay, happy birthday, garfield!” he says with a chuckle, petting him.

as soon as he starts getting fussy, though, you put him back down on the ground with a giggle, “yeah, yeah, off you go.”

“i did tell you he doesn't know the date he was born in.”

“well, yeah, but at least he's getting plenty of treats.” you shrug as you throw yourself on the sofa along with spencer, taking off the birthday hats and tossing them to the side. “he knows he's loved.”

“i'm sure he does” he mumbles, smiling at you softly.

“thanks, by the way” you mutter after a beat, turning to him and giving him a nod.

“for what?”

“finding him.”

“that was ages ago, you've thanked me 63 times since then.” he says with a laugh.

“it's not enough, though. he's a stupid little cat, i doubt he would have survived more time out there. you saved his life, probably.”

he nods, staying quiet for another moment.

“y'know, there is one way you could thank me.”

“yeah…?” you already know what he's talking about, he already knows that you already know. the blush in his cheeks that showed up as he said that, his fidgety fingers, the way he started avoiding your gaze.

“the, uhm… the other part of the reward…”

you'd tease him, make him actually say it, if it weren't for how anxious he looks. it physically hurts, how awkward he is.

so instead, you move your hands to his shoulders as you lean in to press your lips to his. for a second, you're scared this isn't what he was talking about. you're wondering if you've just screwed up a friendship, until he moves a shy hand up to your face.

he feels scared, at first. he holds your jaw, fingers gently tangling in your hair as he hesitantly kisses you. but when a moment goes by like that, and you move to sit on his lap, straddling his hips, it's like something within him changes.

he starts kissing you like you're the first and last thing he'll ever touch, his hands roaming down your body as he slides his tongue into your mouth. he bites and sucks at your bottom lip while his arms wrap around your waist, and your own arms go around his neck.

but a man can't live only off of his beloved’s lips. unfortunately, humans do need oxygen. so when he needs to pull away to breathe, he does so with a groan.

panting, you stare at each other with a smile, and pressing one quick peck to his lips, you whisper, “thank you.”

"no, thank you.”

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Loving You Was Never Hard

Part 4

Wandanat x fem!reader

Summary: You finally get to meet their friends and find out it's okay to be vulnerable

Word Count: 1.9K

Warnings: Mentions of past emotional abuse and neglectful relationships, Brief descriptions of trauma responses (e.g., self-doubt, emotional flashbacks), Light teasing (supportive context), Discussions of found family and emotional vulnerability, Soft caregiver dynamics beginning to develop (Mama/Daddy references, comfort scenes), Mild emotional hurt/comfort, Sleepy little space behavior

Authors note: This just felt so therapeutic to write so I hope you all enjoy it

You had finally felt like you were settled in. Wanda had helped you unpack most of your things though you kept a box under your bed that you didn't let Wanda touch. The room–though still very much theirs–now had a bit of your own flair to it. Some posters, decor, your throw blanket, pillows. Some of your things even started to spill out of the room and into the living room and kitchen. 

A few of your clothes even end up in their bedroom for no other reason than Wanda picking up laundry when she saw it. She'd fold them neatly and hang the shirts up. 

You were finally feeling comfortable and a part of the house as you helped Wanda do little things around the house. Usually during the days when she'd work from home you'd check in with her and make her lunch, bringing her drinks and doing chores. It made you feel useful and unlike your ex, Wanda always appreciated it. Giving you a smile and a thank you. Even if she could only mouth it. Sometimes she'd grab your hand, giving a gentle kiss before her hand would find the small of your back to gently push you out. 

It brought you joy to be useful and that's why Wanda and Natasha let you do it. They saw the pure joy on your face as you cooked dinner one night while they had both had to go in for meetings. Both walking through the door to your music playing, your voice carrying through the house as you happily chopped up veggies and skewered meat. The two women looked at each other and then at you before you noticed them. They both just took you in a moment before Natasha spoke up, “Dinner is gonna be amazing tonight. I can already tell.” It startled you and you blushed a bit, looking down at the kabobs in front of you. You felt a hand on your head before you were gently pulled to Natasha's chest. Her lips kissing the top of your head. “I mean that baby.” Her words of encouragement made you feel something you hadn't in a long time. 

Your ex never appreciated the food you cooked. Never complimented it. Never second guessed it. To her it was expected and if that expectation wasn't met you were yelled at and cussed out and made to sleep on the couch as you begged for forgiveness. 

You finally felt appreciated. It was over dinner that night the two of them explained their weekly get together with their friends. The first thing you said to them caught them off guard. 

“I can leave for the evening if you want or just stay in my room so I don't bother your evening.” You say to them without a second thought. When your ex had people over she'd rather you not be seen or heard. Didn't want her friends knowing her girlfriend didn't have a job. 

“Oh malyshka no we want to have you with us and introduce you to our friends.” Wanda speaks in that soft, loving tone that sends a wave through you. 

“We want them to get to know you and have fun with you there baby.” Natasha joins in, making you blush, looking down at your food. 

“W-why would you want that? I'm just like a stray you took in.” You mumble, poking at your food. 

“Malyshka.” Wanda says in a tone that makes you look at her without hesitation. “You aren't a stray. We care about you. You've been here for almost two weeks. You're a part of this household. You help cook and clean and you do your fair share while Tasha and I work. You are so helpful and we appreciate having you here with us. Truly we love having you here and as bad or weird as it might sound we're glad your ex kicked you out and my brother sent you our way. I think fate did that for a reason.” Wanda's words left you speechless and you didn't realize the tears pricking your eyes until they slipped down your face. 

Natasha’s hand found your cheek with a light brush of her thumb and a soft smile as you met her gaze. “We aren’t going anywhere. We aren’t having you go anywhere. You’re a part of this home.” She reassured you. More tears falling from your face. 

“I don’t deserve you two…” Your voice cracked along with Wanda’s heart.

“You deserve the world sweet girl.” Wanda’s voice was softer as she reached across the table. Her hand finding yours then Natasha’s hand finding Wanda’s as the three of you connected. You had never felt like you belonged somewhere this much before. 

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

You changed into something a little nicer after dinner—nothing fancy, just a cozy oversized sweater and leggings—but Wanda had smiled at you approvingly anyway when you walked out of your room. It was strange, how that small smile eased the nerves curling in your stomach. You weren’t used to meeting new people like this. Not people who were important to the people who’d taken you in. Not people who might judge you if you were too quiet, or too weird, or too... you.

The doorbell rang around seven. Your hands froze mid-fold over a dish towel, and you glanced over your shoulder at Wanda, who was already walking toward the front door with a serene expression. Natasha gave you a little nudge from where she leaned against the counter.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart. They’re gonna love you.”

You tried to believe her.

And then the house filled with voices and laughter.

Maria was the first one in—sharp suit, easy smile. Then came Carol, loud and warm, Monica right beside her with a plate of cupcakes. Pepper arrived next, already talking about some deal she’d closed that morning, and finally Kate and Yelena wandered in together, mid-bicker about some board game they’d played the night before.

You hovered just off to the side, eyes wide, hands clasped nervously in front of you.

Wanda noticed first. Of course she did.

“Come here, baby,” she said softly, reaching for you with one hand. And you went. You didn’t even think about it. You just moved to her side, letting her arm loop around your waist, her hand resting on your back in that grounding way that had become so familiar.

You heard Pepper’s voice, amused. “Ooh, total Mama’s girl, huh?”

Your face burned as the others chuckled. You tried to pull away slightly, but Wanda held you close, rubbing her thumb gently against your side.

“There’s nothing wrong with listening when someone asks nicely,” Wanda said lightly, with just enough of a faux warning tone to make Pepper smirk and throw her hands up in mock surrender.

Natasha joined the circle then, nodding toward you. “Everyone, this is our girl. Be nice, or I’ll kick you out before movie night starts.”

“Hi,” you said, quiet, but sincere.

“Hi!” Monica gave you a warm grin. “Wanda and Natasha have said so many good things about you.”

“Only the good ones,” Carol added, winking.

Kate squinted at you, playful. “Wait—are you the one who made those kabobs they were raving about in the group chat?”

You blinked. “Um… I guess so?”

“They were talking about those for days,” Yelena said, nodding seriously. “We’ve been dying for an invite ever since.”

You felt your cheeks heat again, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

“Why don’t you help me get drinks ready?” Wanda asked, as though sensing the moment your nerves started to rise again. You nodded quickly, escaping to the kitchen with her.

As you moved around to get cups and help pour wine and sodas, you felt that warm familiar comfort creep back in. Wanda worked beside you like you’d done it a hundred times before. She passed you things without needing to be asked. Your shoulders eased.

“I didn’t embarrass you, did I?” you whispered at one point, afraid to look her in the eyes.

Wanda paused, then turned to you with a gentle expression. “No, baby. You could never embarrass me. You were perfect.”

And with that, she leaned in and kissed your temple—just once, quick and tender—before passing you a tray of glasses.

As the two of you returned to the living room, the sound of laughter and music filling the space again, you realized something you hadn’t before:

You weren’t just staying here anymore.

You were part of this.

The second movie was winding down, the credits rolling quietly over soft background music. Most of the chatter had died down, replaced by half-asleep murmurs and the crinkle of snack wrappers. You didn’t realize how tired you were until your head dipped and landed gently against Wanda’s shoulder.

She turned just slightly, enough to look down and see your eyes fluttering closed, your body warm and pliant against her side. One arm curled instinctively around you, hand brushing gently over your back as you nuzzled closer, letting out the tiniest sigh.

Pepper noticed first, leaning toward the group with a teasing little smirk. “Looks like someone’s falling asleep on Mama.”

The affectionate teasing made a few smiles flicker across the room—until Natasha stirred.

She rose from her chair without a word, setting her wine glass down with a soft clink. Wanda didn’t need to say anything—she gently tilted your body forward so Natasha could scoop you up effortlessly, her arms sliding beneath you with practiced ease.

You barely stirred, only wrapping your arms tightly around her neck, legs curling up around her waist like you’d done it a thousand times before.

A soft murmur escaped your lips. “Tasha…”

Carol blinked, watching with a smile that was more amused than surprised. “Oh. A Daddy’s girl too.”

“Shhh,” Wanda hushed them with a soft, protective smile, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “Let her sleep.”

Natasha carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing, your soft breaths warm against her collarbone, your hold clinging to her like you never wanted to let go. Once inside your room, she gently laid you down in the bed, tugging the blankets up around your body with a care that made her movements almost reverent.

But your hand caught her wrist before she could pull away.

“Mmmm… Tasha?” you asked sleepily, still barely awake.

“Yes, baby?” she said softly, sitting down beside you and letting her fingers drift through your hair, slow and soothing.

Your voice was quiet, a mumble against the pillow, but it was so sincere it made her heart ache.

“Is it okay to be a Mama’s girl and a Daddy’s girl?”

Natasha smiled, warm and full of something she didn’t quite know how to name. You didn’t open your eyes—you just pressed your face further into her hand, clearly comforted by the gentle affection.

“Of course it is, baby,” she said, brushing a few strands of hair away from your cheek. “Wanda and I would both love that. But we can talk more about it another time, okay?”

You gave a sleepy, approving noise, content and soothed by her presence.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Nigh, Daddy,” you whispered, the words coming without hesitation.

Natasha stayed a little longer, brushing your hair back slowly, watching your features go slack with sleep. She didn’t rush out the door when you finally drifted off. She just sat there in the quiet, heart full and eyes soft.

[devine-fem]

If you wish to get into Spideypool or write for them then this is a masterlist of all ‘Spideypool’ evidence of Wade Wilson or Peter Parker being astrangly interested in each other. This took me forever... please don't flop. If I miss anything please let me know, I'll edit this list as soon as possible.

1. When bound against Spider-Man, Deadpool gets... excited for lack of a better word and even more so when Spider-Man yells at him.

2. Deadpool has a celebrity crush on Spider-Man like young teenage boys would crush on various female actors, but instead Wade Wilson had Spiderman, I guess.

3. Wade Wilson owns a plethora of Spider-man merch, plushies, blankets, posters, underwear, belts, he has them.

4. There are two official variant covers that display Deadpool and Spider-man recreating the upside-down kiss… this is technically not canon due to them being variant covers, but they can be if you want.

5. When someone asks Deadpool about the relationship he has with Spider-Man he either says they are best friends or lovers.

6. Wade is jealous or envious of Peter’s bond with Johnny Storm.

7. Wade comments multiple times about how tight Spider-Man’s suit is and how nice his butt is.

8. Wade has called Tobey Maguire cute.

9. There are mutliple occasions of pedestrians in the marvel universe assuming Spider-Man and Deadpool are some sort of couple.

10. When Deadpool is asked about a romantic date… he imagines him and Spiderman sharing a candlelit dinner together…

11. It’s important to remember that Spider-Man is a grown man. Yes, Deadpool flirts a lot, but he is flirting with another adult that he is sexually attracted to, and this is not a crime, he’s not harassing Spider-Man in any way and if Peter felt like he was then he can also be an adult and tell Wade to stop which he never does.

12. Deadpool most of the time does not know that Peter Parker is Spider-Man so when Wade flirts with Spider-Man, he’s mostly attracted to the idea of Spider-Man he has in his head and when he’s in the position to know Spider-Man’s identity, he always refuses and even protects his identity from being known by other people. + Forehead kiss.

13. Wade has a list of people that he would cheat on his wife with. It’s a list of people he’d be given a free pass to have sex with if he’s given the chance. Most people on this list are woman but the last person is Spider-Man, this is one of the biggest nods towards Deadpool’s sexuality because it’s set in stone that if given the opportunity, he would have sex with Spider-Man, while knowing that he’s a man.

14. Wade has pictures of him and Spider-Man together in his house.

15. Spider-Man keeps pictures of him and Wade on his phone… for reasons… I don’t know why.

16. They have one biological child together called ‘Itsy Bitsy’ and another they adopted called Matrix.

17. Wade doesn’t hesitate to protect Spider-Man.

18. Ryan Renolds and Andrew Garfield have kissed before. Not really evidence, I just think it's funny.

19. Deadpool loses his wife because of how much time he’s devoted to Spider-Man, instead of her. She even calls him out on his crush, he legitimately loses his wife because of his relationship with Spider-Man due to her feeling like she’s third wheeling.

20. Marvel ships it.

21. Asking Spider-Man for a kiss, an upside-down kiss that is and I mean, if you count the variant covers as canon then sure, yeah, never say never Spidey.

22. Wade would die with Spider-Man (and he gets to prove this later)

23. Spider-Man’s touch, voice and smell all seem to calm Wade down. 24. There's an issue in a Deadpool comic literally just called "Spideypool." 25. Wade references fanfiction, fanart and says Spideypool out of his mouth multiple times so he's very aware that this exists. 26. There's an alternate universe where they are old man in an apocalypse. 27. Deadpool's villains are well aware that he has a weak spot for Spider-Man and uses this against him at times. How cute is that? 28. Spider-Man is Wade's special boy... dude, this is so fanficy... 29. Okay, so, the heartmates thing. A group of people use magic to try and summon Deadpool's heartmate to try and get to his wife, I'm not entirely sure what a heartmate is but I'm pretty sure it's a 'one true love' type of thing and yes, this summons Spider-Man, so unless Wade's 'gay jokes' have tricked the concept of magic as a whole, that's pretty on the nose. 30. Wade has seen Spider-Man naked... I'm pretty sure that is what this is implying. 31. Peter does find Wade genuinely annoying sometimes, but he never voices this to Wade directly but the funniest thing is... Peter's attitude to Wade is like a 'he can only get on MY NERVES!' type of thing. 32. Peter genuinely gets worried for Deadpool when he gets hurt even though he has a healing factor, he even takes care of him when he's healing after a mission. 33. Peter gets magicked into thinking Wade is attractive. NOW LET'S GET INTO THE SAD AND EXISTENTIAL STUFF! 34. One of Wade's bigger character arcs is when he tries to become a hero like Spider-Man. He admires Spider-Man, he puts him on a pedestal because he does the right thing without hurting anyone and he's admired for it. To be honest, we did just go through a bunch of cute fanficy moments but this moral back and forth between the two is definitely the gayest thing they've done. 35. Weirdly Peter is trying to actively force himself to hate Wade, but he can't find it within himself to dislike him. I think that his mean comments toward Wade are definitely more of an act because the behavior that Wade displays remind him of things he dislikes within himself. Peter also has been betrayed multiple times throughout his life by people he thought he could trust so he has a hard time allowing himself to trust Wade. Meanwhile Wade feels jealous of what he assumes is a relationship between him and Peter Parker that could possibly be romantic, yes, Wade does think Peter Parker and Spider-Man may have been dating which is why Spider-Man is so protective of Peter Parker which causes Wade to get jealous. 36. Wade and Peter actually become friends very easily which is something that people complained about when this comic was still just coming out. Eventually, because Wade is convinced Peter Parker is an evil doer, he kills Peter Parker (Spider-Man) which causes Spider-Man to revoke their friendship and feel betrayed by Deadpool. Peter assumes that Wade falsified their entire friendship just to get to Peter Parker and kill him, he eventually finds out this was a mistake and brings Peter Parker to life which is around the time where Wade's wife leaves him. Now, because of Peter, Wade is using rubber bullets and refusing to kill people. It's important to remember that Wade in the past, has mentioned that killing was all he had, and he gave that up for Spider-Man, to prove himself to Spider-man. This is a huge thing for Wade, killing was one of his most defining traits but it also made him hate himself, but he's willing to change for Peter.

Is it... wrong of me for kind of finding the fact that Peter has worked to help Deadpool stop killing but this ultimately culminates as Wade killing Peter, like biting the hand that feeds you... is it wrong that I find this tragically romantic...? I need so much therapy. 37. Wade explains that he was just trying to protect Spider-Man which is one of my favorite moments between the two.

38. Peter eventually forgives Deadpool, and they go after the person who put a hit on Peter Parker.

39. When Peter’s mad at him… he doesn’t exactly… hate it? I guess.

40. Wade has a little "What would Spidey do?" wristband. That's adorable. 41. Wade describes his new morality as the best thing that's ever happened to him and one of the biggest things that motivate him to be better is because someone (spidey) genuinely believes that he can get better. He mentions that if Spider-man was to die or leave him then there would be no point in getting better which is so sad to me.

42. Spider-Man has a bad habit of easily forgiving people. Spider-Man has a hero complex and believes that everyone can be saved, even when told to his face that Deadpool is not the type of person that can be save, he defends Deadpool and rejects this idea.

43. When Wade does the right thing Peter tells him that he's proud of him and this is also a big motivator for him. He feels better if he's told someone notices his efforts and feels neglected if they don't.

44. Speaking of tragically romantic, Peter starts to question his morality because he finds out that there's a hole in his life that seemingly can't be filled with doing the right thing anymore. He lets himself slip away and contemplates killing itsy bitsy which he commits to doing but Wade tries relentlessly to stop him.

He ends up killing Wade because he finds that his ongoing worship of him makes him feel guilty. 45. Wade doesn't stop trying to get Peter to stop.

Ultimately Peter beats him in the fight and to stop Peter, he sacrifices himself. He kills Itsy Bitsy instead so Peter can't. He gives up his morality, something that meant the world to him, for Peter, once again. Peter feels immensely guilty for this and promises to make it up to Wade somehow. It's also implied that Wade fills that gap in Peter's life that he's missing.

46. This is from a different writer so it's a little inconsistent, basically because of Wade's new morality, he stops making as many jokes, starts to become more serious and eventually gets to really be alone with himself and his problems which causes him to dislike the version of Wade Wilson he's become because of Spidey. It's like Peter makes him see parts of himself that he dislikes a little bit clearer, and he loses hope, he stops believing that he can actually become better. Cameleon, a villain at the time fakes Deadpool killing someone, Peter believes this - which hurts Wade due to how little faith it seems Peter has in Deadpool. He blows up in Peter's face and says that he did all of this for him, and he doesn't really care about letting everyone down... except him, he feels extremely guilty for some reason when he lets Spider-Man down.

47. Eventually, Peter finds out that Wade did not kill someone and apologizes to Deadpool which is important because it means Peter cannot wrong Deadpool without the narrative making sure he makes amends for his actions. Deadpool sometimes is very vexing, and this is not necessarily entirely Peter's fault for getting aggravated with him. Deadpool does this on purpose, he has low self-esteem and sometimes uses his behavior as a way to push the people he cares about away, whether it's to protect them or to keep himself from getting hurt. Wade has communicated this to Peter before and Peter very sweetly affirmed him. 48. Wade has a daughter named Ellie that he keeps far away from him because he does not want her getting in the middle of his mercenary business and getting hurt. He says that one day when he's ready to put this mercenary stuff behind him then he'll be ready to take care of her properly. Wade introduces his daughter to Spider-Man, and she says that she loves Spider-Man and Daddy talks about him all the time which Wade adorably gets embarrassed by. 49. Peter goes out of his way to hang out with Wade. 50. Theres this huge arc of future!Wade Wilson coming back from the future into the past to stop things from going so wrong in the future. This might be confusing but basically, this whole arc is about how Wade refuses to live without Peter and without Peter's permission, gives up some of his healing factor to keep Peter alive way past his due date. He outlives every person he knows and the only person he has is Deadpool. He even gives up being Spider-Man until busting a robbery motivates him to be Spider-Man one more time which he spends that time with Deadpool. Peter almost dies once again and to save Peter, Deadpool gives up more of his healing factor to keep him alive. It's so strange to me that Wade refuses to live without Peter but what's even stranger is that it's revealed that Peter knows Deadpool is keeping him alive and never stops him. These two are so weird about each other. This eventually culminates with the both of them dying in each other's arms, I kid you not. 51. So, Wade and Peter, long story short, stops this future from happening which is the second the last arc. The last last arc is them defeating the concept of the third wall I believe...? 52. Another thing that is EXTREMELY important to note is that Wade and Peter are canonically established friends right now. During the last 10 issues of their solo comic they become friends, set in stone, no going back on that. Peter finally accepts Wade as he is, and they go on a little adventure together. There's no point in saying Peter doesn't like Wade or Wade doesn't like Peter. Peter and Wade's friendship developed over time, there's no need to try and erase their friendship. Peter likes Wade now; he stops pretending to be annoyed with him, he cheers him on, and he compliments him regularly. He even trusts Wade enough to reveal himself as Peter Parker. Peter and Wade's friendship was very similar to Johnny Storm and Peter Parker's, both hated each other at first but then slowly became good friends. There's no point of putting Spideytorch and Spideypool against each other when they are so similar. 53. Wade thinks Peter is handsome. 54. Peter thinks Wade is a hero. 55. One of my favorite moments because I am CRAZY. Wade dying for Peter without hesitation and Peter being devastated. This happens almost right after Peter reveals himself as Peter Parker. 56. Wade has eaten Peter before, if you're into that Cannibalism being a metaphor for love type of thing.

57. Wade has called Peter 'baby boy' and "bambi' but these things have happened literally one time before and have become extremely overused. Wade has plenty of nicknames for Peter, let's mix it up a bit. 58. Marvel's little animation for the both of them. 59. They've interacted in Ultimate Spider-Man before.

60. Peter has a fever dream… Deadpool is crossdressing in it.

61. Deadpool gets put into a falsified reality where everything is his version of perfect, this is a villians way of getting information out of Deadpool while using his favorite things as leverage. In this reality, fake!Spider-Man tries to get information out of Deadpool by bribing him with sex. I kid you not.

62. His little “Make Spidey mine, Marvel!” Badge. He’s so down bad.

63. The entirety of Deadpool (2013) Issue #10.

64. The official Deadpool manga where Deadpool contemplates asking Spider-Man for a dirty favor.

65. Deadpool’s random little Spider-Man keychain at the handle of his Katanna.

Or, y’know, reading their duo comic: Spider-Man/Deadpool (2016) would also basically tell you everything you need to know about their dynamic if you need somewhere to start. I hope this helped to refresh anyone’s mind on things as well.

Again, if I missed anything cute, please let me know. I’ll edit it as soon as possible.

[sprytesukii]

teen sleaze

bachira meguru x reader

as the campus slut, bachira has a very specific type (one you don’t fit into), so when he zeroes in on you at a party with the intent to take you home, it leaves you thrown off kilter.

rating : 18+, explicit, MDNI

wc : 3.9k (in under 3 hours ….. am i cooked)

tags : DARK CONTENT, very dubious consent (bachira gets reader very drunk & resistant at first), forced intoxication (alcohol), manipulation, transmasc!reader (good boy, dick, cock, pussy, cunt all used in reference to reader & his anatomy), transmasc!bachira, reader wears a binder, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, restraints (a hoodie immobilizes reader), frotting / scissoring (they bump purses :p), oral (reader!receiving), nipple torture, pussy slapping, references to virginity (bachira is a 'virgin killer', reader is not a virgin, virginity is a construct <3), bachira is mean & needy, other things i’m certain, ask to tag

an : i …. have nothing to say except sorry for teasing this for so long and that i wrote this with my dick in my hand ….. i love you my fellow trans men , i will continue to spread my agenda of trans!bllk boys to fulfill my t4t dreams <3

Bachira's bedroom is cute.

It's one of the first things you notice, though your glassy eyes and gin-addled mind make it difficult to pick up any real details, only bits and pieces. Flashes.

A beanbag in the corner, covered in stuffed animals. Anime figurines on his desk. Cat-eared gaming headphones hanging on his expensive looking monitor. A pin-up League of Legends poster above his queen sized bed.

You do your best to take in as much as possible — it isn't often (read: never) Bachira allows his conquests into his sacred space, preferring to take them into low traffic bathrooms in unpopular buildings on campus or in strangers' bedrooms at parties.

You're not entirely sure why you're the one he's breaking routine for — you aren't anyone special. He's certainly not in love with you — you're honestly not sure he's capable of that — and you're definitely not his usual type for these … excursions.

His type? Sweet. Inexperienced. Virginal. All glittery pink gloss, tiny tennis skirts, and heavily mascara'ed lashes that run so pretty when he takes them to the brink again, and again, and again.

Or, so you've heard. A lot.

Tittering girls comparing and contrasting their experiences and his technique in the caf, the library, even in the communal bathrooms on your dorm's floor. Even some of your acquaintances have "taken him for a spin," and all they have are rave reviews.

If you had marginally less shame, you'd admit to yourself that he's intriguing, at the the barest of minimums. He's incredibly pretty, no doubt, and the bubbly disposition overlaying his thinly veiled, arrogant, sleazy energy is insanely attractive (well, no one's ever accused you of having good taste in men).

Your friends all know you (a little too well), so when the two of you end up at the same functions, something that's bound to happen with the amount of mutuals you have, they all encourage you to go for it. To proposition him. He's such a slut, it's not like he's going to say no.

(Their words, not yours, though you'd be hard pressed to disagree.)

But every time, without fail, you brush them off, always citing some bullshit excuse in order to cover for the fact you're so into him, it's not even funny.

So, it's not that you don't like Bachira. It's just that … you aren't his type. At all.

You're not flowery or flouncy. You're nowhere near sweet. You're caustic, shitty, and, most importantly, you're not a virgin.

You're inexperienced, sure. You can count on two hands the amount of sexual encounters you've had and that number whittles down to one when you factor in whether or not it was even good, but, you don't exude the innocent vibe Bachira's track record indicates he's into.

That's why you were so surprised when Bachira singled you out at the party earlier in the night, zeroing in on you with an unfailing, unflinching precision that had you startled. A little overwhelmed, but only because you'd never been faced with the full brunt of his enthusiastic focus, bright yellow eyes trained on you with the intensity of a hunter looking for any sign of weakness in his prey.

Your friends all but disappeared when he approached you, two cups of some unidentifiable liquid in his (big, long-fingered) hands. He'd looked charming — a crooked grin playing on his full lips, his curled short hair tucked behind his ears. So much so, in fact, that you'd almost completely forgot about the way he skulked around the humid living room, engaging in racouous conversation with strangers while never looking away from you.

Bachira had offered you the drink, and although you'd already had one (or two, or five) already, his teasing expression and his pretty, pretty face made it nearly impossible to say no.

So, you took it, the burn of the alcohol (vodka? no, gin, god, you hate gin-) warming your throat and settling funny in your tummy. You knew you were riding the rail-thin line between pleasantly drunk and completely wasted, but just a sip from Bachira's cup tipped you right over the edge.

You had tried to put it down, recognizing your limits and backing away from them, but then Bachira pouted at you. Legitimately pouted — an expression that would be nauseating on any other grown man. On him, though, it was cute. Convincing. A pang of embarrassment had hit you right in the gut, only made worse by his quiet coo of, You sure that's all you can take? Thought you were stronger than that.

Your sober mind would have scoffed at the transparent challenge in his tone, no matter how saccharinely coated it was, but drunk you is a lot easier apparently. A lot more worried about disappointing Bachira, weirdly enough.

There was no time to examine that thought though. You had a drink to finish. You brought the cup back up to your lips, content to take a few more sips just to appease him, when two of his fingers tip up the bottom of the plastic, forcing two or three shots worth of liquid down your throat.

You spluttered, choking and dropping the cup, but Bachira held your mouth shut by pressing those same fingers to your chin and subtly pinching your nose, effectively cutting off your airways and forcing you to swallow.

That's it, there ya go. Look! All better now, right? His soft voice somehow cut through the roaring in your ears, soothing the rapidly quieting sober voice that was screaming at the injustice. The violation.

You had opened watery eyes and all you could see was Bachira, standing so close he took up your entire field of vision, a contented smirk spread wide over his face. You should've known then, but you didn't. You were too drunk, too inexperienced, too trusting.

You should've been sober enough to see his grin turn sinister, should've been able to hear the underlying excitement in his voice when you tripped over yourself, your legs made unreliable. Should've been able to protest when he tucked you against his side and made excuses to your friends about how you don't know how to handle your liquor and how he needs to walk you back to the dorms, the friendly thing to do.

(And that's what you are, right? Friends?)

You should've noticed when he made a few too many wrong turns, walking farther and farther away from campus, until you ended up at the upperclassman apartments, herded up the stairs and to his room where you are now.

The world is spinning. You're dizzy. So drunk. Bachira disappeared into the bathroom the moment he deposited you on the bed, leaving you to try and piece together exactly how you got here and what feels so wrong.

Hot. It's hot. That's the explanation your drunk mind comes up with for the reason your chest feels tight, the reason there's a blaring warning light blinking in the ever shrinking sober recesses of your brain.

With great effort, you sit up, nearly tipping over in the opposite direction in the process, but you manage it, reaching for the hem of your hoodie with the intent of pulling it up and off. Somehow, you get tangled in it, the directions your intoxicated mind give to your limbs getting lost in translation.

The heavy fabric covers your face entirely and traps your arms above your head, unable to move. You whine, embarrassed and still hot, so hot.

The position you're left in is exposing. You can feel your nipples pebble beneath your binder and your tank top, your happy trail bared by the way your tank has ridden up. The idea of Bachira seeing you like this is humiliating so you go to pull it down, but your arms and face are firmly stuck.

You're trapped.

The toilet flushes at this moment and you tense, stilling your struggling body to sit up as still as you can and listen. It's still difficult to focus, but you manage to pick up a few things.

The sound of the sink running. A glass hitting the counter and the water running again. When you strain, you hear a something small hitting the side of the glass and fizzing, but then the door opens and you can hear nothing but the rushing of blood in your ears.

"Brought you some — oh? What's this?" Bachira's tone is teasing, a little mean-spirited. You can't see him but you hear him get closer, setting the glass down on the nightstand before cold knuckles abruptly run through the coarse hair leading to down into your boxers.

You flinch back, curling up on yourself, and Bachira laughs, tone drastically different than the bright one he usually affects around campus.

"Don't be nervous. Let me see." You shake your head 'no' as best you can in the current circumstances, the movement prompting another wave of dizziness that has you tipping over into his sheets. "Aw, you can't even sit up right, can you? You need my help for that too?"

A choked sob escapes your lips, despite your best efforts, tears dripping down the side of your face and soaking the fabric. Bachira coos, condescending, and the bed dips under his weight where he sits beside you.

"Oh, you're crying! I bet you look real pretty like that, but I don't wanna take this off yet." He tugs at the hoodie around your arms, laughing when you try to drunkenly squirm away. "No, no, don't try to move. It hurts your head to move, doesn't it?"

When he doesn't speak again, you realize he's waiting for an answer. You sniffle. It does hurt your head when you try to move, leaves you feeling unsteady, swimmy.

"Yeah…" you whimper, embarrassed about how wrecked your voice sounds, even muffled. Bachira makes a noise of approval, one of his hands coming up to slowly push you onto your back.

"That's what I'm here for, 'kay? 'M gonna take care of you."

It sounds good, in this moment, to be taken care of. Everything you do gives you nothing but vertigo and discomfort, so it only makes sense to let Bachira do it for you, right?

Slowly, your legs unfold to lay flat against the bed, tears slowing down as your inebriated brain comes to terms with this new reality.

(Nevermind the fact that Bachira is a veritable stranger and has deliberately kept you in such a disadvantageous position. Your sober self weeps.)

"What a good boy," Bachira purrs. The words hit you unexpectedly, your cunt releasing a pulse of slick into your boxers and you whine, pressing your thighs together in attempts to get a little relief.

There's a pause, long enough for you to bite your lip, beating yourself up for making any noise at all — this isn't even sexual anyway, right? Why do you have to be such a freak?

"Ah," he sighs, hair audibly swishing as he shakes his head, effectively dislodging you from your thoughts. "I should've known praise would do it. You virgins are so predictable."

There's thinly veiled disappointment there and it rings in your ears, flooding you with mortification and a desire to defend yourself. To make yourself more appealing to the boy taking advantage of you.

"N-no. 'M not-a virgin." Your words, although slurred, ring clear to Bachira, but instead of assuaging you, he scoffs. The bed creaks as he shifts his weight around and you brace yourself, but you're still surprised when he flicks your hardened nipple through your shirt and binder, jolting against the sheets.

You can't defend yourself or cover your chest to prevent his attacks. He flicks the same nipple again while pinching the other, hard, and tears start welling up again, spilling over your cheeks. Bachira laughs meanly, pinching and plucking until your nubs are sore and throbbing, even beneath your layers.

"Not a virgin, huh? Then why're you so sensitive? No one touches you here?" He twists your abused skin and you howl, arching up into the touch in spite of the pain. "I don't like liars, y'know. I'm taking the time out of my night to take care of you, and all you're doing is being dishonest. That's rude, no?"

A shuddery cry eeks free from your lips, the cloth over your face almost entirely saturated with your tears. "I'm n-not lying."

Bachira hums derisively, before pushing your shirt and binder up, allowing your chest fat to spill free. He doesn't stop there, making quick work of the button on your jeans to yank them off over your shoes, leaving you in your boxers and sneakers. Exposed.

With your pants gone, you can feel how soaked you are. The flimsy crotch of your underwear clings to your folds and you're sure Bachira can see your dick pulsing where it stands hard and throbbing. You gasp, ashamed, and you snap your legs shut, trying to save whatever's left of your dignity, but Bachira doesn't let you.

He grabs your thighs and forces them open, the cool air and mandhandling sending another wave of arousal flooding out of you and dripping down to your ass. You're on display and, judging by the new lightness of the bed and the man-sized heat in between your legs, Bachira has the best view.

"Wh-what're you doin'?" you ask, voice shot and thready. In lieu of responding, Bachira hooks his hands beneath your calves and spreads your legs even wider, forcing the seam of your boxers harder against your cock. You can't help but moan, burying your face against your arm to quiet the noise a little more than the hoodie does.

Two of Bachira's knuckles brush against your lower lips and it tightens like a vice around nothing, leaking against his digits as if in greeting. "Such a greedy, sensitive pussy," he says reverently, breathless, "Girls don't get this wet. I'd assume it was the T, but this is all you, isn't it? Ha, you're gonna ruin my sheets."

A part of you preens at the comparison while the other thrashes, begging for freedom. Both parts fall silent when Bachira drags his hand up to thumb at the underside of your dick, the pleasure that ensues so sharp, it makes you shake, your orgasm suddenly a breath away.

You try to tilt your hips away, to save yourself the shame of coming from nothing, but his free hand holds you down at the waist while the other disappears entirely from your cunt.

The loss leaves you feeling both relieved and bereft. You sigh shakily, trying to catch your breath, but before you can —

SLAP!

The impact of Bachira's palm against your sopping cunt and cock sends you right over the edge. You convulse, nerves alight, as you cum and cum and cum, liquid squirting out of you and absolutely drenching the bedcovers below. It's an orgasm unlike anything you've ever had before, abrupt and intense, and by the time it's over, you've lost feeling in one of your hands and you're shivering.

"Fuck, that was hot. 'M so wet, I can't - I need —" Bachira sounds wrecked for the first time this entire night and if you were less cum-drunk (or drunk-drunk for that matter), you'd revel in the frantic way he wrenches your boxers off and to the floor, before his textured tongue is lapping at your hole, slurping up your cum.

As it stands though, you lie there limply, hips twitching beneath his ministrations. You moan pornographically every time he brushes against your dick, but it's always incidental. He's not trying to get you off — this is for him.

You cum again at this realization, a short burst of bliss as more cum dribbles out onto his awaiting tongue and Bachira groans at your taste, eating you like he's starving for it. It's so messy, between his spit and your slick, but that just makes the slide of his muscle easier through your folds, cleaning you of your essence.

Arousal coils at the base of your spine, wrapping around you and warming you from the waist up. All his transgressions forgotten in favor of this unmatched pleasure.

Your eyes roll back in your skull when he takes your cock into his mouth, all the way down to the root, hollowing his cheeks and sucking on it while his tongue traces his name on the underside. Your hips jerk from the overstimulation, from the sparks bursting behind your eyelids and pulsating in your pussy, but he doesn't let you move, both hands holding your hips firmly in place.

"B-Bachira - Meguru, I can't—" At the sound of his given name, Bachira pulls off your dick with a wet, suction noise, a gravelly noise wrenched from his chest. He slaps your cunt again and again, the wet sound reverberating through the room, and you sob, squirt shooting out of you as your hole spasms weakly.

"Ngh, you can, you can take it," he mewls, shoving three fingers into your still pulsating pussy, crooking them upwards and hitting your g-spot with insane precision, forcing more ejaculate from you.

It's so much — too much — and you nearly black out from the onslaught, your back arching like you're being exorcised as he fingers you within an inch of your life.

His thumb comes up to circle your cock and you wail, body trying to curl in on itself, legs attempting to close around his arm. Bachira just pushes your legs back open and you're reminded of his strength, of how he's able to push you around, manuever you however he feels like, forcing you through orgasm after orgasm until you're just a shell of yourself.

You cum again on his fingers, drenching his hand all the way up to his wrist, before he pulls out with a squelch. He laughs, but the sound is strained, tight. Distracted.

Your brain has completely leaked out of your ears, sober self bludgeoned over the head and quiet, so you can't figure out why. Distantly, your subconcious registers the sounds of a belt clinking, a zipper, and fabric hitting the ground, but they're hazy and far away. You can't put the pieces together, you're so thoroughly wrung out, floating away.

A large hand spreads your legs again and you whine discontentedly, the fog you'd found yourself in threatening to slip away. Bachira shushes you as the bed dips and the hand leaves your thigh, only to start tugging at the hoodie surrounding you.

You've grown accustomed to the darkness, so when it starts to lift, you panic, trying to thrash, to turn away, to make your discomfort known, but you can barely move, all the fight drained out of you. Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut at the last second before light floods your vision, making you groan, barely dried tear tracks cracking at the corners.

"Shh," Bachira whispers, strung-out, his hands bringing your arms back down to your sides. Your shoulders throb where they were held above your head for what felt like hours, a shaky sigh slipping through your parted lips.

You melt back into the sheets, exhaustion setting in, but then your legs are spread again, pressed up against your chest. Your cunt is tacky, cock peeking out of your puffy folds even now and Bachira whimpers, rubbing his thumb against your tip.

"No, no, no, no," you shake your head, ignoring the dizziness that ensues in favor of protesting. "No more, I can't."

Even as you say it, your legs fall open more of their own volition, giving him more access which he takes greedily. A new sensation descends upon your pussy — something dripping, swollen, and throbbing presses against you.

It's so unfamiliar, you wrench your eyes open, blinking away the tears and bleariness to see Bachira completely naked and red-faced, dragging his cunt against yours.

You moan outright at the image, your eyes darting over every ounce of bared skin — from his broad shoulders to his small waist, top surgery scars shiny from healing and begging for your mouth, all the way down to his fat little cock, framed by his curly, heart-shaped bush and emerging from his positively soaked pussy.

He's so fucking beautiful. You want him to cum.

Bachira notices your wandering eyes and shoots you a cocky smile, but it doesn't carry the same weight when his mouth drops open on a gasp as your dicks rub together just right. (You're not much better, biting your lip to stave off an embarrassingly loud moan.)

"L-look who decided to join t-the party! Mmf, fuck — you're gonna make me cum~" he lilts, voice breaking when you roll your hips up to meet his. Strings of slick connect the both of you, smacking suction sounds resounding as his frotting picks up speed.

You watch on enraptured, your own building orgasm taking a backseat to watching Bachira get his. His mouth drops open, eyes fluttering to half mast as he pushes his folds in between yours like a french kiss, cocks catching on every other pass.

You've never done this before — rubbed against someone else, gasping when his nub notches against your entrance on one particularly long grind — but now you never want to stop.

Remembering you have arms again makes you light up, reaching for his ass to drag him more firmly against you, the action making his pussy leak all over your dick and pulling a soft moan from his chest.

"C'mon, use me," you encourage, your words breaking off into a choked groan when the undersides of your lengths rub against each other. You keep him there, pulsing your hips against his to prolong the feeling, that coil winding tighter and tighter.

Bachira shakes his head in disbelief, laughing, breath hitching as he leans over you, changing the angle to one where you see stars. Drool leaks out the corner of your lips and you rut mindlessly, every stroke sending sparks flying up and down your spine, and you know it won't be long for either of you.

"S-shit, fuck, fuck —" Bachira cums first with a quiet groan of your name, cut off by him sinking his teeth into your neck. Blinding pain creates starbursts in your vision, but you don't care, not when you can feel the way he soaks your pussy, his squirt and slick drowning your pubes, his cock throbbing against yours.

His hips twitch against yours as he rides out his orgasm and that does it for you, cumming against him so hard you shake, garbling out something like thank you, before you collapse.

Your movement dislodges Bachira's teeth from your neck and he sighs contentedly, rolling onto his sheets at your side. Neither of you speak for a long moment, chests heaving, until you start slipping into unconciousness, your body finally shutting down.

This means you don't notice how Bachira tucks himself up against your back and looks down at your sleeping face, his eyebrows furrowed, oddly vulnerable. It means you don't notice the way he lightly traces your body with his fingertips, pulling your binder and tank down in a belated, uncharacteristic display of respect. It means you don't notice the way Bachira runs his fingers through your bush appreciatively, before pushing two of his fingers past your spent cock and into your hole, hooking them up and leaving them there for you to warm.

It means you don't see how quickly Meguru drops off after that, soothed by your proximity and warmth, despite the fact that falling asleep with his bedwarmers just isn't something he does.

(You'd thought before that Bachira wasn't capable of love, but when you wake up the next morning to clean sheets, your favorite breakfast, his glittering eyes, a genuine smile, and a vibrator pressed to the tip of your cock as he kisses the scabbing imprint of his teeth in your shoulder —

you think you might've been wrong.)

[200-word-rpgs]

Tumblr 200 Word RPGs

This is a sideblog for the informal 200-word RPG jams organised by @prokopetz each November.

Next Event

2025's event will run from from 2025-11-01 through 2025-11-30; a link to the submission thread will be placed here while the event is active.

Past Events

2024 – Tumblr thread | Offsite archive (forthcoming) 2023 – Tumblr thread | Offsite archive 2022 – Tumblr thread | Offsite archive

Submission Guidelines

Each entry should be a complete, playable roleplaying game in two hundred words or fewer. Coming in lower is fine, though you're welcome to try to hit 200 words exactly if you want an extra challenge.

This is an informal game jam; entries are not curated or judged, no eligibility rules are enforced, no winners are chosen, and the organising parties explicitly refuse to define the terms "word" or "RPG". If you wish to participate, you can follow these steps:

Step 1: If you're unfamiliar with 200-word RPGs, read a bunch of previous years' entries (linked above), or browse the 200 Word RPG Challenge archives at https://200wordrpg.github.io/ to get in the proper headspace. (Note: this blog is not affiliated with the 200 Word RPG Challenge; its archives are provided for reference only.)

Step 2: Write your own 200-word RPG. If you're not sure of your word count, you can use the counter at https://200wordrpg.github.io/wordcount to check. If you disagree with how this tool defines "word", feel free to use a different counting method – adherence to the word limit is on the honour system anyway.

Step 3: Reblog the current event's main post (linked above when an event is active) and append your 200-word RPG in the reblog. Please do not submit your entry as a reblog to the post you are reading right now.

Step 4 (optional): If you wish to provide any author's notes on your entry, please place them under a "Read More" break to make it clear which part of the post is the game and which part is commentary.

Step 5 (optional): Indicate in your post whether you're okay with having your 200-word RPG archived off-site for posterity – if you don't say anything one way or the other, we'll assume the answer is "no". Please state this separately from any more general discussion of sharing or remixing permissions; don't make us guess!

Note: In previous years, we'd requested that folks refrain from discussing entries on the submission thread in order to avoid making them hard to find. Since we have a dedicated sideblog this year, that request is not being made this time around.

[nickistuffs]

Fan to Partner

Pairing: Harry x Designer reader (curvy or plus size whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference

Summary: Please don't think I'm weird Harry

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: None. Fluff 💗

✨masterlist✨ read the rest of Harry x Designer Reader there

…

There was something Y/N had never told Harry—not before they were even a ‘thing,’ and not since.

She had been a fan of him for years.

Not just in the casual, “I listen to all of your music” kind of way, but in the “I’ve been following you since you were posting update videos from the X Factor house” kind of way. The type of fan who had watched every 1D concert video followed his solo career religiously, and—if she was being completely honest—had a poster of him on her wall that she hid out of sheer embarrassment.

And now, here he was, lounging on her couch, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow on his face, illuminating the high points of his cheekbones, the soft curls falling into his eyes as he flipped a page in his book.

He looked so… pretty.

Fuck.

How did I even pull him?

Lost in thought, Y/N didn’t realize she had been staring until Harry smirked, catching her gaze out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, you,” he said, breaking her daydream.

She blinked rapidly, heat creeping up her cheeks. “Hey,” she responded, offering a shy smile.

Harry tilted his head, observing her with that knowing look. “You wanna talk? I can see the cogs in your mind turning.”

Y/N hesitated, nervously tapping her fingers against the kitchen counter. “I will… if you promise not to laugh at me.”

Harry put his book down, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Don’t worry, we listen, and we don’t judge.”

She giggled at the ‘brain rot’ reference,(he was secretly watching her doom scroll through Instagram reels) the tension easing just a little.

“Come here, sit with me,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the couch.

Dragging herself over, she sank onto the couch next to him, hugging one of her plushies for comfort. Silence stretched between them for a moment, Harry waiting patiently for her to gather her thoughts.

“I’m a big fan of yours, Harry,” she finally blurted out, gripping the plush a little tighter. “Like… X Factor days fan. Watching your 1D concerts kind of fan. Then following your solo career kind of fan. For God’s sake, I have a poster of you on my wall that I hide because I’m embarrassed.”

As she rambled on, Harry let out a chuckle.

"Do you want me to sign your poster?" teasing her further.

Y/N immediately froze, her face crashing into her plush as she let out a muffled shriek. “You promised! AAAHHH!”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Harry said through laughter. “But you have to admit, you sound a little ridiculous.” He nudged her playfully. “It’s sweet. At least now I know you actually care about what I do.”

She groaned dramatically into the plush before peeking up at him. “Yeah, but… there’s something else.”

The playful atmosphere shifted slightly, the air between them growing a little heavier.

Y/N took a deep breath. “While we’re in the spirit of honesty… I was actually terrified to meet you at first.”

Harry frowned slightly, leaning closer. “What? Why?”

“When you gave me my journal at Felice, I was scared I had done something wrong,” she admitted. “You’re… well, you. A person who probably doesn’t want to be bothered, and I’m just this weird person who—”

“You’re rambling again, love.”

She exhaled sharply, biting her lip.

“Listen to me,” Harry said, his voice softer now. “You are perfect. This—everything you’re saying—is exactly why I wanted to be in a relationship with you. Because you are you. Even the weird parts. Especially the weird parts.”

Y/N’s heart clenched at his words. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch so gentle it sent shivers down her spine.

“And I’m happy you’re not that scared of me anymore,” he added with a smile. “I want us to open up to each other. No holding back.

Her throat tightened with emotion. “I’ve never felt like this before,” she whispered, before wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

Harry held her just as tightly, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured. “For even giving me a chance.”

And in that moment, any lingering fears she had melted away. Because Harry wasn’t just the person she had admired from afar for years. He was here, with her, choosing her just as much as she was choosing him.

Y/N pulled back, looking into Harry's eyes, searching for something deeper, something more that he hadn’t said yet. There was a hint of vulnerability in his gaze, something he hadn't shared before, and she could sense he was about to say something important.

"Harry?" she asked, her voice soft with concern. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath, his gaze shifting downward, almost as though he was wrestling with something heavy. He rubbed the back of his neck in that familiar way, looking vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen him before.

"I don’t let a lot of people in, Y/N," he admitted quietly. "Not really. It’s hard to know who genuinely wants to be here and who just likes the idea of me." His words lingered in the air, heavy with truth.

Y/N’s heart tightened, the weight of his confession pressing down on her. She instinctively moved closer, her fingers lightly grazing his hand.

"But with you," he continued, looking up, his gaze steady now, "I never had to wonder. You’ve been real with me from the start, and that means more than I can ever explain."

She swallowed hard, her chest swelling with emotion. “You don’t have to explain, Harry,” she murmured, her eyes soft with understanding. “I’ve always wanted to know you—not the person the world sees, but the real you. And I’m here for that, always.”

A tender smile spread across his face, and he gently cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over her skin. “You’re incredible,” he whispered

But Y/N could sense the hesitation still lingering in him. The weight of his words had shifted, like he was preparing to share more of the truth that had been weighing on his heart. He hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing.

“There’s something else,” Harry said softly. “Being with me... it won’t be easy. This life, this world—it’s hard to navigate. I’m not an easy person to be with, not with all the attention and everything that comes with it.”

Y/N felt a pang of nervousness, but she also felt an overwhelming sense of determination. She nodded, her gaze unwavering as she met his.

“I know, Harry,” she said gently. “I’ve known from the start. But I’m not afraid of that. We’ll figure it out, together. If there’s anything I’ve learned from romcoms, it’s that we can handle anything as long as we’re on the same team.”

Harry exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding, visibly relieved. “You’re right,” he said, his voice tinged with gratitude. “You chose one hell of a person to be your first boyfriend, huh?”

Y/N laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with affection. “I did, but I’m glad I’m here. We’re in this together, Harry. Whatever comes with it, we’ll make it work. I’m not going anywhere, anytime soon.”

Harry pulled her into a tight hug, his heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Y/N’s arms tightened around him, holding onto him like she never wanted to let go. At that moment, the fears and doubts seemed to fade into the background. They both knew there would be challenges ahead, but they were ready to face them together, as partners.

And as Harry pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, Y/N realized that sometimes the hardest things—the most difficult relationships—are the ones worth fighting for.

Together, they’d find their way through whatever came next. And with each passing day, they’d become stronger, not just as individuals, but as a team.

…

As Harry pulled back from their hug, a light chuckle escaped Y/N. She couldn’t help but tease him, feeling a bit of mischief bubbling up inside her.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm, “you definitely got lucky. I mean, you are my first boyfriend.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh, am I?”

Y/N grinned and leaned back on the couch, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at him with a teasing smile. “Mm-hmm. You’re the first person I’ve ever been with who makes me feel… this way.”

Harry's eyes narrowed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

She shrugged dramatically. “Maybe,” she said, her voice low and full of humour. “But hey, I’m just saying, you’re the first in a lot of things, Harry. First boyfriend. First to see me be this... ridiculous.” She giggled softly at herself, the mood light and easy.

Harry’s lips quirked up into a grin. “Oh, I see. I’m the first in everything, huh?”

Y/N leaned in, her smile widening, her eyes glinting with playful affection. “Well, yeah. You’re the first to get to be this close to me, the first to make me feel this comfortable, the first to get me to actually open up like this…” She paused, teasingly looking him up and down, then locking her gaze with his. “And I’m definitely hoping you’ll be the first... in other things too.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, his breath catching at her boldness. She could see him trying to suppress a grin, but she could tell he was flustered, his cheeks turning a soft pink.

“Bloody hell, Y/N,” he muttered, shaking his head with a smirk. “You really know how to turn the tables on me.”

Y/N leaned back, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Harry laughed softly, shaking his head. “Well, I guess I’ll have to be prepared for whatever else you throw my way, then.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said knowingly raising her eyebrows. “You’re the first to handle me, after all.”

And with that, Harry couldn’t help but smile, the warmth between them growing. As playful as the moment was, there was an undeniable sense of affection and trust that only made their bond stronger.

Together, they’d find their way through whatever came next. And with each passing day, they’d become stronger, not just as individuals, but as a team.

"But can you actually sign my poster?" She shyly asked him as Harry laughed at her adorable request.

…

I actually love them. <3

[simpxxstan]

favourite (teaser)

pairing: boss!wonwoo x model!mingyu x f.reader

genre: smut, slowburn, poly!relationship

summary: after being happily single for years, when you develop a crush, you don't know what to do. you think your closest friend (with benefits) can take your mind off things. but when you ask for his help, you certainly didn't imagine this kind of help from him.

final word count: tbd

teaser word count: 600 words

rating: NSFW 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT PLEASE!!!

teaser warning: reference to sex with sub male, mention of jealousy, slight sugar daddy wonwoo, asymmetric power dynamics, the entire teaser is suggestive in line with the story itself. wonwoo and mingyu are both depicted to be bisexual in this fanfiction, it does not imply anything with regards to real life as this is just a work of fiction.

a/n: i swear my hormones made me write this. but i can't say i regret it- boss wonwoo will be the death of me. final fic will be nearly 10k words, if not slightly more. pls let me know your thoughts, i'll be waiting <3

release date: out now!

Because you have some time until your company’s jet is scheduled to depart, so you’re roaming through the duty-free stores. You’re walking out of a chocolate store when you notice Mingyu’s life-sized poster, modelling for Calvin Klein.

You smile and grab your phone to take a quick photo, before admiring the advertisement. It must be a recent shoot, because his hair is cropped short like you noticed when he last came over. His muscles look well defined in the photograph, where he’s posing shirtless with a single black tie tied loosely to his neck, and black jeans hung low on his lips. There’s a wildly sensual look in his eyes, as if begging to be taken as you pleased, and it makes you smirk. Now you have something more to tease him for, when you meet him the next time. 

“Pretty, isn’t he?” You haven’t realised when Wonwoo’s sidled up to your side, and you notice a Bulgari bag in his hands. So that’s where he’s been shopping while you were busy browsing through chocolates. Wonwoo’s eyes are fixed on the poster in front of you, an appreciative glint in his eyes. 

“Pretty indeed. For as long as I remember him.” 

Wonwoo turns to look at you, his eyebrow raised. “Are you a fan? Or a friend?” “The latter. Mingyu and I have been friends since high school.” “How interesting.” Eager to impress him, you elaborate, “I was the one who pushed him to get into modelling. Couldn’t have let looks like that slip, could I?” Wonwoo chuckles. “Indeed not. I’m sure many must thank you, including myself.” 

Wonwoo takes out a small box from the bag he’s carrying. Opening the box, you see there’s a bracelet inside. Set with at least sixty 24 carat diamonds. It makes your mouth water and your eyes shine, and you cannot help but envy his boyfriend, if he’s the one on the receiving end of such gifts. “What do you think?

You wonder if it’s too personal a question, but you’re also sure a lot of lines between professional and personal have gotten blurred over this trip. So you bravely ask him, “Is that for your boyfriend?” 

Wonwoo doesn’t show any sign of displeasure, if he feels it. His eyes still focused on Mingyu’s poster on the glowing display in front of you, he says, “Hmm. Do you think it’ll suit him?” 

Your throat goes dry. If he’s bought it for his boyfriend, why are his eyes fixed on Mingyu? But you don’t think about it. Mingyu’s looks are, after all, captivating. 

“I’m sure it will. He’s very lucky to be receiving such a pretty gift. He must be really precious to you.” You laugh lightly, trying to hide the bile of jealousy rising in your throat. 

Wonwoo puts away the gift. “He is, of course.” His eyes now shift to yours. “Any favourite of mine is bound to be the most precious to me. And worthy of the prettiest of gifts, whatever they want.” 

You fight the blush creeping into your cheeks, trying to stop your heart from racing on. This is ridiculous. Why on earth are you getting into your feels when he’s clearly thinking and talking about his lover? God, Y/N, get a grip on yourself. He’s not yours, and by the look of love and yearning on his face, he never will be. 

It’s his voice that breaks you out of your trance. “Miss Y/L/N? The jet’s arrived. Don’t wanna miss it, do we?” You can’t help but nod dumbly and walk behind him to keep pace.

[lalalychee-x]

"Teenage Dirtbag— I think I'm okay"

Angst! Rodrick Heffley x reader pt 6

"She's walkin' over to me, this must be fake" romantic. + platonic

♡ Ayyeee, I'm back with part 6, this will NOT MAKE SENSE WITHOUT PART READING THE OTHER PARTS, SO DO MAKE SURE TO READ THEM! GOD THIS ONE IS SO LONG I'M SORRY GUYS IT'S LIKE 8K+ WORDS... like wtf, but this is basically Spring Dance (idk I'm British and the American school system baffles me) gone wrong and stupid garage afterparty. Welcome to part 4 of "Think I'm okay!" CW: self harm (sh) reference, the chocolate fountain thing , cheating (on You), misogyny, toxic relationships, cannon characters in this part word count: 8409 masterlist of all parts song4this: "Teenage Dirtbag" by Wheetus

-------story starts here-------

And yeah, you didn't. You didn't see him for the whole of midterms, even the music room was closed during exam season just before spring. You keep thinking about him though; thinking about how he probably skipped all his exams while staring at your phone half in regret that you never got his number.

What were you? Friends? Friends don't look at each other that way. "Just-friends" don't meet when you're about to off yourself, nor do they lay on bathroom floors with you and drown your dress in antiseptic.

You're halfway up a ladder, arms stretched above your head as you staple one last Spring Fling poster onto the bulletin board by the gym. The air smells like chalk dust, cafeteria bleach, and cherry lip gloss—yours, obviously. The sleeves of your cardigan keep slipping down as you reach, but you don't care since you're like 6ft above everyone else on this thing and yeah its a breath of fresh air from a crowded highschool gaggle.

Then you hear it.

The distinct, dragging shuffle of scuffed boots on linoleum.

You don't even need to look to know who it is. The air just feels different when he's around—denser, like everything's about to tilt off-balance.

Rodrick.

Of course it's him. Back like nothing happened. Same bandshirt from God-knows-how-many-days ago, same hair like he lost a fight with a lawn mower and still came out cocky. He's got a flyer in his hand—probably picked it up off the floor or stole it from a desk—and he's just standing there, staring up at your legs.

"Real subtle," you mutter without turning, keeping your focus on the staple gun. God, why did you say that? What happened to hi? Hello?

Rodrick blinks, mouth twitching. "I wasn't—okay, maybe a little."

You roll your eyes, stepping down off the ladder with a little thud. The moment your heels hit the ground, the weird tension drops too.

"So, what—finally got tired of ditching class and pretending you're too punk rock to care?"

Rodrick smirks. "Nah, I just heard there'd be glitter. Couldn't resist."

You pause, holding his gaze for a beat longer than you should. He looks... the same. And also like he's been living in grayscale until now.

You shove a poster into his chest.

"Here. Make yourself useful and tag along. The more the merrier."

Rodrick stares at it. "'Spring Fling: A Night to Remember'? Kinda dramatic, don't you think?"

You barely have time to roll your eyes at Rodrick's sarcastic comment before the sound of thundering footsteps barrels down the corridor like a stampede. You already know who it is. Only one pack of teenage boys is ALLOWED to be that loud, that obnoxious, and that full of expensive body spray.

"NATHAN! Yo!" one of them shouts, tossing a football down the hall like you're not literally standing in the way. You duck instinctively.

"Sorry, babe," Nathan grins, suddenly appearing at your side with an arm slung over your shoulder like a claim. His team hoots and hollers like they're in a music video, not a hallway. He's already sweaty from warm-ups, jersey clinging to his chest. You feel Rodrick stiffen next to you, just barely—arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Didn't know you were out here putting up decorations," Nathan says, glancing at the posters with a lopsided smirk. "That's cute."

You force a small smile, leaning away from his grip a little too subtly. "Yeah, well. Not all of us get excused from student body work just 'cause we can throw a ball."

Rodrick lets out a low chuckle behind you. You can practically feel the "get his ass" energy radiating off him.

Nathan ignores it, eyes zeroing in on you. "Practice is starting up soon. Come by the field? I want you to see my new plays—Coach says I might be MVP again."

You nod, "Yeah, sure."

Nathan plants a quick kiss on your cheek and jogs off, yelling something back to his team. And just like that, the hallway returns to its low buzz hum of chatter.

You don't turn around at first. You just stare at the floor, a little too long.

"Must be nice," Rodrick mutters, and when you glance back at him, he's not looking at you—just at the now-empty corridor like he's trying to burn a hole through it with his eyes. "Having the whole hallway clear out just 'cause your boyfriend walks by."

You blink. "You jealous of the hallway?"

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours, guarded. "Nah. Just wish people cleared out when I showed up."

You snort, shaking your head. "They do. They just run the opposite direction."

"You're meant to selling this dance to me, not acting like a prick so I don't want to go." Rodrick scoffs, though there's no real bite behind it. 

"Well, come if you want, just don't oh, I don't know..." You pause, deliberately to drag it out, "Knock over the chocolate fountain this time?"

Rodrick could absolutely sock you for that, but the little smirk you have on your face makes him pause and he just... can't get mad.

"Oh shut up." He groans a little, half annoyed and half relieved he's talking to you again after so many months.

Rodrick wants to die. And certainly doesn't want to go anyway.

.

"You're going," Susan said, arms crossed, voice firm in that I've had three kids and I will not be tested tone.

Rodrick flopped dramatically on the couch like his bones no longer worked. "Why? Why would I willingly walk into a school function where they play Pitbull and judge your shoes?"

"Because it's a dance, Rodrick. A school dance," she emphasized, moving to block the TV screen so he'd actually look at her. "You're a senior. This might be one of the last chances you have to make a real memory before you graduate and start... whatever it is you think you're going to do."

"I have a band, Mom," he groaned, trying to peer around her, nochalantly shrugging at whatever she says. "We were gonna go mess with someone's car again. You know. Real memory-making stuff."

Susan didn't move. "Your band can wait. Besides—" she tilted her head with a mom smirk—"I heard someone's been skipping a few too many classes lately. Maybe this is your chance to show you're still involved."

Rodrick looked personally attacked. "Who told you that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I have eyes, Rodrick. And the school sends me emails. You'd know that if you checked anything besides your phone."

"Unreal," he muttered, sitting up halfway. "I don't even have anything to wear. What do you want me to do, show up in my Slayer tee and jeans that smell like pizza rolls?"

Susan smiled too sweetly. "I bought you a shirt. It has buttons."

He stared at her, betrayed. "A button-up?"

She patted his shoulder, already walking toward the stairs. "You'll live. Be ready by six. And Rodrick?" she paused at the top, eyes twinkling. 

Rodrick groaned, his hands hitting his leg in annoyance as he peered down at her from his room.

"Maybe try brushing your hair this time."

He groaned again, flopping back down with a dramatic thud, staring at the ceiling like the world was ending. A button-up. And worst of all—he had a weird feeling he might run into you.

And that terrified him more than Pitbull ever could, enough that he had to redo his buttons like five times because he kept attaching them on a diagonal.

Okay, maybe it wasn't pure horror that was making him do that, maybe it was because he genuinely can't button up a shirt because the last time he wore one was when he got kicked out the church for showing up without pants.

He's so damn useless.

.

The bedroom looked like a boutique got drunk and exploded. Dresses clung to door frames, half-zipped garment bags draped over chairs, and the scent of heat-damaged hair and Bath & Body Works body mist made the air humid and nostalgic.

  "Somebody find the lash glue!" someone yelled, probably Madison, because she'd been pacing around in nothing but a towel for the last twenty minutes, clutching a tube of Baby Lips like it was a mic. You should know because she was screaming at you to get out the bathroom because you took too long covering your scars with thick layers of foundation; I guess foundation doesn't stick to glitter very well.

"I'm not going if my eyes are naked. I will simply perish." Trust me, no one's eyes were naked; all very much smoky eye and lip gloss.

You adjusted the sweetheart neckline of your dress in the smudged vanity mirror, trying not to flinch at the flyaway curl that refused to obey gravity. You debated whether adding MORE glitter spray would fix it... or just stick that lock of hair into a random braid. It was pissing you off, and you really did consider gluing it down with lash-glue.

Everywhere was one of the bold jewel tones; electric blue, hot pink, royal purple, or the classic black 'nd silver sparkle combo and it made your eyes hurt like you were staring directly into strobe lights.

 Someone's curling iron hissed behind you. Pop music from a Spotify playlist blared through tinny speakers—something Ke$ha-y and glittery. Every few seconds, a flash went off. The Valencia-filtered mirror selfies were piling up already, each one messier than the last.

"Okay but is this dress too much?" you asked no one and everyone, smoothing the skirt down nervously. It was a poofy, hi-low dress that made you look a bit like a peacock: cut short at the front, but trailed behind you around the back.

A chorus of "nooo, you look hot" echoed without pause, followed by "Nathan's gonna lose his mind when he sees you," and then someone cackled, "or whoever else is looking."

You smiled, but didn't answer. Instead, your thumb hovered over your phone screen, checking Rodrick's story again. Nothing. Not that you were checking. Not on purpose. Not like he'd even go. Not like he'd even care, since they banned student-performances after what happened at Heather's sweet-sixteen and she threw a fit at the Principal.

Still.

You looked back at your reflection—mascara still slightly clumpy, the hem of your dress brushing your knees just right, the chunky rhinestone bracelet twinkling under the bedroom light. You didn't feel perfect. But you looked it. And tonight, that would be enough.

Downstairs, someone's mom yelled, "LIMO'S OUTSIDE!"

Shrieks. Scrambling. Perfume mist in the air like fog. 

It wasn't a limo, of course, it was some jock dude's dad's convertible, Nathan in the passenger seat already manspreading like he owned the damn road.

"Shotgun's mine, losers," he called as you stepped out in your heels, balancing a tiny purse and your phone like your life depended on it. He leaned back with his arm slung behind the seat, tossing you a wink. You smiled, but it didn't reach all the way.

"Ugh, I'm sitting bitch again," Madison groaned as everyone crammed in. Someone had to sit half on someone else's thigh; someone else's hair immediately got caught in the door. There was a shriek of "MY DRESS!" before the engine roared to life, and the car peeled off into the suburban road, glitter and chaos trailing behind.

The drive felt like the start of a music video—wind whipping through carefully styled hair, cheap jewelry rattling, everyone laughing too loud, too forced. Die Young by Ke$ha blasted from the speakers, and someone yelled, "This is our night, bitches!"

Nathan reached over to put a hand on your thigh, just a casual flex of control. You didn't pull away, but you didn't lean in either. Your eyes were on the road, on the way the sun dipped behind the school gym's roofline in the distance. That weird feeling was back—like a pit in your stomach dressed in rhinestones.

The school parking lot was already packed. String lights lit up the path to the entrance, and some teachers awkwardly hovered outside like underpaid bouncers. Balloons in spring pastels framed the doorway, and you could faintly hear the thump of bass inside, like a heartbeat behind the walls.

Nathan swung the car into a crooked spot, barely braking before hopping out and offering you a hand. "Ready for prom 0.5?" he said with a smirk.

"It's not prom, babe" you muttered with a half-smile, fixing the hem of your dress as you stepped out.

He didn't hear. Or pretended not to and continued to clutch your hand as you walked inside.

The gym had been utterly transformed. Streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, fairy lights hung like stars, and the DJ booth was already pumping out some remix of a song that was barely a year old. People were crowding the dance floor, others were perched around the edges like it was some glittery battlefield.

You blinked, heels clicking against the gym floor as you walked in, Nathan's hand ghosting the small of your back.

And across the room—somewhere near the bleachers, still as ever—Rodrick Heffley stood like a misplaced shadow. Mismatched black tie. Slightly wrinkled dress shirt. Hair a little messy, but not in the usual 'I just woke up in a trash can' way.

He was here.

And he was staring right at you.

But somewhere between Call Me Maybe and an aggressively off-key group scream of Timber, you lost track of where Nathan was.

The dance floor was a minefield of sweaty bodies and sticky soda spills, and you were caught right in the middle—arms looped around shoulders that weren't yours, your own hand gripped by some girl you barely even knew from chem, spinning you like you were best friends.

"Dance with us, oh my god, stop being a priss!" someone squealed, pulling you closer. A guy in a shiny vest bumped into you hard, laughing like he didn't notice. Even suits, on guys were obnoxiously shiny with vests and open-collar shirts like some Shakespearan twink.

You stumbled a bit, catching yourself, heels wobbling on the gym floor.

"Jesus," you muttered, trying to laugh it off, but your smile was pinched. The music vibrated through your ribs.

And in the corner of your eye—through the haze of disco lights and poorly ventilated fog machine clouds—you caught sight of him.

Rodrick.

He was raiding the snack table with the confidence of someone who clearly had not been invited, tongue out slightly as he tried to stack like, six cookies on a single flimsy napkin. Dressed like someone whose mom had ironed his shirt five minutes before he left and gave up halfway through. Tie crooked. Hair not quite right.

He looked...exactly how you remembered him. Out of place. In his own world. And weirdly invincible for it. You're a little jealous.

You stared a little too long. Like you were trying to memorize him again. Then someone yelled "Move!" and a pair of shoulders shoved past you. You blinked and looked away.

Time blurred after that—chattering girls, photos with forced smiles, soda spills that smelled faintly of fake fruit, Mr. Lacey threatening to shut everything down if someone didn't stop making obnoxious sex noises by the speaker.

You needed air.

The gym doors creaked open as you stepped out, the cold night air biting pleasantly at your cheeks. The lot was mostly empty now, just the sound of music echoing faintly behind you, until—

You froze.

The convertible. That convertible.

Heather Hills sat perched in the driver's seat, her legs up, golden hair tousled like she'd just come from a magazine shoot. Lip gloss smeared in a way that wasn't accidental. And Nathan—your boyfriend—was leaned in close, hand on the headrest behind her, laughing. That quiet, smug kind of laugh.

You watched as she touched his chest, planting another fat, wet one on his lips.

And he didn't move away.

Something inside you sank slow and sharp, like someone had cut the strings holding you up.

You just stood there like an idiot, glitter catching on your lashes like it was trying to decorate the silence. You can't even go down there and confront him because you're sure if you even tried to walk down the steps in your current condition you'd tumble over and break your back.

Behind you, the gym doors creaked open again, and a familiar lazy voice groaned, "Dude, they ran outta punch, what the hell—"

Rodrick.

He spotted you immediately. Stopped mid-step, still holding his cup and a tragically bent cookie. Brows furrowing, head tilting.

"...Hey," he said, quieter this time.

Upon closer look, you realised looked unusally thick and creased with a faint outline of another shirt underneath. This dork.

And even though the air was freezing, and your heart had just cracked clean down the center, you gave him the tiniest, smallest, fakest smile in the world.

Rodrick didn't even clock your expression. He felt like something had just neuron-activated in his brain, seeing you in that obnoxiously bold dress, sweetheart neckline around your breasts and the glitter catching in your collarbones and along your shoulders like you were dipped in stars or wearing a real life Instagram filter—he swore he forgot how to breathe.

Jesus Christ.

Why did you have to look like THAT.

He felt like some part of his teenage loser brain just got sucker-punched awake, but no he couldn't discern the expression on your face.

Or maybe he did and was just, y'know...being Rodrick.

"Yo, you know they've got mini donuts in there?" he said, voice way too loud for the dead quiet outside. He held one up proudly, like the tiny thing would hide his reddening face. "I thought it was a meatball at first so I like, bit it and I was like, 'Why's this meatball sweet?'—"

"Rodrick," you hissed, panic snapping through your throat.

He paused mid-ramble, donut halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

"Shut up."

Your hand latched onto his wrist and you yanked him back toward the gym before he could even blink. He staggered a bit, mouth full, confused as hell but letting you drag him anyway.

"What the—, I just got out here! You dragging me for round two on the dance floor? Because I'm telling you now, I don't grind. That's like, against my religion or whatever."

You spun him around by the back door, ducking beneath the glowing EXIT sign, breathing hard.

Rodrick blinked down at you, finally catching the look on your face. Your shoulders were tense, hands still clenched, chest rising like something was caught there and wouldn't go down.

"...Okay," he said slowly, "either someone pissed in your punch or you just watched Nathan pull something seriously dumb."

You didn't say anything.

But you didn't have to.

Because now Rodrick's eyes flicked past you, through the cracked door where Heather's laugh floated on the breeze like a knife. And something in his face settled into that rare, quiet stillness that only came out when things weren't a joke anymore.

"...Shit," he muttered. "That's what you meant by shut up."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt. "No, Rodrick. I just really didn't want anyone to interrupt your story about donut meatballs."

He winced. "Okay. Fair."

Silence. Not even the fun kind.

Just the kind where the music from inside bled through the gym doors, thumping like a heartbeat neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You had your hands hovering just above your face—not touching, not really—just... floating there. Like you wanted to press in, hide behind them, but you remembered the effort it took to get your eyeliner symmetrical and said no thanks to the meltdown. Your fingers twitched near your temples. A sigh tried to escape you and everything was annoying you even if it was unfair you said:

"...are you wearing a..." You squint, leaning in so close he swears he's going to get dusted in glitter too, examining the scratchy letters that formed a sort of V-shape, "Rammestein shirt?"

"Look, this button-up isn't even mine, its my dad's."

You pull back, laughing softly and he thinks its music (not his screaming-metal type but more like a catchy pop song) to his ears, especially after seeing you so disraught only a moment ago.

"That's so fucking stupid." 

Rodrick stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, holding back a grin that you knew the band, but was still calling him stupid.

"I dunno a single word in any of their songs. German sounds badass though."

You roll your eyes, "Did you fail German back in middle school? Or did you try taking Spanish instead?"

"Neither. I can't read shit in English, why would I know Spanish?" Rodrick deadpans, clutching his tiny donut and cup of punch.

You smile, your lips suddenly feeling stupidly sticky with lipgloss and everything you were wearing was suddenly a sensory issue.

He scratched the back of his neck like his skin suddenly didn't fit right either. He watched your glitter catch the light and decided this was the most painful crush he's ever had.

Yeah, he's gonna admit it, he has a crush on someone else's girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, in the near future probably, but it still felt weird because he's self-aware his ego isn't that inflated to pull someone else's girlfriend.

God. Yeah. He had a crush.

Not just a "oh, she's hot" kind of crush either. Not the kind he used to have on some older chick from a magazine, or even that stupid, overhyped thing with Heather Hills because she had blonde hair and nice legs. No, this one was personal. Sharp-edged and humiliating. It made his stomach knot and his face burn and his tongue trip over itself anytime you looked directly at him for more than three seconds, even if most of the time you looked at him like a piece of shit.

And it sucked.

Because you had a boyfriend. Quarterback dude with abs and a car and one of those faces that parents love, even when he's a dick. And Rodrick wasn't gonna pretend he was some noble guy about it either—he wanted to hate the guy just for existing, but also...didn't feel like he was even in the same league. Not with the band tees, the sarcasm, the chronic inability to ask for anything without sounding like a joke.

Still.

He watched the glitter on your shoulders flicker like starlight. Heard the way your laugh cracked like glass earlier when you were trying not to cry. And it hit him. Hard.

Yeah, no way out of this one. Rodrick Heffley had a full-blown, pathetic, slow-burning, feels-like-getting-punched-in-the-gut crush on you. And losers with crushes do stupid things.

"Wanna dance?" he blurted out, because clearly his mouth didn't have the same filter as his brain tonight.

You stared. Hard.

Eyes over your manicured fingertips dolled out with heavy press-ons, blinking slow.

His confidence wavered fast, like a kid realizing the slide is way taller than it looked from the ground. "I mean—not like, grind or anything. I got kicked out of church but I still feel like Jesus or something is watching me," he added quickly, joking but also kind of wishing the floor would eat him.

You just kept staring.

Then—

"...You're such an idiot."

And you dropped your hands and let out a breath that might've been a laugh. Maybe. Almost.

But you didn't walk away.

Didn't scoff or shoot him down or roll your eyes like he half-expected. Instead, you just kinda... melted. Like all the fight had slowly drained out of you and left behind something soft, something sad and open. Your hands hovered awkwardly near his arms before settling at his shoulders. Close. Closer than he thought you'd ever let him be.

Rodrick blinked. Panic set in—but only for a second—because holy shit you said yes. You were dancing with him.

Or, well, trying to.

Because within five seconds, he'd managed to step on your toe and nearly elbow someone behind him in the ribs. His hands were hovering somewhere between your ribs and waist like he was holding a bomb. His knees bent weird. His head was doing something strange.

You stared up at him like you were watching a toddler try to walk.

"The fuck are you doing?" you blurted, half-laughing, half-offended. "That's not how you—what even is that?"

"I dunno!" he whisper-yelled, defensive already. "I panicked! I've never slow danced with someone before, okay? I thought it was like...swaying or some shit!"

You couldn't even be mad. You just snorted and leaned your head forward, bumping into his chest lightly. "You're such a dumbass, take that shirt off you look far too...hot."

You had to pause at the double meaning in that; yeah, maybe you did have a thing for Rodrick but you felt like you had nothing to lose now.

"What, right here—"

"Like, warm! You're literally overheating," You tug him to the side, waddling backwards in your sparkly shoes and start to unbutton his far-too-large dress shirt behind the desserts table.

Rodrick let you drag him like some half-reluctant, half-thrilled mannequin, his boots scuffing awkwardly across the gym floor as you pulled him behind the dessert table, all glittery and glowing and far too determined.

"I mean, who wears flannel over a band tee to a dance?" you muttered, fingers already popping open the buttons like you were defusing a bomb. "It's like ninety degrees in here."

"I didn't know there was a dress code," Rodrick grumbled, standing there all stiff with his arms half-raised, heart thudding hard enough to make him dizzy. "Also, rude. This shirt's vintage."

You gave him a flat look as you yanked the flannel fully open. "It's a worn-out Rammstein tee with a mustard stain on the hem."

Rodrick looked down. "Battle damage."

You didn't dignify that with a response. You just slid the flannel off his arms and tossed it somewhere behind the punch bowl, huffing. But you didn't step away. Not yet. You stayed close, fingers lingering a second too long on the edge of the tee like you were thinking about something you shouldn't think about.

And Rodrick? Rodrick was fighting for his goddamn life.

You looked like that—like this—and your lip gloss was catching the light and your dress was hugging your waist in a way that made his brain static. And for once, you were touching him, tugging at him, focused entirely on him.

So yeah. He took the moment to admire you. A little too long. A little too obvious. Eyes trailing over your neck, the curve of your collarbones, the shimmer along your jaw.

"You done gawking?" you said, quirking a brow.

Rodrick cleared his throat. Loudly. "Yeah. No. Maybe. Shut up."

"Too many maybes, I'm going to flip out." You groan, fiddling with his buttons, "I mean, maybe I'm some slut who dances with the first guy she sees after her boyfriend cheats on her since well, you're a fucking loser and I'm a hypocrite huh?"

The words just started tumbling out your mouth, tightly-laced with frustration, before you could stop yourself.

Rodrick's mouth dropped open. Like his brain had blue-screened. Just static in his skull, completely unprepared for the self-destruction you just spit out. He blinked hard, hands twitching at his sides like they wanted to hold you but didn't know how, didn't know if they were allowed to.

"No—wait—you're not—I mean, you're not like that, you're..." He made a strangled noise. "You're cool, like really... like you're just—fuck—you're wonderful, okay?!"

It came out like he was having an allergic reaction to sincerity. Like the word "wonderful" had to be ripped from the back of his throat.

You just stared at him.

"...you just call me wonderful?" Your voice cracked half in disbelief, half in... something else. Of all things, he picked something corny like that? Talking like an almond mom?

Rodrick immediately turned red, like he'd been caught naked mid-thought. "I—I didn't mean it like a grandma way, I just—like, you're—shit, you're so much sometimes, I mean it in a good way, I swear—"

You blinked at him, wide-eyed. And for a second, just a second, the ache in your chest loosened. Just from how sincerely bad he was at saying something nice. And how hard he was trying anyway.

You laughed.

Not a cute, closed-mouth laugh either. An actual, full-on, open-mouthed cackle that made your lipgloss smear just slightly across your top lip, catching the light in a way that made Rodrick's already-fried brain just fully implode. Your shoulders shook, eyes crinkling, and he could feel the way your fingers tugged at the last button on his shirt—pop—and it all felt way too intimate for something happening behind the dessert table at a high school dance.

And then it happened.

In his dazed, flustered haze, he shifted his foot—just slightly—bumping into yours as you leaned closer. You both tilted, a shared gravitational pull, and—

CLUNK.

The table jerked. Something metallic creaked. The both of you turned just in time to watch the chocolate fountain wobble like it was trying to decide its own fate. You didn't breathe. Neither did he.

Then, in slow-motion doom:

CRASH.

Chocolate. Everywhere. Cascading like a sticky waterfall of regret.

You both froze. Silent. Horrified.

"...Shit," Rodrick whispered, eyes wide, hair sticking up from stress like static. "Was that... expensive?"

What is this stupid sense of deja vu?

The room exploded.

A collective gasp. A shriek. Someone yelled "MY SHOES!" from across the gym like it was a war crime. The scent of cocoa thickened in the air, hot and dramatic and very visible. A freshman slipped trying to escape the blast zone. One of the chaperones shouted something about liability. Phones were already out—flashes popping like gunfire.

Rodrick's eyes were wild.

"Okay—nope—nope," he mumbled, grabbing your wrist before you could even form words, yanking you behind him with all the coordination of a guy who'd only ever sprinted to avoid doing chores. "We're leaving. I'm not getting banned again."

"Wait—again?!"

But he didn't answer. He ducked under streamers, sidestepped a trail of melted chocolate like a landmine map, and beelined for the back door like a man with zero dignity and zero intention of getting caught. You stumbled after him in your sparkly shoes, glitter flashing with every chaotic step.

The gym doors slammed behind you. The cool night air bit your skin. You both half-tripped, half-tumbled down the concrete steps like some low-budget romcom crash cut.

You swear you meet Nathan's eyes as he perks up alarmed at the commotion coming from inside—of course, with Heather's dress half undone beside him in the front seat.

You knew you could never do that with him; not with your scars because you're so sure someone like Nathan would pull away. Maybe that's why he went for a valley girl like Heather who's only got "first-world problems". Not the kind of problems where you think you should kill yourself every other day.

Not that it mattered right now, because they passed across in a big, glittery, half-naked blur.

The parking lot was dark and half-empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as  but its not like you stopped there and he dragged you across the ashphalt.

"RODRICK!" 

You barely manage to keep ahold of your tiny purse as he practically shoved you in the back. You hit your head on a stray cymbal on the floor.

Rodrick finally crawled into the cab of his van, settling into the driver's seat with relief, unaware you're sprawled like a ragdoll. "Hide in there," he panted, "...they won't know."

That was the least of your worries right now. Your heart was thudding in your ears, god you want to punch him. He sensed a disturbance in the force and he slowly turned around, peeking into the back and staring right at your irriated, glittery, smudged face.

He smiled a bit nervous, "Uh.."

"You have made me snap my heel."

He looked concerned, brows furrowing, "What like a broken bone?!"

"No," You say, shuddering like you're trying to compose yourself, "My fucking SHOE."

He winces with an apologetic expression that makes your anger melt.

"Just step on it." You slowly get up, groaning at the ache in your back.

"What? Where you going? Because last time I pulled up to your house, you got your ass beat."

You sigh, crawling FROM the back into the passenger seat with immense difficulty, legs first, "Ugh, well, where are you going? My parents aren't expecting me back until like 11. Let me stay out since it was Nathan."

Rodrick's mouth goes dry as you push past him and setting down into the passenger seat, your massive poofy skirt taking up half the space in the front cab. You looked like one of those CUPPATINIS dolls with skirts so big and round they would turn into a teacup when you flipped them inside out.

"Uh, home..."

You stare at eachother.

Rodrick clears his throat, his hands gripping and shaking on the wheel, "Is it too early to invite you over?"

You note the crack in his voice and let your arms flop down into the sea of organza around you. Your voice comes out small, whispered almost, "...no, that would be great."

Rodrick had to bite his lip to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. Not that you didn't see it. 

The van rumbled to life, coughing like it had chain-smoked a pack before prom. You settled into the seat with a sigh, your sparkly skirt ballooning around your legs like some kind of cursed prom-themed marshmallow. Rodrick had to keep peeking over the tulle just to see the gearshift.

The radio buzzed to life without either of you touching it—blaring loud, thrashing rock from some crusty band he probably thought was underrated genius. You braced for the usual impulse to eye-roll or snap at him to turn it down, but... you just laughed instead.

Rodrick side-eyed you with suspicion. "You didn't just—laugh?"

You shrugged, chin resting on the edge of your seatbelt. "You've got a whole chocolate crime scene on your shirt, I'm not exactly in a position to complain."

So the rest of the drive passed like that—quiet, charged, and awkward, with guitar riffs filling the space neither of you had the guts to fill. You'd occasionally catch him sneaking glances, drumming fingers on the wheel like a nervous habit. Your leg brushed his once on a turn and neither of you moved it.

By the time the van slowed in front of the Heffley house, you were starting to feel the buzz of adrenaline wear off. The porchlight was on, buzzing gently. Rodrick put the van in park and turned to say something just as the front door slammed open.

"GREG, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"RODRICK?!"

The screaming overlapped. A blur of plaid pajama pants and bare feet skidded to the threshold, Greg looking like he'd aged a decade. Manny barreled into view right after, shrieking like a banshee with a Nerf gun in hand and chocolate smeared across his face.

You blinked. "Is he—does he have a sugar problem—"

"Don't engage," Rodrick muttered grimly, already opening the door. "He feeds off attention."

Greg stood frozen in the doorway like he'd just been hit by a brick. His eyes ping-ponged between Rodrick—disheveled, flushed, still chocolate-stained—and you, standing behind him in a glitter-covered prom dress that had clearly been through war. Like, literal war.

"...What," Greg said slowly, "is that?"

Rodrick groaned. "She's a girl, Greg. Ever seen one before?"

"No, why is she here? You look like you mugged a bakery and she looks like she was dragged backwards through a limo."

"I was not—" you started, trying to smooth down the giant puff of your skirt, which had now collected an impressive bouquet of twigs and cupcake frosting. Greg just stared, slack-jawed.

Manny screeched again and shot a Nerf dart right into your cleavage. You flinched and tried to fish it out and Rodrick had half the mind to do it himself but he'd look like a perv. Rodrick grabbed it from your hands instead and threw it back at him with surgical rage.

Greg finally came to. "Wait—are you bringing girls home now? Like to the house? What the hell is happening, did someone swap your brain out or something?!"

Rodrick spun on him, wild-eyed, palms out. "Greg, shut up! Don't say anything to Dad—please."

That was all it took. Greg's brows shot up so far they nearly vanished into his hairline.

"Ohhhhhh," he said slowly, eyes widening with glee and horror at the same time. "You brought a girl home, and you don't want Dad to know. Oh, he's gonna kill you."

Rodrick looked like he was about to throw up.

"Greg, please."

"...What's in it for me?"

"Greg—I'll give you twenty bucks and I'll do your chores for two weeks just please shut up—"

You stepped around him and blinked at Greg, arms crossed over your sparkly, sticky chest.

"Listen, I just watched my boyfriend cheat on me and the heel on my shoe has snapped, I'm not in the mood."

Greg's mouth clamped shut, mumbling something to Rodrick,

"I thought you were one of those dudes like, up for hire like a male prosti—"

Rodrick smacks him in the back of the head. And you hope you didn't hear that correctly.

Rodrick exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "Okay. Okay. Cool. Let's go before anyone else sees us."

You followed him in, glitter trailing behind like fairy dust, and Greg just stood there, staring after you like Rodrick had just brought a literal alien home.

You limped across the hall, one sparkly heel in hand like a war trophy and the other still dangling off your toes, threatening to break apart with every uneven shuffle. Your other foot was bare and probably sticky from the frosting you'd stepped in during the Great Chocolate Fountain Escape, but you were too fried to care. You just followed Rodrick through the narrow hallway past the kitchen and down into the garage.

It looked exactly like something out of a teenage garage band fever dream.

Old, cracking band posters lined the walls—some peeling at the corners, some held up with duct tape and what looked suspiciously like chewed gum. A rusting drum kit sat in one corner, half-covered with a flannel shirt that was either drying or being used as a dust cloth (who knew). Empty soda cans and crumpled fast food bags littered the floor around the amp cords, which tangled like snakes on the concrete. A crooked whiteboard on one wall had half-faded notes like practice tues?? and call Bill abt gig??? scrawled in Rodrick's barely-legible all-caps.

A makeshift couch made from what was probably three different pieces of furniture sat crooked beneath a flickering basement light, cushions long worn into a cratered shape by hours of teenage boy lounging.

You blinked at it all for a second before flopping down onto the couch with a soft "ugh," your skirt puffing out like a broken parachute around you. Your glitter left an instant trail on the old corduroy cushions.

Rodrick stood awkwardly in front of you, scratching the back of his neck and shoving some guitar picks off the seat next to you with his foot. "Uh...yeah. This is the garage."

You gave him a tired look. "No shit, Sherlock."

He cracked a weak smile. "Sorry. I just—uh—don't usually have girls in here. And they don't wear...you know." He vaguely motioned to your massive glittery dress.

You smirked, holding up the snapped heel. "You're welcome for the fashion upgrade."

Rodrick snorted and sat down beside you—close, but not too close—shoulders brushing for just a second before he shifted a little like he didn't trust himself not to combust. His knees jutted out wide, his band tee slightly wrinkled, hair still messy from running and a little glossy with sweat.

"Want water?" he asked after a beat. "Or like...a popsicle? That's all we got."

You smile. That sounded really good.

You both ended up sitting there—half-dazed, half-recovering from the sugar crash—sucking on those cheap neon freezer pops from the back of the fridge like kindergarteners at recess.

Rodrick had a red one. You had blue.

There was nothing but the low hum of the mini fridge, the distant muffled sound of Greg yelling at Manny to stop biting things, and the occasional squeak of the garage door shifting in the wind. Your knees were curled sideways on the couch now, dress cascading down onto the floor, heels abandoned by the amp like a glitter crime scene.

"These always make my throat weird," you muttered, voice raspy as you sucked on the end of the plastic tube.

Rodrick looked over at you, lips stained crimson and already half-dissolved popsicle in hand. "Yeah. It's like you're eating frostbite."

You laughed, your voice a little choked. "Why do they taste like window cleaner?"

"'Cause they are, probably." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and immediately winced when he saw the bright red smear he left behind. "Shit, I look like I just kissed a clown."

You stuck your tongue out at him, stained bright blue and freezing cold, like a cartoon character. "You look like one."

"Oh, real mature," he grinned, half leaning into your space now. "Say that again, smurf mouth."

"Smurf mouth?" You let out this tired, high-pitched giggle, cheeks glowing even in the dim garage light. "You're one to talk, blood mouth."

He blinked slowly, letting the silence hang for a second before cracking a smile so wide it made his nose scrunch. "This is the dumbest afterparty ever."

You nodded, sucking the last bit of blue juice from the corner of the tube. "Afterparty while the actual party is still going. Shit's sad but I kinda don't wanna leave though so it must be something."

Rodrick shrugged and stared at the half-melted popsicle in his hand, the red streak dripping down his fingers and soaking into his palm.

You were both just sprawled out now—melting, basically—like a couple of discarded action figures tossed onto a couch. The couch springs poked through a tear in the side, and Rodrick's bare socked foot was resting dangerously close to a pair of drumsticks crusted in god-knows-what.

The popsicles were finished. Your lips were tingling and throat felt weirdly numb, but your body was relaxed in a way it hadn't been in weeks.

You glanced sideways. "Hey...that your electric?"

Rodrick followed your gaze to the chipped black guitar leaning against a busted amp, duct tape hanging off one corner like it was trying to hold the instrument's soul together. "No it's Drew's spare." He tilted his head, squinting at it. "Still technically works."

You hummed, eyes dragging over the fretboard. "That's like the one I played that night, huh?"

He blinked. Then gave a sharp exhale through his nose. "You mean the night you emotionally obliterated me with, like, three chords and a death glare?"

A lopsided smirk formed on your gloss-smudged lips. "I was going through it."

Rodrick picked at a loose thread in his jeans, mock casual. "You wanna play again? I mean—I can, like, back you up this time. Or, y'know...hover awkwardly while pretending I know how chords work."

There was a beat. Then a short laugh from you, almost disbelieving.

"I don't even remember how."

"Good," Rodrick said, eyes flicking to yours with this soft, crooked grin. "You'll fit right in."

Rodrick plugged in the guitar with a dramatic flourish like he was in some kind of budget movie trailer, then immediately fumbled with the amp knob because it made a loud crackkk sound and nearly blew both your eardrums out.

You laughed so hard you doubled over, your poofy dress spilling over your knees like a deflated balloon. One of your press-ons popped off earlier while opening the popsicle wrapper, and you'd gotten fed up trying to save the rest. So now you were unceremoniously biting them off with your teeth, balancing the last one between your molars like some kind of petty act of rebellion.

Barefoot and exhausted, your skirt gathered around your lap like a quilt, you watched Rodrick make a face at the buzzing static coming from the amp.

"Okay," he muttered, pressing buttons he clearly didn't understand. "That's, uh...a noise. That's fine."

You just grinned at him. "You're such a pro."

Rodrick gave you a side-glance, but it was laced with this boyish pride he couldn't quite mask, and he perched the strap over his shoulder. "Alright. What do you wanna hear, Your Majesty?"

"I dunno. What do you think?" you said, tossing your chewed-off nail to the floor and shaking out your curls like a messy queen on a throne made of old amps and pizza boxes.

The minutes blurred as you picked up the guitar and he slumped behind his drumkit. Between messy rhythm, out-of-tune strings, and you humming nonsense lyrics to nothing in particular, it was the most alive either of you had felt in weeks.

Eventually, the music tapered off. Not because you ran out of energy—though, to be fair, your eyelids were getting heavy—but because the moment didn't need anything else.

Rodrick flopped back dramatically onto a pile of bedsheets, the guitar sliding from his chest with a soft thunk. "I'm dead. You killed me. Congrats."

You peeled your dress off the floor where it had pooled and curled your legs to the side. "You've been dead. You're like... undead. A walking cringe."

He groaned into his arm. "Shut up."

But when he peeked at you through his messy fringe, something soft flickered in his face—like he was still reeling from the fact that you were here, in his garage, glitter and all, sitting right beside him on the floor in silence.

Not that the silence was awkward.

It settled over you both like a warm blanket, heavy but comforting, punctuated only by the soft hum of the amp still idling in the background and the occasional creak of the garage walls cooling with the night. Outside, you could hear the faint bark of a neighbor's dog and the distant whoosh of a car driving past.

You sat cross-legged now, your dress poofed around you like a wilted flower, toes peeking out. Your lip gloss was half-smudged, your makeup fading in that kind of raw, human way that made you look even more real. More you.

Rodrick turned his head toward you from where he laid, the back of his wrist under his skull, and just stared for a second too long.

You noticed. Of course you noticed.

"What," you said, barely more than a whisper, lips quirking up like you were about to tease him. But you didn't. You just looked at him. Really looked.

And he swallowed.

"I dunno," he muttered, voice rough and caught in his throat. "You're just...here. In my garage. Like it's normal or something. And it's not."

You blinked. "Why's it not?"

He sat up a bit, propping himself on his elbow. "Because. You're...like..." He gestured at you vaguely, his hand flopping uselessly. "That. And I'm me."

You didn't say anything for a second. He was still staring, and you didn't break eye contact. It was like neither of you could. There was a buzz in the air, but not like the amp—this one was electric. Right beneath your skin.

Then softly, you said, "You're not just you. You're..."

You trailed off. Because you didn't know what you were going to say. Or maybe you did, but it was stuck behind your teeth.

He was leaning in before either of you realized it. Just a little. Just enough to feel the shift.

His hair was falling in his eyes again. His breath tasted like cherry popsicle and cheap soda, and yours was barely held together behind glossed lips, parted slightly because you were frozen. That little breathless moment, like someone pressing pause right before something stupidly irreversible.

You leaned back on your palms ignoring it the best you could, dress folding around you like a crumpled cupcake wrapper, your chest rising slow under the sweetheart neckline. Your lips were glossy again, faintly smudged with the remnants of red dye, and your eyes—though tired—were fixed on Rodrick with this glimmer of something he didn't think he was allowed to name.

He blinked slowly. "...Are we doing this, y'know like...? Because I wanna know if I should admit I haven't done this before or if that would just embarrass myself."

Your laugh was so small it could've cracked. "I—I don't know."

He was really focused on your face, but he had no idea where to look. 

Nothing everything down to the way your lashes casting little shadows across your cheeks. He didn't even think—you were this close. Your hand twitched toward his, fingers brushing his wrist like a test, feeling the bumps of healing scars under your hand.

"Don't," you said suddenly, sitting a little straighter. "Don't look at me like that. I'm gonna get confused."

His brows creased. "Confused?"

"Yeah. Like..." You trailed off, eyes darting between his. "Like maybe I'm supposed to feel something. Like maybe you do."

Rodrick's throat bobbed. "And what the hell do I do if I do?"

Your noses were nearly brushing now, your breath hot with sugar and artificial cherry. His eyes dropped to your lips for a second, then to your eyes, to your chest to anywhere because yeah he didn't know what he was doing despite the big game he talks. If anything, your head tilted just a little.

And right when his mouth nearly brushed yours—

"RODRICK! YOU LEFT THE MILK OUT!"

Greg.

Rodrick flinched so hard he nearly fell backwards, knocking over a pile of empty soda cans.

You just sat there, blinking in disbelief.

"...Was that a jump scare?" you mumbled.

Rodrick groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Kill me. Just actually kill me."

You laughed softly, breathless, flopping back onto the rug. The kiss didn't happen—but god, it almost did. And now the air buzzed with it. Like electricity crawling up your spines. But also with relief because you're not sure what you would have done if it did happen.

"I DID NOT LEAVE THE DAMN MILK OUT."

Greg cleared his throat really loudly and you paused.

"I SAID YOU LEFT THE MILK OUT."

Rodrick's eyes widened. His mouth parted, breath catching, and he turned sharply toward you like his body made the decision before his brain caught up.

"Shit." He was up in a second, grabbing your hand—not harshly, not rough, just fast. "You gotta go. You have to go."

"Rodrick—"

"No, I'm serious," he hissed, low and urgent, already guiding you toward the back of the garage, stepping over guitar cables and a torn drum pad. "My dad's back. You can't be here. He'll—he'll lose it."

You didn't need him to say it. You already saw it in the way his voice shook, in the little tremble in his fingers as he fumbled with the old, creaky side door near the tool shelf, where the scent of oil and old wood hung in the air.

You hesitated. "I can't just leave you here."

"You have to."

There was this split second—just one—where you wanted to fight it. To grab him and scream 'come with me then,' to drag him into your glitter-hairspray world with your own blood and scars, and tell him you'd protect him too.

But you weren't at that point yet. Neither of you were.

So you slipped your broken heel into one hand, and the other he still held like it was a lifeline, and you let him lead you out the side door into the cool night air.

He didn't kiss you goodbye.

He just looked at you—really looked at you, again—and whispered. "Uhhh, I'll find you, promise."

He paused just as he ushered you out, with a sarcastic half grin, "Maybe we can continue where we left off, yeah?"

And then the door shut. Just as the familiar bass-heavy bellow of what you assumed was Frank Heffley's voice echoed from somewhere in the house.

You didn't protest to stay. Because you were barefoot outside on their driveway and you were wondering yourself how you were going to get home in the dark in a dress like this. And explain to your own parents what had happened. 

click for part 1 click for part 2 click for part 3 click for part 4 click for part 5 click for part 6 click for part 7 click for part 8 click for part 9 click for part 10 click for part 11 click for part 12

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you! Please do leave requests!

[midnight1nk]

PRESENTING:

THE OFFICIAL WOTFI 2024 BINGO CARD

Come one and all to Puzzle Park, where fun truly never ends...

:)

[BOX EXPLANATIONS & EMPTY CARD UNDER CUT]

BOX EXPLANATIONS (+CREDITS)

Mario Ruins The Show — me, @sardix

No matter what Mr Puzzles does, Mario is the only character he can't control. The one who never obeys. The one who ruins the show. So, it wouldn't be the first time Mario would save the day.

Past Arcs Or Trauma — /sardix

it's bound to happen some time, right? :)

Karma

After what he did to Meggy, it makes sense that Mr. Puzzles will face the same demise. The fate that's popular within the fandom would be his death. But if he lives, he could turn into Leggy himself, his TV head with tiny footsies. Or just his head. Either way, he would end up harmless.

It also refers to Puzzles's defeat. He tried to destroy the crew multiple times, it's only natural that the SMG Crew will try to fight back.

Mr Puzzles having a grudge against SMG4 — /sardix

We already knew that Puzzles hates Four, jealous even. How did Four, a ridiculous YT shitposter, get more attention than him? His original ideas pushed aside for memes? To add salt in the wound, Puzzles's steaming service of 5 episodes only managed 4.5 stars at his highest while Four surpassed him with 5.5 stars within an hour. An hour. And then, Four had the nerve to destroy his perfect screen at the end of the Puzzlevision movie. Then, there's the Meme Factory arc. Four took his only friend away, it's only fair if Four gets what he deserves. Why don't we have some fun with it while we're at it? :)

Park Destroyed — @34saveme34

By the end of WOTFI, Puzzle Park gets destroyed similar to how the simulation lab crumbled by the end of Western Spaghetti, seeing that there are a lot of similarities between Wren and Puzzles with the whole wires thing going on.

It's Gotta Be Perfect — me, @time1srunout, and literally everyone

Interestingly, the show crew brings back moments/parallels from IGBP. After all, everything started at that arc. Perfection, the keyboard, the eyes, the goo, the Showgrounds, Puzzlevision. And of course, Four and Puzzles being Narrative Foils(TM). I mean, you gotta love it.

The reason why it's in its own box is because of how significant it is. And besides, many theories stem from this arc. For me, I'll be looking for eyes, Goop!Four, and absolute karma.

References, confirmed theories, motifs, flashbacks, it all counts.

Freak Show

Referring to the poster made by the SMG4 crew with Tari, SMG3, Boopkins, and Bob being labeled as freaks. Someone's gotta bring this into WOTFI somehow.

(Carnival-Themed) Rap — me, @porschas-palette

Just as a heist-themed WOTFI happened in 2023, an awesome carnival-themed rap will happen this year. And it will be a BANGER!

Puzzles' Backstory — me, @yullalightk

As much as Puzzles is an interesting character, we have yet to learn more about his past. We have already seen some in his Creative Control song and in the 'Mr Puzzles' Clubhouse' episode with his dad. There simply has to be more. The puzzle pieces of his past :) ...I'll see myself out

The Bell Tolls 🔔

For the past few weeks, Ben and Shadow have been trolling the SMG4 twitter with their ;) and the bell emoji.

Stop stop [*points at SMG4 twt*] they're already dead/ref

On one tweet, Ben posted a few lyrics of the song "For Whom the Bell Tolls", a 1984 song by Metallica that was apparently inspired by a book of the same name, which basically tells a scene in the story where 5 soldiers died in the Spanish Civil War. Exploring death in modern warfare. As for whom the bell tolls, it's all of us, being bounded together. It's all of them who the bell tolls for.

Any reference to the heavy metal song, signs of bells, or even death, it marks this box for sure. Sure, it may be trolling, but hey, anything's possible.

Not So Different

With Four and Puzzles being Narrative Foils(TM), I've been waiting for a scene of Puzzles telling Four:

"You and I, we aren't so different. You wished to make people happy. I'm simply doing the same..."

It also be in reverse with Four OR Three telling that to Mr Puzzles that they get where he's coming from but he doesn't have to go down this path. They know what it's like. Whether Puzzles accepts defeat/change, it'll be up to him.

(Ending) Twist — me, /porschas-palette

At the very end of WOTFI, Mr Puzzles finally came out in all this glory of a model, showing he also pulled the strings of WOTFI 2023. Aside from IGBP and Western Spaghetti, of course. It's likely to happen again. Old/new characters, foreshadowing, fake death. It all counts.

Merch

...I mean, it's pretty obvious, right? I'm gonna bet on a poster, shirt/hoodie, a keychain, and something related to the WOTFI ticket. 5 bucks, all in.

Star Rating System

This whole arc constantly comes back to the ratings. Mr Puzzles in the negatives in the "Lowest Point" episode, Mickey referring the single star as the power source in the Engine Room in "Mr Puzzles' Clubhouse". And no, we're not going to forget about the broken star Mr Puzzles had left at the end of Puzzlevision. With Mr Puzzles being THE power source, it has to come back.

Sacrifice — me, /sardix, /porschas-palette

"Character Death" and "Character Fake Death" were great suggestions. But then, when sardix stated "Mario saves the day doing something stupid/protects someone from dying", it made me realize something. That's right, each one of the Crew would do anything to protect the others. Even if it costs them their lives. But it's worth the risk if it means they're safe. Three technically did in the "Welcome to Puzzle Park" episode, trying to warn Four and Mario. I mentioned in my theories that someone will sacrifice themselves, so this might be it.

It could also mean in terms of the exchange of something else, not necessarily a life. It could be Meggy's physical condition, knowing that she was forced to become Leggy again. Based on all those screams, I think her body's not going to be the same. A loss of a limb or something. Or perhaps, after seeing what he's done, Mr Puzzles might admit defeat. The sacrifice of his dream for creative vision.

Tender Tunnel — me, Nicc

What other reason would there be to have the equivalent of the Tunnel of Love in Puzzle Park? Literally, why would they do that? They could've put anything else in there. Popping balloon stand, the horse racing game, any other ride. Why this? And not just that, they keep pointing the camera right at it as if they're like "hey, this is going to become relevant later, so remember it".

SMG4 Kids

This whole arc also revolved around the children. Karen's kids, Beeg4, Eggdog, JubJub. Like I said in my "The Unexpected Guests" theory, they could still be relevant here. Also, the whole Didney thing and their large kid audience and the carnival being fun for kids (and all ages ofc).

Puzzles Dies 💀 — Nicc

As much as some of us don't want it to happen, Mr Puzzles may die, similarly how Wren did. For how to defeat Puzzles, it seems like the Crew would have to destroy the power source that's currently controlling the park... aka Mr Puzzles

Meggy Confronts

By the near end of WOTFI, in the final showdown between the Crew and Puzzles, Meggy might be back to normal and might have a few words with him in regards to what happened to her. In song or pure dialogue, she might confront him about his wrongdoings.

Or perhaps, for the very first time, Leggy might defy him. The whole time, Leggy is like "Join the winning team, he was such a great boss". And what if something snapped in Leggy that made her say "no" to Puzzles? That, no, this is going too far. No, I can't let you do this.

"You Saved Me" 💫 💣 — me, /sardix

SMG4 x SMG3 shippers, we're all too familiar with this line. Ever since SMG3 redeemed himself, the two have constantly said this line, after one indeed does save the other. Actually, it kind of happens in every movie if you think about it. And it works just as well here.

SMG3 being in a horrible minigame trap might get saved by Four and Mario with Four pulling out of it,

Three: "You... saved me?" Four: "Why wouldn't I? You were literally in a trap, dude." Three, hitting the back of Four's head: "I... Augh, just forget it, baka."

OR in reverse, when Four thanks Three for trying to save him and Mario. They didn't exactly escape in time but Three really has grown to become a true friend.

This box also works as a "Four and Three moment that can be seen as romantic" box :)

Brand New Look

This could be new outfits, bringing back old ones (like Three's bunny ears or WOTFI '23 suits), a new Puzzle face, or a new look of the Puzzle Park.

Puzzles Tune

Puzzles' musical motif dubbed as "TV Time", the one we're all familiar with, could come back. Either in the background, as a new arrangement, or as part of the Rap(TM) instrumental. It did that for WOTFI 2023 to foreshadow his subtle involvement so I don't see why it couldn't happen.

Dynamic Change

After rewatching "SMG4 and SMG3 come up with an episode", I predicted that something would change in Four and Three's dynamic, for better or worse. (For better, hopefully). As I said, it could be Three's revelation. Sure, the episode is a silly one, it should not be taken so seriously. But it's also the same episode that "hinted" the idea of a carnival coming to the Showgrounds, so anything could happen at this point.

And it doesn't have to be between Four and Three, it could be anyone in WOTFI. Leggy and Puzzles, the Crew within, etc.

Leggy's Flag

As shown in the "Lowest Point" episode, Mr Puzzles kept Leggy's flag after all this time. It wouldn't be a surprise that it might be used for a turning point in the plot in some way. Maybe it could be used as evidence of Puzzles' humanity, or for Puzzles to realize the damage he has caused. That he lost himself. All for creative vision.

BLANK CARD

If you want to fill in your own card, I leave here a blank version for your use AND a marker png:

Also, feel free to post this on other platforms, the more the merrier. All I ask from you is to credit me.

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Have fun with it, bring in your moots or discord server! But as always, enjoy what WOTFI has to offer. "Love always wins", after all.

I would like to give a big thanks to everyone who has given me suggestions, great job honestly!

And feel free to share your cards after WOTFI either by tagging me or using #wotfi 2024 bingo, I would love to see them! I'll see you all on the other side, my dear fellows.

[timeslipcamp]

alright so this feels like a reach, but it also feels like an "obviously nostradamus" kind of observation lol but i'm putting it out there anyways. theory on the prophecy given at the entrance ceremony

spoilers through episode 13 i think? vague tho

okay so this is the prophecy we were given at the entrance ceremony. hyde brought out the kamadan and here's what it said:

oh my god it's a kudan sorry kamadan is dnd

the KUDAN said:

"The whisper of the new moon shall lead the champion to the academy on the solitary aisle. So long as the champion resides there, the world shall be sheltered from profound tragedy."

the chancellor gave his opinion on how he interprets it soon after:

"The whisper of the new moon refers to the tidings that alert us to the birth of a new ghoul. The academy on the solitary aisle is, of course, Darkwick Academy. The ghouls who have been gathered here by the new moon's whisper...shall save the world from profound tragedy!! They are our champions!"

like most of what the chancellor says, i think this is bullshit lol

i'll give him the solitary aisle part at least. like nothing else in the story (that we've been told of) would make sense for this part lol the solitary aisle academy is darkwick

after this is where i start to disagree. let's go line by line because i'm insane

"The whisper of the new moon,"

okay, granted, i have no idea how the academy finds out about new ghouls. there could be some weird little ceremony that they've never told us about that has to do with the moon and whispers blah blah blah. HOWEVER! however. the new moon part has been tripping me up the last few weeks

new moons are dark moons. it's the period in the moon's cycle where its darkest before it starts to fill out and begin to glow again. this is caused by the positioning that causes the side of the moon facing us to be in shadow. that's not super important. the important part is that the new moon starts in darkness. the ENTIRE intro of the game before you pick a ghoul talks about humanity being afraid of the dark and coming out of it into the light.

additionally, mc's name in the save files is luna. luna is a name that literally translates from latin as moon. luna was the roman goddess of the moon personified, and we know this game loves its greek and roman god names and symbolism.

this is the part that's the stretch. if luna (mc) is the moon, is the new moon the luna that's coming fresh into the time loop? or is the new moon the darker luna, the kyklos, and it's because of the kyklos that mc gets led to the solitary aisle? the kyklos/mina was texting us and talking about destiny, i feel like that counts as a whisper

"...shall lead the champion to the academy on the solitary aisle."

this is the "duh" part, but i'm pretty sure mc is the champion. it's a game where we're the main character, classic mc is the chosen one, right? it makes more sense than the ghouls anyways. and then we're obviously led to darkwick.

"So long as the champion resides there, the world shall be sheltered from profound tragedy."

they went through a LOT of trouble in those early chapters to keep mc there--taxis ignoring her, train stops not working, the wanted posters...it was kind of insane. that being said, the kyklos is apparently a crazy contagious anomaly, and the way yuri and jiro spoke about it in the newest mortkranken chapter makes it sound like it could have easily spread like wildfire.

so to summarize, i think mc is both the champion and the moon leading herself back to the island in order to keep herself contained. however! there's definitely holes in this theory, seeing as the kyklos escapes off the train and taiga just tells us its missing lmao. he says he lost it, but honestly i don't know if i believe him. part of me thinks he either ate it or he knows exactly where it went and he's lying

and just to tack on to this theory, i think darkwick (and the chancellor) knows the ghouls aren't the champions. if anything, i think they're using it as an excuse to gather all the ghouls (and anomalies) on the island and to keep them there for whatever purpose. they want the ghouls contained and controlled, and what better way than a prophecy that says they have to be contained in order to prevent tragedy?

anyways most of this was pulled out of my ass while i was on hold with insurance at work lmao but that's my two cents for now. i'm sure i'll have a different opinion in like, two chapters

sidenote: they made this kudan way cuter lol kudans are a type of japanese folklore creature that their name means "human faced bovine," and this is what they look like

apparently, their birth (from a cow) is an omen that something significant is to happen, and they typically die either right after delivering their prophecy or as soon as it comes true.

ours is way cuter

[msomao]

"Don't move while I'm doing your make up!"

"Uh-? oh, sorry"

A commission I did, that I'm so glad for, they are so cute!! also, this counts as a little "backstory" to my Gyaru Shadow, where he would get help from Amy and Rouge to find his own style

also, a Metadow reference, since this is my Metadow heaven 🫶 also, we can appreciate the Honey poster? I liked it a lot

[benzedrine-calmstheitch]

Good Omens season 2 referencing Powell & Pressburger films

Crowley's angel hair is modeled after Kim Hunter's hair as June in A Matter of Life and Death (1946).

Maggie's shop is called The Small Back Room in reference to 1949's The Small Back Room.

The red ballet shoes on the door of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death are a nod to The Red Shoes (1948). (Note : the klaxons sounding in Heaven at the end of episode 1 are said to be a nod to the alarm bells in The Other World in A Matter of Life and Death. Personally, I don't think they sound at all alike; they are only similar in both being alarms. Plus, it's an audio reference, which I don't have the skill or patience to include here. But it's there!)

In The Small Back Room, Maggie has a poster for the film Stairway to Heaven displayed. A Matter of Life and Death was released under this title in the US.

The tartan hills welcoming Aziraphale to Scotland are a reference to the tartan hills welcoming Joan to Scotland in I Know Where I'm Going! (1945). And of course, the third episode is itself titled "I Know Where I'm Going."

Jim drops the book My Best Games of Chess, 1924-1937, by Alexander Alekhine, onto a table in the bookshop repeatedly as he is discovering how gravity works. This book is featured prominently in A Matter of Life and Death.

When Aziraphale enters The Resurrectionist pub in Edinburgh, I Know Where I'm Going! is playing on both televisions (I'm pretty sure I found the right scene to match this screenshot). You can also make out the name 'Pressburger' on one of the posters in this screenshot, but we'll get to that later. . .

The family name on the mausoleum where Aziraphale and Crowley hide out with Elspeth and Wee Morag is Archers. It's never clearly seen in the show, but it can be seen in this BTS photo of the model used for Crowley's embiggening. The Archers was the name of Powell and Pressburger's production company. The interior of the tomb and the urns outside the full-size set also reference the Archers, and Powell & Pressburger individually.

In Mr. Arnold's record shop, one of the posters on the wall is for a UK music tour; either the band or the tour is titled Met By Moonlight. This is referencing Ill Met By Moonlight (1957), the final film Powell & Pressburger made together. (I personally think this one is a reach, as the title of the film is a line from A Midsummer Night's Dream and thus not really clockable to the outside viewer as a direct Archers reference, but apparently the intent was there so we're counting it!)

The Pressburger posters are more clearly visible during the Gabriel and Beelzebub rendezvous scene in The Resurrectionists pub. We can see they advertise 'Pressburger Scottish Lager,' which is of course a nod to Emeric Pressburger himself. (Unclear if Michael Powell has his own label that we just don't get a clear view of. . .)

-- -- -- -- --

I clocked a couple of these myself, but they are all referenced in the X-Ray trivia on the Prime Video player. Would love to know if anyone has clocked anymore that aren't divulged. . .

[teabanksia]

Isaiah 57:16

summary: An analysis and observation of Arthur Morgan's redemption in the form of a first person fanfiction.

word count: 1.7k

notes: No smut, SFW, angst, major religious references, Arthur has tuberculosis, the Downes family and Leopold Strauss, Arthurs POV.

I still don't recognise the man in the mirror. Now his eyes are sunken and sad, his skin is blotchy, pale, and red, for his sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow, though red as crimson. Are they supposed to weep for you now? The man scoffed. He’s dying, and I am dying with him. A few weeks, months maybe, three at the most; I can only guess. Perhaps part of me has always longed for death. It’s here, but I remain afraid. A cowardly man, that is what I have been.

I was angry, good and angry, because of my own sins. I struck him hard and then turned away in fury, leaving his wife and posterity begging for a mercy I was too mulish to grant. I remained cynical whilst he kept his stubborn and willful ways. I looked again and saw what he was doing for others; helping people, that’s something I could never do, not then and maybe not even now. In the place of justice, wickedness was there, and in the place of judgement, I was there.

Moreover, there is Strauss, a chicken-hearted man if I did ever see one. That shrinking fool is to whom I am to blame for this wasting sickness. Running around doing his bidding at the command of Dutch, making me beat these poor bastards for their petty change, and for what, our freedom? There’s no freedom in this. I ought to kill him for what he’s making me do. But I am desperate and confused. As such I will obey, just as I always have. The weasel’s head snapped up, his nervous eyes met my own. I looked away. 

Coward.

But the thought was not aimed at Strauss.

The final name in the ledger is my own. I absolved the prior, I helped others, I gave my own wealth and I begged for salvation. I tried to save him; the man in the mirror, I led him and I comforted him, praising the mourner and granting peace to the far off and peace to the near at hand. But I could not heal him. The house is damp, and stained grey just as is the sky. The wooden slates had expanded in the rain. The boards are rotting, it looks as though it could collapse at any moment. 

Arthur, her husband, is dead. It’s sardonic, as so am I. Yet I stand in front of the shack that mirrors myself, rotting, falling apart, wicked at heart. 

She has a son, much like my own, with pale skin and chestnut hair. He looked at me with fear. I lost Isaac, murdered for ten dollars. It seems I am no better man than the bastards who killed mine. I’m pathetic; standing before this woman and child who have nothing left, still begging them for their money. 

“You want my boy's shoes? You want the food out of our bellies? What little there is. Do you want me to lie down for you?” Of course I couldn’t. She looked at me with a cruelty that I deserved. There was no fear as was on the child’s face, only hatred for the vile shallow man ahead of her. I absolved the debt and gave her some of my own coin, it wasn’t much, I could have given more. But I am selfish, money hungry, and ugly. 

“I’m sorry ma’am, I really am.” 

But there is no peace for the wicked.

***

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. My actions go against everything I was told, every lie and false rule spat at me by my father; I have disobeyed. I’ve been a bad man. 

When I burst back into camp, I grabbed that scrawny cur and threw him to the ground. I’m sick of him for what he’s done, for what he’s made me do. I kicked him out of camp whilst the eyes of my family followed me. I should have killed him at that moment. Perhaps it is just me being a coward once more, or maybe it’s another hopeless and selfish attempt at salvation. 

There is always a way that appears to be right, but in the end, it leads to death.

I tried to do good, and I did do good. I gave back, I absolved the debtors, I helped that Grays boy and the Braithwaites girl, I’ve helped Eagle Flies and Rains Fall. I have rescued and assisted, helped and saved. I’ve given back and tried my best to atone for what I have done and what I still do. However, there is still Thomas Downes; my white elephant. He is the sick breath at my hind, and now, so is his widow. 

My stomach churns thinking about it, and I find it difficult to get air into my lungs, an issue becoming all the more frequent in recent days. Maybe it's the guilt, or maybe my illness. I’m feeling it more now, as did Downes. Downes. 

The man in the mirror stumbled to a crouch at a nearby rock, his body barely managing before he collapsed against it, his lungs heaving and my wrist coated in crimson as he pressed it against my mouth. His body is dragged south and my heart goes with it. I hate that name, I hate him for what he’s done to me… I hate him for what I did to him. 

"For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

Surely the fate of human beings is like that of the animals; the same fate awaits us both. As one dies, so does the other. All have the same breath. I have no advantage over animals. Everything is meaningless; and a man reaps what he sows. 

Another good deed could surely fix what I have done, it could grant me peace, an act for someone I wronged the most. Mrs Downes. 

I saw her in Annesburg, a small mining town. I pushed that poor woman into selling herself from the hurt I caused, I pushed her son likely to his death in those mines. I ruined their lives, I suffer for it every day. But my suffering is not half of what their own is. I tracked her out of town, it may have been an invasion, a selfish act for my own will. She doesn’t want my help, but the boy seemed so worried for her. I found her by an old log in the outskirts of Annesburg. A quiet place, with no one to hear her cries. She was being harassed by a male, maybe helping her in this moment was my good deed afterall, but I know I’m the cause of it.

She told me I sound like her husband. My cough – My punishment.

I took her to her home and I offered her and her boy money. I want them to rebuild their lives, not to be killed by their pride. She declined but I forced it into the palm of their hands. 

“Don’t thank me” I commanded them. The boy did anyway, so I scolded him.

I claimed to not be looking for forgiveness, if salvation is not forgiveness, then what is it? I wish for peace, a calm death, for this guilt to no longer be at the front of my mind. How is that not looking for forgiveness? If not from Mrs Downes than from who, Dutch? A higher power? God will bring into judgment both the righteous and the wicked, there will be a time for every activity, a time to judge every deed. 

My deeds have not been kind, nor could my current deeds make up for what I did to so many. You can change the man, but you can not change his actions. If I have changed at all. For a moment I thought maybe this was it, the salvation I seek, the forgiveness. But I am not at peace. 

Perhaps my father, Dutch, is the reason I am this way. He took me off the streets and gave me a home, and at the same time he turned me into a monster. Forced me to be his workhorse, do the dirty crimes that no one else wanted to do, It’s all I was good for, soon I will die with nothing I was good at.

I wish I could tell all of them that it wasn’t me, it was Strauss, it was Dutch, it was my upbringing, my loyalty, I never would have done it otherwise. But I would be wrong. I didn’t have to beat Downes. I did it because I was angry. At him or at myself? It does not matter, I still struck him. The children weep for their mothers and the widows weep for their men. I took both of them and now I expect the same people to weep for me. I am a selfish coward. 

Father, forgive me, I do not know what I am doing. I know what I did, I’m haunted by it every moment. I wallow in my self pity for the actions I myself chose to make. But what the hell am I doing now? All have sinned but mine have been worse. Do I expect myself to be justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ? He will call the past to recount. I can expect nothing more than the eternal damnation I brought upon myself. 

I look to the mirror once more, the man’s sins are damson against the thin skin below his eyes. Wasting away, It’s getting worse much faster than I expected. Will they miss me? My brother John, little Jack, Charles, Sadie. Even my father, Dutch, would he miss me? I wouldn’t miss me. The man in the mirror scoffs once more. How foolish of him to think a month of good can’t make up for a lifetime of pain he inflicted on others. That cowardly man in the mirror – No, the man who looks into the mirror – he and I are the same. The same coward with the same hurt and the same damage. I am no better than my actions, there is no peace for the wicked. 

Image credits // @/softcowboi on Pinterest

Taglist // @luluslibrary @restingmadface @brokebackmountain1899