#question: do i draw anything other than oliver

[heartthrobin]

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

-

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

-

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

-

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

-

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

-

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

-

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

-

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them. 

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

-

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

-

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[syoddeye]

useless, part two

Part Two of my submission to @glitterypirateduck's O, Captain! Challenge. As a reminder, I rolled a d100 to select three prompts. Unfortunately I got carried away with this part, so I haven't used my third prompt yet. But that just means a Part Three is coming.

You could argue this fits 95. Attending an event together...

Read Part One. Tag list: @v1x3n @kiranezra

~2k words, Price x f!Reader. Enjoy!

The ice bites through the steel shaker, your fingers sting, and the noise is a tick too loud, but both are decent distractions while you figure out what to say. In the corner of your eye, John watches with an amused look, tempting your elbow to somehow find his chin. When you finally stop, popping the cap to strain the vodka and vermouth, of course, he's already prepared with a snarky comment.

"Did it owe you money?"

"Yeah," you say, pulling an olive from a jar and dunking it into the glass. "Be glad you don't." 

John leans on the counter beside you. "I'd hate to cross you."

"That's new," you retort, savoring both his mildly confused look and the drink. "They feed you growth hormones in the army?"

He laughs. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

You suppress a smile behind your glass and cross an arm over your front. "Are you back for long?"

His laughter peters out, and he shakes his head. "Nah, I leave tomorrow night."

"Mm," The noncommittal masks your wilting. You study John's face in the half-second pause. Since stepping foot in the house, no, since hearing about this soiree yesterday, he's plagued your thoughts. All those hours spent in each other's company for the better part of a year. That dumb fight resurfaces. You're not going to amount to anything! Classic John to prove you wrong. The jerk. 

"My mom told me you're doing well for yourself. You graduated something early? That you got into the SAS or whatever?"

"'Whatever'?" John scoffs, turning to face you better, enunciating each word as if you can't recite As You Like It by memory. "Yes. I'm doing well. You're looking at Lieutenant John Price, I'll have you know."

You arch an eyebrow. You know, in your gut, it is impressive. How or why is a mystery; it just is. Zero chance you'll let him know that. "And that's a big deal?"

"To some people."

"Well, I'm not 'some people'." You say with a tilt of your head.

"No, you're not," He answers a mite quieter before taking another swig and straightening. "Rumor mill says I'm looking at another promotion, maybe next year."

"What'll your title, er, rank be then?"

He smirks. "Captain."

You nod as if this again means something to you, a foreign civilian, and make a show of it. "Right," Your eyes hold each other in place in his parent's kitchen. A balloon of silence begs to be popped, for a decade's worth of fleeting memories and games of telephone through your mothers, to burst and ease the tension. And it's so typical, so John, that he hasn't even asked about y–

"And how're you faring?"

Stunning. Fucking karmic.

You can't stop yourself. "Oh, look at you, John Price. Did the army also finally teach you how to hold conversations?"

His eyes narrow a fraction, and that quizzical pinching of his brow returns. His lips part to speak, but a commotion at the entrance to the kitchen draws your attention. A pair of older men meander in, pink-faced and glassy-eyed, slurring the words to Auld Lang Syne two and a half hours too early. You take it for what it surely is, an out, and slip away. 

John's parents are eager enough to receive you in the crowded living room and return to their fawning. You'd rather wade through another stint of stilted conversation with their questions about your credits stateside or reminisce about embassy days than suffer John pretending to give a shit regarding your useless career.

You dance around speaking to him again, politely finding ways to dip in and out of conversations he thrusts himself into. The practice leverages all parts of your acting career and what you remember of the education your mother gave you. Smile, nod, ask leading questions, and watch for the interloper. It pays off, as John seems to eventually get the hint and fades into the background of the party.

When the clock strikes half past eleven and some ex-policy advisor nearly spills his ale on you, you decide it's time to sneak out. You've overstayed your allotted time. John's nowhere in sight, most guests are deep within their cups, and the giddiness of the impending countdown is palpable. It's easy enough to step into the front hall unseen without an ounce of guilt in your veins. You came, you saw, you drank expensive vodka, and made nice with your mother's friends.

Buttoning your coat, you step out into the night's chill and start down the steps. You're two paces from the garden gate when a man's voice pushes into your ear.

"Goin' somewhere?"

The two courses of stage combat you've completed guide your hand in a flat chop to the offending jugular. The owner of said jugular, however, catches the blow with an arm, then laughs, a rich and deep sound, to drive the humiliation home.

"John, Jesus Christ, you complete asshole!" You hiss, turning to shove the man standing in the shadows behind you. 

"There she is," He cracks, still chuckling. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Yeah right, you absolute-"

"Arse?" His hands rise in defense when you glare, the glow of a cigar catching your eye before he lowers it to his mouth for a puff. It's a moment before his mouth opens, the tobacco scent permeating the short distance between you. "Just out for a smoke."

Wrinkling your nose, you sigh. "That is awful for your health."

"So's my line of work," He counters.

"Fair point."

"Glad you think so."

You stare at him again. Admittedly, it's hard not to. Even in the dark, the glint of his steady gaze tethers. Maybe it's the military thing—like he's learned to restrain people without touching them. It must be because it couldn't be anything else. A shiver compels you to speak. "I have to get going."

"So close to the bell?"

"I need to prepare for an audition," You lie. There is no audition. The only thing waiting for you at home is an inherited prompt book for Kiss Me Kate to work on.

"I'll walk you to the station."

"You don't need to do that."

John corrals you toward the gate, his accompaniment apparently a foregone conclusion, and holds it open as you pass. "C'mon. It's been ten years. You used to escort me all the time."

You huff. "That was security, not me."

"You were always in the car, weren't you?"

John sticks to your side despite your protests, which last for all of one street. You slip once, and his arm offers itself immediately, which you take only for stability. Beneath the layers, his muscle is firm and a sure thing, unchallenged by your leaning on it. He's always been strong. 

"Is there a reason you avoided me all night?" he asks suddenly, showing you the small mercy of keeping his eyes trained forward.

The walk is slick, and you realize that a minute too late, his arm is both a gentlemanly safeguard and a leash.

"I didn't avoid you."

"No, you just ran off again before I could talk to you."

Ran off again. The lout remembers. Has to.

"Fine. I wasn't in the mood to be reminded of my failures."

He scoffs, arm flexing to squeeze your hand. "You weren't a failure. Furthest thing from it."

"I'm not talking about school, John," you snap, exasperated. You regret ever wishing he'd inquire after you. "I don't—I don't want to talk about that." You see him glance in your periphery and then search the air for a way forward. You provide it.

"So, Captain. That's a big deal." As much as it kills you, it's easier to speak of his successes. "Bet your parents are over the moon."

John sighs. "They're thrilled."

"You do anything particularly insane to earn it?"

"Can't tell you," he answers automatically, a notch more serious, his cigar adding a touch of drama.

You pat his arm. "You'd have to kill me?"

"Something like that."

A few minutes pass in silence. Muffled music and cheers trickle through open windows on either side of the streets. Midnight rapidly approaches, as does the station.

"You seeing anyone?"

Oof. Maybe you should've spoken about your failing acting career. At least that had some color and excitement.

"No. My boyfriend, uh, ex-boyfriend ended things a week ago."

John stops, gently tugging when you nearly stumble. His expression is difficult to read between lampposts, but his tone suggests contempt. "At Christmas?" 

You want to laugh at his incredulity, the pure scandal in his voice. But you don't. He's gone all serious again. "Two days before, actually. It's alright though," you nudge him to walk again. "It wasn't anything serious."

It's the truth. Jeff was a middling boyfriend. He was never going to go the distance. He'd been a half-decent romp and someone to drink with. 

"Well he seems like a serious idiot."

"I won't fight you on that," you shrug. "And you, Captain? I bet you must beat them off with a stick in uniform."

He chuckles, releasing smoke. "I'm not a Captain yet. And I'm too busy."

"You'll make Captain," you say a little too quickly, too confidently, snapping your focus back to the stairs to the station ahead. "I can make it from here."

John seems to consider it. He's quiet before he snuffs out his cigar on a bin. "I'll walk down with you."

You descend the steps arm in arm, passing a giggling, buzzed couple on their way up.

"It's a shame you're leaving before midnight, Cinderella," John teases as you stroll slowly into the virtually empty tunnel. His head is on a swivel. Ever the soldier, apparently.

The ground is dry and even below street level. There's no need to keep his arm.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather not stick around to see everything turn back into pumpkins," you check the time. The train is due at 12:02 AM.

John seems almost on edge as he looks around. You feel a slight, frenetic energy reverberating where your arms touch, mismatching the absolute rigidity of his bearing. His eyes are wilder when they meet yours, and his head dips slightly.

You frown. "What's wrong?"

"It's good luck to kiss somebody at midnight." He all but blurts out.

Your hold on his arm loosens, but he grips back firmer. "That's what's got you in a tizzy?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm going to need all the luck I can get this next year."

What is he going on about? His promotion? You're unsure if you like how he's looking at you. "John—"

A trio on the platform starts counting down some distance away, but the sound carries.

"Please." It's earnest. It's certain.

You bite your cheek, searching for any hint of this being a joke. "Just a friendly peck." you clarify.

"'Course." He reels you in, eyes half-lidded, closing in suddenly with a barely held-back urgency.

A hand cupping the back of your head knocks a gasp out of you. "It doesn't change anything." You quickly add.

"Not a thing."

Cheers erupt down the platform, but you barely hear them over the roar of blood in your ears. John's mouth is a force. It's earnest. It's certain. It was never going to be a friendly peck. You've kissed many people on stage and off, but never quite like this.

The train's rumbling knocks you back into reality. You're both breathing heavier. John's eyes darken with a hungry look, and everything in his posture suggests he's after more. Your name slips from his mouth like a command.

"Stay," he orders.

But you're not a soldier. You've never even played one. You're not equipped to face whatever this is—what that was. The doors to the car open behind you, and his eyes flicker toward them as if to will them shut. You shake your head imperceptibly.

"Happy New Years, John."

You step into the train, a coward. You don't look back to see if he watches the train depart, but you know he does.

It's another fourteen years before you see John Price again.

[asian-hero]

Drunken Confessions

Alhaitham/Reader

It's hard to deny your feelings for the Acting Grand Sage and dear friend when your drunken self speaks them so earnestly. It's a shame you can't seem to recall them.

a/n: i have such brainrot for this man it's not even funny anymore

wc: 3.1k

The first thing you awoke to was the harsh light of the morning sun streaming through the curtains. Groaning, you moved an arm across your face, covering your eyes in an attempt to block the offending light from view. 

The second thing you noticed, however, was the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting into the space. It was an alarming scent, considering you lived by yourself and never gave anyone a spare key. Shooting up, you blindly reached around, looking for something to defend yourself with. Though, your momentary panic was short-lived, as a familiar laugh cut through the air, the sound drawing closer with each second.

“So you’re finally awake,” Alhaitham mused, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding out the cup of coffee for you, “Are you feeling alright?”

Relaxing, you let out another tired groan, taking the warm cup from his hands. “I feel like I’ve been thrown off a twenty-foot cliff,”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” He chided, though a hint of laughter could be heard in his tone, his hand resting on your knee, “Considering the only painful experience you had last night was trying to out-drink Kaveh,”

Taking a long sip, you felt your eyebrows furrowing, trying your best to remember the night before. Bits and pieces came to you, with Alhaitham’s anecdote filling in some of the picture. All you could remember was Kaveh asking if you were available, citing some issues with a current client of his and wanting to drink his sorrows. Besides that, you couldn’t remember any other details, including how you found yourself in your current predicament.

Hesitantly, you set the coffee cup on the nightstand, taking in your surroundings. Large piles of heavy tomes and small, eclectic Aranara statues seemed to stare back at you. The comforter beneath your fingers felt soft to the touch, the olive green hue matching the rest of the house. It was also surprisingly heavier than you thought it’d be, its weight soothing your worries and inviting you to fall back into slumber. You felt Alhaitham’s thumb gently caress your covered knee, drawing your attention back to reality.

Looking back at the man in front of you, you felt your cheeks begin to heat up. It appeared that he’d gotten up earlier than you, all of his usual attire neatly in place, save for his cloak and headphones, both of which were surprisingly nowhere to be seen. In the time you were observing his room, he seemed to shift closer to you, his head tilted slightly as he continued to stare at you in curiosity. His watercolor eyes followed your every move, dipping from the fidgeting of your hands to your own wandering eyes. If you were any more delusional, you would’ve thought his gaze softened at your morning form, as if he were somehow enchanted by your disheveled self.

Subconsciously, you ran a hand through your hair in a poor attempt to tame any unruly pieces before tucking yourself into the weighted blanket, covering yourself as much as you could. “So, you brought me back to your home?”

Though it was an obvious question, he nodded his head, answering you seriously. “I did.”

You nodded your head along, your eyes landing upon a pile of clothes neatly folded on his armchair, looking suspiciously like the ones you were wearing the previous day. Peering beneath the weighted blanket, you felt your eyes widen in shock and embarrassment as you gazed upon a shirt that was indeed, not yours. 

Your head snapped up, eyes wider than you thought possible. “I—You—Did we?”

At this, Alhaitham’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, I wouldn’t take advantage—” Pausing, the corners of his lips tipped downward, his eyes narrowing as if he were piecing the puzzle together, “Do you not remember anything?”

You winced at his tone, feeling as though you were no better than a child being scolded by their parent. “I’m sorry…I didn’t,” You hesitated, unsure if you should press the topic further, “I didn’t say anything bad, did I?”

For a short while, Alhaitham’s expression became unreadable. While normally he wasn’t easy to read, you were always able to get an idea of how he was feeling; whether or not he was happy and content, if he was irritated or overstimulated. Now, though, you couldn’t even begin to decipher what he was thinking. Before you could question him further, he suddenly stood up from his spot, dusting off imaginary dust from his pants.

“You didn’t say anything important,” He stated, back facing you as he moved to leave, “I have work. Feel free to use the shower, and make sure to wash my shirt before you return it.”

With that, the door to his bedroom closed behind him. If you listened closely, you could hear his footsteps growing further before the front door slammed shut. Though Alhaitham had, rather bluntly, told you that nothing happened, you couldn’t help but feel anxiety gnaw at your stomach, feeling as if you’d missed something important.

Not wanting to take advantage of the man’s hospitality for longer than needed, you quickly hopped into the shower, ignoring the fluttering of your heart as you washed yourself of the night before, and grabbed your clothes from the chair and changed, cringing at the thought of wearing your dirty laundry. Tidying up his bed, you hesitated on whether or not you should leave his shirt behind, before ultimately remembering he’d wanted it cleaned before you returned it. Tucking the aforementioned shirt underneath your arm, you made a break for the front door, not wanting to risk anyone seeing you leave the Acting Grand Sage’s house. 

You would’ve made it too, had it not been for the blonde architect who was at fault for the entire night.

“Archons, Alhaitham, would it kill you to be a little quieter—” Kaveh complained, looking equally as disheveled, pausing as soon as his eyes landed on you.

For a few seconds, the two of you were in a standoff, both of you processing what was happening. Kaveh seemed to grasp the situation first, letting out an ugly snort.

“What’s this?” He started, an eyebrow arching playfully, “Bedding the Grand Sage? What, did he promise he’d approve your research proposal?”

You pointed an accusatory finger at him, eyes narrowing. “Do not start with me, Kaveh.”

Your warning did nothing to dissuade the architect, in fact, they only seemed to embolden him. Smirking, he sighed dramatically, placing a hand on his chest for added effect. “Oh dear, you know I’m teasing. I know you’d sleep with him with no ulterior motives, though I can’t fathom why on Teyvat—” Cutting himself off, he frowned, peering around for the aforementioned sage, “Wait, where is your loverboy?”

“He left for work,” You sighed, arms crossing protectively across your chest, “And he’s not my ‘loverboy,’ we didn’t even sleep together.”

Kaveh seemed surprised at this revelation, his lips parting in shock before he fixed his expression. Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, he gestured towards the coffee table, beckoning you to join him. Despite wanting to leave as soon as possible, you knew that as soon as Kaveh caught wind of your problems, it would take nothing less than a natural disaster to make him not help you. So, you took a seat, watching as he moved around the kitchen, brewing himself some tea, putting away the second cup when you politely declined. 

As the two of you waited for the water to boil, he turned to face you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on with you two? You seemed to be okay after your little conversation,”

Your little conversation. So you had said something weird. You groaned, rubbing your temples as you processed everything. “That’s the problem, Kaveh. I can’t remember what I said last night.”

A pause. “Nothing?”

You hummed an affirmative, “When I asked Alhaitham about it, he seemed upset, but I don’t know why, and I can’t apologize for it if I can’t remember what I said.”

At your words, you watched as Kaveh’s expression shifted from one of surprise to one you couldn’t read. For the second time this morning, you found yourself utterly useless at reading others’ emotions.

“You truly can’t remember what you said?”

“I just told you—”

“Think about it,” He started, a hint of exasperated humor tinting his voice, “What could you possibly say last night that would make Alhaitham upset you couldn’t remember?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be in this position, you—”

“Think harder.”

When you only continued to look confused, Kaveh sighed, deciding to take pity on you. “Let me rephrase: did you notice anything…different, about him this morning?”

Huffing, you crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair as you thought back to earlier this morning. “I mean, before he left, he seemed, softer? He made sure I was okay but didn’t say much.”

Fingers drifting to your knee, your fingers traced the area where his hand was, heat slowly traveling back to your cheeks. “He was also more touchy?” You pouted, looking back up at the blonde man, “But I don’t see how—”

“Archons you’re dense,” He started, not stopping when you cried out indignantly, “You told him that you love him last night. That’s why he’s upset you can’t remember.”

The two of you were silent, the only sound being the whistling of the kettle, angrily announcing its presence. As if solving a puzzle, bits and pieces of your fragmented night began to replay in your mind, starting from your first drink with Kaveh, to Alhaitham walking in, helping you steady yourself as he led the two of you out of the tavern.

You also remembered how you’d immediately clambered onto the man as soon as you saw him walk into the tavern, a drunken smile plastered on your face as he attempted to steady the two of you, the lightest of blushes crawling up his neck.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked, before craning his neck to look at his roommate, “What did you do?”

You giggled as Kaveh protested behind you, refusing to accept fault for your current state. Smiling up at the gray-haired man, you leaned forward, resting your chin on his chest. “Don’t be mad, Haitham,” Moving your hands to cup his cheeks, you laughed, “‘S not a good look on you,”

“Oh?” He questioned, letting you manhandle his face as you wished, “I suppose I can’t be mad anymore then, can I?”

“Nope!” You chirped, tugging the corners of his lips into a lopsided smile, “Too pretty to be mad. Should smile more,”

As you trailed off, Alhaitham felt you slipping slightly. Gripping you tighter, he attempted to pull you towards the door, “C’mon, it’s time to get you home.”

He expected you to put up more of a fight, but instead, you seemed to melt into his touch, letting yourself be dragged along. “M’okay, thanks Haitham. Love you,”

At your words, he froze, his eyes snapping back to your figure. Taking his silence as disbelief, you pouted, pulling away from his grip slightly to face him. 

“S’not nice. I said ‘love you,’” You reiterated, swaying slightly, “Say it back, asshole.”

When he still hadn’t said anything, your frown deepened. Pointing at him, your finger waving in his face. “You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll shout it to the whole world—” Turning to face the rest of the tavern, you began to shout, “Hey! I’m in love with—!”

A calloused hand came to cover your mouth, and you felt Alhaitham’s strong arm wrap around your waist, tugging you toward the entrance. “Alright, I get it. Let’s go, we’ll talk about this later.”

Though his words were blunt, you noticed that his face was bright red, and there was a smile he couldn’t quite mask in time.

The scraping of a chair against wood floors caused you to snap back to reality. Lifting your head, you watched as a smug smirk began to overtake the architect’s face, though he tried to hide it with his cup of tea.

“Well?” He asked, setting his cup down as he watched you go through all five stages of grief in mere minutes, “Remember now? I’m sure everyone at Lambad’s remembers if you don’t.”

“I told him—”

“Yes.”

“In front of—?”

“Unfortunately,” Kaveh sympathized, though it was short-lived, “It was rather entertaining, though.”

“And he,” You started, voice faltering as you came to your next realization, “He feels the same way?”

The look Kaveh gave you was a mix between relief that you finally came to that conclusion, and disbelief that it took you that long to realize the younger man’s affections. Though, he supposed, it was better late than never for you to realize it.

Grabbing your hands in his own, Kaveh looked you in the eye, exasperation clear in his posture. “My dear, he’s felt the same way about you for a long time, and if I have to watch the two of you pine over each other for another minute I think I’ll snap.”

Looking at your intertwined hands, you squeezed his before dropping them, rising from your seat. “I need to go.”

You barely heard Kaveh wishing you luck before you let the door shut behind you, your legs taking you to the Akademiya as fast as they could. It was almost as if you were on autopilot for the entire way there, as you weren’t entirely sure how you’d managed to secure yourself access to the Acting Grand Sage without a prior meeting appointment. Though, if you were to guess based on the information you’d recently been enlightened to, you figured that Alhaitham had told the Akademiya staff that there was a list of certain people he’d allow into his office at any time, and you were most likely one of them.

You continued to go through the motions until you found yourself standing before the doors of Alhaitham’s office. Hesitantly, you knocked on the door, waiting for his answer.

“Come in.”

Taking a steadying breath, you pushed the doors open, peeking in only to find Alhaitham leaning back in his chair, his eyes scanning the document in his hand. You couldn’t help but stare, watching as his fingers tapped against his desk, seemingly subconsciously. 

A loud sigh snapped you out of your daydreaming, the fingers tapping against the desk becoming more rapid. “If you have more proposals, just set them on the table and leave.”

“Oh,” You started, realizing that you hadn’t planned out what you wanted to say, “Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t have any proposals for you to review, but I do have some information from last night that you might like to hear,”

At the sound of your voice, Alhaitham’s eyes moved from the document, widening a fraction once they met yours. Slowly, he set down the papers, his arms crossing against his chest. 

“I thought I told you that you didn’t—”

“I remember what I said last night.”

For the second time today, you’d managed to render Alhaitham speechless. Before he could come back with any sort of remark, you cleared your throat, shifting your weight. “I would just like to inform you that I am still very much in love with you, and hopefully it’s more believable now that I’m no longer ‘under the influence,’”

For what seemed like an eternity, the two of you were silent. You began to fidget with your hands; the tension in the office felt suffocating, and it didn’t help that Alhaitham just continued to stare at you, as if he were dissecting you, trying to find the truth within your words. Eventually, as anxiety continued to shred up your insides, you heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, and footsteps drawing closer to you. Long, elegant fingers wrapped around yours, pulling them apart from each other in order to intertwine them. Thumbs gently rubbed circles into the backs of your hands, similar to how they did this morning.

“You know,” He started, the smallest of pouts gracing his lips, “That was quite rude of you, to confess while under the influence and then not even remember the next morning.”

You laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. “Well, it’s rude of you to not even give me an answer. I laid out my love for you in front of everyone last night, and you didn’t even say it back!”

He hummed, the ghost of a smile lighting his eyes. “I suppose I was rude, wasn’t I?” Leaning closer, he reveled in the way you froze up, tensing underneath his touch, “I should make it up to you, right?”

Moving his hands to caress your cheeks, he smiled, unabashed and unrestrained. “I am unequivocally and irreversibly in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for ages, and I’m so thankful that you’ve finally decided to open your eyes and see it.”

When you continued to stare at him in awe, he laughed, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. He waited patiently for you to come back down, his hands trailing down to hold your waist.

Once you finally regained your ability to speak, you said the first thing on your mind. “I didn’t wash your shirt.”

You heard an unelegant snort come from the man in front of you, turning his head to the side in an attempt to hide his mirth. “I noticed.”

You nodded your head, humming as if you were lost in thought. “I love you too, by the way.”

“I figured,” He drawled, squeezing your waist teasingly, “Otherwise you wouldn’t barge into my office without notice.”

“Oh, so I’m that predictable, huh?” You challenged, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Habibti,” He tested, enjoying the way your face heated up, “I’ve been in love with you for so long, there’s almost nothing about you that I can’t predict.”

“Oh really?”

Before he could make a snide remark, you cupped his cheeks, surging forward to press a kiss to his lips. You could feel Alhaitham stiffen against you, before melting into your embrace, his hands moving to card through your hair. His lips were soft and warm against your own, allowing you to take control. You could feel his breath tickle the skin beneath your nose, and you eventually had to pull away, giggling at the way Alhaitham’s lips chased you. 

You pressed a quick kiss to this cheek, enjoying the slightly dazed look in his eyes. “I bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you?”

At this, he laughed along, pulling you closer to him. Dipping his head for another kiss, he smiled against your lips.

“I can’t say that I did.”

everyone say 'thank you kaveh' bc these fools certainly won't </3

[thecraftydragonc]

Hello everyone, I am opening up donation commissions! Specifically for these donation drawings the cause I want to focus on is the ongoing genocide and humanitarian crisis in Palestine. It is more important than ever to donate to help Palestinians as Israel's attacks only get worse by the hour. It may be easy to feel disconnected from something happening on the other side of the world, or that there’s nothing you can do to help. However, even just a small act of kindness can change someone's life. I know this small donation campaign won’t single handedly change the world, but I am hoping it can be that small act of kindness that someone needs right now. 

So, how will this Donations for Drawings campaign work? It’s pretty simple, you donate to a cause that helps Palestinians and I will draw something for you! The more you donate, the better the drawing will be, but no donation is too small! This campaign will run for 2 weeks from 5/29 to 11:59pm PST on 6/12. Additionally the campaign won’t end until we reach the goal of at least $100 in donations (but we can go over the $100 goal in the 2 week timeline). I am accepting donations to family fundraisers, eSims, and donations to organizations/charities, however escape funds and eSims are a priority right now. If you need help figuring out where to donate, here are some options. This isn’t every fundraiser out there but it’s a good place to start.

Family Fundraisers (These are all vetted fundraisers): Gaza Funds (If you’re having trouble deciding on a family to donate to this site will automatically suggest a fundraiser when you open it) Operation Olive Branch Help Gaza Gaza Evacuation Relief Fund fundsforgaza | Instagram | Linktree

eSims: https://gazaesims.com/

Organizations/Charities: PCRF CareForGaza Supporting Displaced Families in Gaza https://piousprojects.org/campaign/2680 State of Palestine | World Food Programme Doctors Without Borders The National Emergency Appeal: Medical Aid for Palestinians Crips for eSims for Gaza | Chuffed | Non-profit charity and social enterprise fundraising (if you can’t donate an eSim yourself you can donate here)

Once you donate you need to send proof of your donation to me. This can be done through a direct message or this google form https://forms.gle/bUzTb4bgCefc3Wec8. Proof of donation should include a timestamp, what type of donation you made, and how much you donated. Please remove or blackout any personal identification or banking information. Also, specifically for eSim donations you must also show that you forwarded the eSim to gazaesims@gmail.com. I am only accepting donations made during 5/29 or later.

For the drawings themselves, I am up for drawing anything (though I’m best at drawing dragons), Oc’s or Canon characters, just nothing that is NSFW, gore, or has hateful imagery. In your message please include a link to the character's profile (like a toyhouse page or wiki for canon characters) and/or include a reference image. The more you donate the better the drawing will be! Images of Palestinian solidarity can also be included in the drawing for free if you’d like, just specify that in your message. Additionally, these drawings will likely be posted to promote this donation campaign as well as donating to Palestinian causes in general. I can either tag you in these uploads or you can remain anonymous if you wish. 

Thank you for reading all of the info for the donation commission! If you have any questions feel free to ask.

Additionally, if you want to help Palestinians but unfortunately can’t donate, there are still so many ways you can help! You can participate in boycotts https://bdsmovement.net/get-involved/what-to-boycott, do your daily click https://arab.org/click-to-help/palestine/, call and email your representatives to demand a ceasefire, and keep yourself educated by listening to Palestinian voices and learning from resources like https://decolonizepalestine.com/.

[manicpixiefelix]

head, heart, hand. {Felix Catton/Reader/Oliver Quick}

Part 19.

Summary: We follow Oliver Quick in the aftermath of that night in the bathtub. In the days that follow, however, and the Arts Collective dinner drawing ever closer, you seem unusually upset. However, once he meets your mother at the party, a lot of things start to make an unfortunate amount of sense.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: SMUT; masturbation, fantasies and memories of bathtub activities, pervert/enabler dynamics. Also reader's mum is in this chapter so we have warnings for implied child neglect & family trauma, as well as reader talking negatively about themselves a lot.

A/N: 8997 words. OLIVER POV and a huge chapter to sink your teeth into. goes many places, and we finally get to meet at least one of the reader's parents. i believe this is what the kids call 'conflict' in a narrative. Also the reader's parents now officially have names; Pearl & Andreas. Also nana's name is Bijou. let me know what you guys think ! <3

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

Every time Oliver closes his eyes, one of about seventeen million different, lewd images pops into his head of either you or Felix. It seems his mind literally will not allow him to think of anything else, which is fine when he's alone in his room - your room, your bed - but less than ideal when he's sitting across from the two of you over breakfast. Nothing about the way either of you interacted with him was at all different from any other morning. Part of him feels like he's going crazy when you give him a sleepy smile and drop a kiss onto the top of his head in passing on the way to get yourself breakfast.

"Morning Ollie," mumbled affectionately, like it always was from you.

Though it should be noted that Oliver isn't often at breakfast before you and Felix. Both of you are reasonably punctual, and usually seem far less tired than you both seemed to be, so that at least pointed to what happened last night not being a dream. That, and Felix grinning at him as he sat down, placing a mug in front of your setting at the table, and held his own.

"How'd you sleep, mate?" With mirth shining in his eyes; he knows. What he knows and how much, Oliver isn't sure, but there's no way he'd be smiling like that otherwise. What does it mean for him if Felix knows? Where do they go from here?

"Bit restless," Oliver hears himself saying, and trains his eyes on his breakfast, feeling the heat creeping up his cheeks already. Felix makes an apology that sounds completely insincere, and punctuates it with a loud yawn, stretch, and groan. Eyes drawn to Felix, the response almost Pavlovian, and most certainly desperate, all Oliver sees is the pleased little smile Felix wears, still watching him. In the next moment it's gone, turned on you as you place a plate of food in front of him and then at your own place, settling down beside him, as you always do.

The talk over breakfast seems to be the same as it ever was. Plans for the day, with you sighing and declaring that after spend the day before in the garden, you'd be doing quite the opposite, and leisuring in the library, watching something yet to be decided if anyone wanted to join you. He could have sworn there was something pointed in your eyes as your gaze swept over the whole table, landing on his briefly. But then the conversation was moving on, and Oliver had to act like he had any room for decent thoughts in his head at that moment.

Breakfast has become unappealing. He already misses the taste of your blood.

He has to excuse himself, despite having barely eaten half of what he'd served himself. Everyone else enquires after him, asking if he's okay, and he hopes the smile he wears is good enough to stave off further questions.

"Just not hungry this morning is all."

He wishes he'd been as lucky as you, wishes you'd drawn blood; a scab he'd pick forever, a reminder of how thoroughly you'd gotten under his skin. Something in him burns to be scarred by you, marked by you both, a want so violent that you're reduced only to instincts. Bite and touch can be one in the same.

Oliver wasn't stupid. He knew what had been happening. It had been hard enough before last night with this game you'd been playing, the show you'd been putting on. A thrilling chase, tension stretched thin, waiting for Felix to finally make a move to prove that he wasn't just stringing Oliver along. The things he's seen you and Felix doing, the noises he'd been hearing -

Back in his room, he doesn't even realise how hard he's breathing until he slams his door shut, slumping against it, his heart racing.

He never thought it would have been you who broke the rules of this game you've been playing. But now Oliver's left picking up the pieces of his understanding, trying to figure out what the fuck it all meant. He locks his door frantically as he recalls something Venetia had once said to him on one of the few nights he's joined her for a cigarette outside before he would head up to the study -

"Felix hasn't needed since he was ten years old," Venetia's eyes flash with something more than amusement in the moonlight, "he was a desperately needy little brother growing up, clinging to me if mother wasn't clinging to him." The two fingers not holding her cigarette curl into a half fist. With a sly smile, she cocks her hip and leans against Oliver, "he wants, though."

A strange spark of desire arks through Oliver at her words, her knowing, teasing tone, like the flare of a starting gun, a confirmation of what he knew he'd already been working towards. It was nice to hear nonetheless. He tries to act like it doesn't effect him.

"Don't you all?" He glances at Venetia out of the corner of his eyes, tone smooth and unwavering, "you Cattons are the kind of creatures who all seem to want." Then, wetting his lips, "that's what that butler is for after all, and Y/N?" Venetia smiles broader, faint laughter escaping between her teeth.

"Oh, we all want, Ollie," with unrestrained condescension, "but so does most everyone; I know you want, I've seen your eyes. But we Cattons always get what we want, that's the difference you can sense."

"I get what I want, Venetia, I just have to work for it," he says eyes flashing as he looks at her through his lashes. Charming Felix's sister was more habit than actual desire, but he wasn't above using underhanded tactics to win over the Cattons as a whole. Even in the moonlight, he catches sight of Venetia's faint blush. Again she laughs, but her gaze drifts over the grounds.

"Then my brother's mutt must not like you that well," she mused, and takes another drag from her cigarette, "if you still have to work for what you want." The remark catches Oliver off guard for several reasons. After a moment he has to confirm that it's you that she's talking about; Venetia's look says obviously, "haven't you noticed that they can't want for themselves?"

Curled up on his your bed, hand wrapped around his own cock in what's become something of a ritual since he'd arrived and you'd begun playing this game with him, he wonders, not for the first time, if Venetia was right. It seemed as though you'd confirmed as much the other night, that you simply loved him, perhaps even wanted him, because Felix was so fond of him. Even when you'd first slept together you'd danced around the idea of what you'd really wanted, even as he pressed, insisted.

He picked up early on - and told you as much - that you want to be wanted, but Venetia's words had shaken even that belief, or at least, it's origins. At times it seemed like Felix was the kind of creature who fed on the adoration of others, who's to say that you simply wanted to draw people into his orbit, to feed his ego, rather than for your own satisfaction. After all, Oliver couldn't imagine you without Felix, anyone who was drawn into your warmth would find themselves eventually in Felix's light.

And Felix was impossible not to love.

Did that explain last night? Were you afraid you were losing Oliver? Was it simply to keep that spark of desire in his chest burning bright? Except if you knew why he'd been in that bathroom in the first place, surely you could have intuited that his desperation for Felix hadn't waned.

His free hand goes to his own throat, fingers catching in the metal chain that rest there, tangling up the same way yours had last night. Cold, sharp pressure against his throat, he squeezes his eyes closed and sees Felix's head tipped back, steam curling, sweat and water clinging to his gorgeous skin as he gasps and moans and -

"Good boy," the memory of your voice in his ear. A mess of memories from the night before, of the lewd sloshing of Felix's bathwater caught up in the eroticism of the moment, leaving Oliver's imagination to run wild. The memory of how your breathing became stuttered, the way you'd shuddered, getting off to Oliver whimpering your best friend's name in your ear as he came. Were you too thinking of Felix, or getting off believing that Oliver was?

Can't want for themselves.

Except there had been a look in your eyes, in your smile, that dangerous, thrilling thing that lit you up as you licked his spend from your fingers like you were relishing the taste of him. Self satisfaction, a kind he'd never seen on you before.

Perhaps Venetia was wrong. Perhaps he could make you want him for your own sake. Perhaps you had already started.

The fantasy warps again, this time to something entirely new, flickering back and forth between debauched depictions of you and Felix, both coveting him for your own.

"My Ollie," possessive echoes of what he hopes to one day hear, until he's conjured an image of you both, lavishing him with affection without sparing each other a second glance. Wanted by both in your own right, "our Ollie," but still wanted as a collective. Loved by your shared love, not just by extension.

Then the fantasy returns to just last night. The fantasy returns to watching Felix and desperately hoping the man was thinking about him while making those noises. The fantasy returns to you, pressed against him, hand slick with Felix's bath water and both getting off to the idea of him. The fantasy returns to the taste of your blood on his tongue knowing his cum was on yours.

The fantasy returns to you both getting off to him.

Oliver finishes embarrassingly quickly. Again. As he does most days here; there's no shortage of memories to pull from, you and Felix have made sure of that. It's also why he finds very little shame in the act anymore; surely you both know that his mind wanders to you like this, why else would you continue to put on such a show when he still hasn't made a move. After cleaning himself up, and still not quite sure what to make of your intentions last night, he decides to put that from his mind for the time being, and enjoy the day he has with you at least.

In the library, it's you, and Felix, and a box set of Classic Doctor Who; the fourth one, Oliver's pretty sure, judging by the scarf. The smile you both give him is nothing but warm and completely innocent. Oliver grins back easily, and takes a seat. It feels the same as it always has. Like nothing has changed.

But Oliver learns quickly that they have.

That night, he finds you in the lilac study in only your underwear. Underwear too nice to be worn by pure chance. Feigning innocence you tell him you can change if you're making him uncomfortable, but that it's a warm night. It's no warmer than any other night has been thus far.

"Does Felix know you're in here with me, dressed like this?" Oliver leans in the doorframe, arms crossed, unashamedly gazing over your body. Instead of a real answer, all you do is grin, raising your eyebrows at him, as if in challenge. So this is for Felix's benefit too, Oliver thinks, perhaps showing off his willingness to share you, trying to coax Oliver into making the first move on the man as a way to continue using his most beloved toy? Wanting you, and by extension, wanting Felix.

For a moment, Oliver marvels about how easily you're able to catch and manipulate his focus according to your every whim, it seems. Who are you outside of the showmanship? Is there a real person under there? Maybe he should walk away, ponder this on his own or ask you in the light of day when you still at least pretend around the others and each other.

"I thought they were cute," is what you finally say, sitting forward, "I'm quite fond of blue," you add, snapping the waistband of your underwear against your hip. Blue like Oliver's always wearing, blue like his damn eyes, blue like he once told Felix was his favourite colour. Fuck. Fine, he's just a man after all, and a lesser man probably couldn't even hold out as long as he has against you and your gorgeous fucking body in the lamplight, and that look in your eyes.

It's not as intense as it was the night before, but he still gets you off through your underwear, and at his foolish encouragement, you leave a bruising hickey on his neck. Before you part ways for the night, you walk with him to his door, which rather unnecessary, just to let him know there's concealer in his shade in the top drawer on his side of the bathroom.

"You planned this all then?" He smirks at your nerve to be so casual about this all, pressing you against his door.

"You give me too much credit," you teased, gaze flicking from his eyes to his lips, "call it wishful thinking on my part," and you both know he doesn't believe you, but he still kisses you, grinning.

He tries to use this shift in the dynamic to find out more. Perhaps the physical intimacy meant you would be more open to emotional intimacy, even even he hears Felix in the back of his mind.

The day after he'd enquired about your father's work, the day after he'd pressed his ear to Felix's door from the bathroom and heard you sobbing about your parents, Felix himself had pulled Oliver aside with a tight smile shortly after breakfast.

"Ollie, I'm sorry I didn't mention it earlier mate, but about yesterday; we try not to bring up Y/N's mum and dad much around here."

"I'm sorry, I didn't -" Oliver tried, but Felix waved him off easily.

"No, I know you didn't know, you didn't mean anything by it," he assured warmly, but as he went to leave, Oliver couldn't help himself.

"Why?"

Felix stops. For a very long moment there is absolute silence. Stillness. Felix's smile doesn't reach his eyes when he turns back. There's a practiced easiness to him, something about it rehearsed and unfamiliar compared to the levity with which he usually carried himself.

"Because they don't have a kid."

And Oliver has no idea what to say to that, what he could possibly mean by that, so he lets Felix leave.

So when he starts to ask more questions, he careful about them. But he can't seem to catch a break. He gets confirmation that you and Felix have known each other since you were ten, and you're more than forthcoming about your life since then, but for all intents and purposes, you didn't seem to exist before then.

Tensions are running high the day before the first event, for you especially it seemed, even though you'd made it clear you wouldn't be in attendance. When he overhears you speaking with Elspeth, he hears something in your voice he'd never thought possible; despair.

"Do you have to host them in my garden, Elspeth?" You sounded like you were on the verge of tears. The matron of the house's voice is soothing as she reminds you that it's one of the most beautiful spots in the Estate. Your garden? "But every time she's in there she breaks my statue -"

"No she doesn't," Elspeth tries to dismiss, but you huff a surprisingly petulant whine.

"She does! Twice now! The seeds, there should be six, and I know it's her, Farleigh told me -"

"I won't let it happen again, pet, I promise."

"She knows it's mine, I know it, she's doing it on purpose -"

"It won't happen again."

Oliver doesn't know enough about your issue with the Arts Collective that is coming over, or whoever this specific member is that has you so upset, so he has to bide his time to get the answers he wants.

And he's not getting them from you. Clearly.

You're withdrawn during dinner. No-one else comments on it; it's like they all understand whatever it is you're going through, and only Oliver's left out of the loop. Not even Felix seems particularly worried, and that's the bit that surprised Oliver.

In the lilac study, much later, Oliver finds you in your pyjamas, sitting on the windowsill. When he asks if you're okay, you bark a humourless laugh.

"By all accounts," you give a thin-lipped smile, fidgeting with the unlit cigarette between your fingers, "I should be completely fine." It's not even close to being believable. When he sits, chin gently coming to rest on your knee as it hung down the back of the sofa, you sighed, dropping the act and lighting your cigarette. 'It's nothing," you mumbled after a moment, dropping his gaze and taking a draft of your cigarette.

"It's not nothing," Oliver assured softly. Looking up at him, the barest frown creased your brow.

"I never went through the kinds of things you had to," you admit softly, unaware of the cogs suddenly turning in Oliver's mind, "my life is," you laughed without even a hint of humour, "blessed," but the word comes out bitterly. With your free hand, you reach out to run your hand through Oliver's hair, pushing it back off of his forehead, "you don't need to worry about me, Ollie." Shame pulses through Oliver all at once, his lie weighing heavily on his consciousness. He leans into your touch, lets his eyes closed, terrified you'll see the guilt there.

"I do worry 'bout you," he pushes, voice faint and demure, his eyes still closed. He lets the words hang in the air, lets you turn them over in your mind, won't overplay his hand. There's the sound of the cigarette sizzling, then a long, deep sigh from you.

"You don't know me, Ollie."

It's strange to hear you say it, hear you finally admit it. Oliver hasn't been imagining things, you've managed to evade his attempts to genuinely get close to you. Part of him wants to scream, wants to shout well whose fucking fault is that, wants to holler with some kind of vindication. Instead, he kisses your knee, and whispers that he'd like to.

"You'll get there, I'm sure," you tell him with what he's sure is an attempt at warmth, once more carding your fingers through his hair, "spend enough time with Fi and you won't have a choice." It comes as a surprise to hear the forlorn notes in your voice. But then, as quickly as they were there, they'd disappeared, and you start telling him about the guests that would be in attendance at the dinner the following night.

"Why do you know all this if you aren't going?" He's struggling to retain any of the information you've dumped on him - whose married to who, who are the artists and who are the appreciators, the scandals each have been attached to - but it seems to come so easily to you. You're on your third cigarette when there finally comes a lull in the conversation.

"So I can tell you?" You gave him a confused little smile, but he still doesn't understand.

"But what if I wasn't going?"

"But you are," you frowned a little, confused smile becoming more forced, as if his lack of comprehension almost pains you, "why wouldn't you be?" Oliver blinks, "I always knew I wasn't going, but I always knew you would, and I -" you shrugged a little helplessly, "I know things. Now you know things." This time your grin is genuine, as if pleased to be able to help him in your own way.

"Does any of this really matter?" He doesn't mean for it to sound as blunt as it comes across, but thankfully you don't seem offended. Instead you bark a laugh, leaning back against the windowsill and casting your gaze to the navy sky outside.

"They seem to think so," you groaned, as if you'd been subjected to these people and their egos one too many times, "and they love to feel like they matter. Taking the time to know people makes them feel like they matter, at least that's how I was raised." It's a crack, the barest hint to your past that Oliver will ruminate on for days to come. He remembers very sharply how you'd blurted out that you weren't meant to matter. Slowly but surely he's piecing together a picture of your past. So far, he's not liking the image it's coming to form.

So he steers from dangerous conversational territories.

"'s that why you let Venetia talk to you the way she does?" It's not hostile or judgemental, he makes himself sound as genuine as he's able. A thoughtful hum escapes you while you keep looking out across the Estate's gardens, "like you don't mind if she's mean because you know that at least she feels good about herself around you?"

"I adore Venetia despite her sharp edges," you say softly, "and she and I both know this, but she's..." looking back to Oliver, your smile is sad as your mind drifts to Felix's sister, "insecure," voice low, you give a tired shake of your head, "if I knew how to draw lines in the sand, I'm sure she would have crossed it long before now."

"All these Cattons need to be wanted, don't they?" Oliver grins widely, leaning back and reclining on the sofa, watching you crack a genuine smile.

"Why do you think they keep me around?" You joke, but Oliver takes this moment and locks it away in his mind for further pondering, along with all the other revelations you'd afforded him. At least you look brighter when you leave then when he'd walked in. The last thing you tell him is to be punctual to the garden the following night; Elspeth thinks highly of punctuality.

"Am I not going to see you before dinner tomorrow?" Oliver frowns, also standing.

"Oh," you stall by the door, something awkward in your tone, "I'll be around at breakfast, and maybe lunch, but I'm probably not going to be much company or conversation."

The next morning, Oliver finds your words to be true. At breakfast, your gaze is glassy, your movements robotic. Pamela appears to have overslept, but Oliver seems to be the only one who even notices. There's a strange air in the house. Farleigh's more terse than usual, while Felix and Venetia seem to have glued themselves to your sides, the two of them chattering quietly between each other despite how you don't even appear to be aware of their presence.

Over lunch, you too are missing from attendance, as is Pamela once more. Elspeth spends a good portion of the meal trying to encourage her children to adopt a lighter mood. Neither cooperate with her request.

"This might be the best you get from them," Farleigh glanced at Felix and Venetia wearing near identical pouts, both focusing entirely on their lunch, "unless you're planning to surprise us all with dropping a house on the wicked bitch of the -"

"Farleigh, please," Elspeth cut him off sharply, "don't call her that." Farleigh's sharp gaze flicks to his aunt, but his mouth stays shut, "it's one night, can you please just be civil?"

"One night for her," Felix says pointedly under his breath.

Oliver is at a complete loss. Trying to think back on all the guests you'd told him about, he can't for the life of him recall which they might all be referring to. It bothers him enough that once lunch is finished, he looks for you; he'd like a little more warning if he really was to be walking into some kind of lion's den that evening. When he asks Felix, all he gets is a sighed 'study' and little else.

The study door is locked, so he knocks. On the other side, he hears a sigh.

"Go away, Ollie."

How had you known it was him? But that was a question for another time.

"I have a question about tonight -"

"I don't want to think about tonight, just go away, enjoy yourself -"

"I need to know more about the guest list; there's someone who seems to really bother Felix, Venetia, and Farleigh, but I can't remember who it could be that you told me about." He lets himself sound desperate, sound a little helpless and lost; you'd gone so far out of your way to make him feel at home here, he knew you'd -

"Um," after a moment, the door creaks open. Barely. Peering out, you don't look quite right, "it's- um, I think -"

"'re you alright?" Genuine concern wells up in him, but you pull back when he reaches out for you.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, I'm just- fuck, Ollie, I'm high; what are you, my -" but you cut yourself off with a soft, angry swear, as if mad at yourself for reasons well beyond Oliver's understanding. Gaze unfocused, you frown deeply as you lean heavily against the doorframe. Oliver bit back further concern, taken aback by your relative hostility, "there's this curator that really gets under their skin," you recall after a moment, unable to meet his gaze, "last I checked she was about Elspeth's age; Pearl L/N."

Oliver doesn't remember you even mentioning a Pearl last night amongst all the rest of the guests.

"What's she done that's so bad?" But his words curiously cause your expression to scrunch, "do you not like her either?" You shook your head so hard you almost lost your balance; this time you don't shy away from Oliver when he holds your shoulder steady, "what'd she do?"

"She's just vapid," your voice is so small; there's so much you're not telling him in this moment, Oliver can tell, "you don't need to make her feel like she matters, she knows she does," you swallow thickly, looking at the doorframe, "but if you compliment the work of Bijou L/N in her general area I'm sure she'll jump at the chance to tell you how she sold her Aurora triptych for the same amount that her mother's first house cost." You advised bitterly, lip curling, "she loves hearing herself speak," you spat as an afterthought, immediately trying to slam the door as if you'd forgotten Oliver was even there.

Catching the door, he asks once more if you're okay, and you finally look at him, pain in your eyes like he's never seen before, tears, unspilled, turning your gaze glassy.

"I do hope you have a good night," despite the sadness in your voice, you sound sincere, and Oliver lets you close the door once more.

As he's getting himself ready for the event, Oliver finds himself musing over the information he'd gotten from you. It's no surprise the Catton siblings aren't a fan of this woman; he can't imagine they enjoy being in the presence of someone who craves the spotlight even more than either of them do.

Your advice about an early arrival paid off at least, as Oliver finds himself in the fairy garden with Elspeth in her lavender gown, as always being an incorrigible gossip. With very little genuine care for her own daughter, Elspeth's gossip finds a home amid disparaging remarks. If he carefully files Venetia's insecurities and less noticeable flaws away in the back of his mind, he does so only in case of emergency. Despite their disagreements, Felix clearly loved his sister too; how Oliver would use the information Elspeth gives him to his advantage would remain to be seen, but he reasoned it was good to have.

When finally he's given the chance to comment on Pamela - indirectly, every possibly sharp remark was wrapped in layers of silk at Saltburn - Elspeth's guilt is unmistakable. So Oliver does what he does best; he tells Elspeth exactly what she needed to hear. He drives a wedge in her memories of the woman she'd kicked out, shut the door on the guilt and the thought of return, soothing the Catton matriarch in the process. Sometimes it really was shockingly easy to make the Catton Family Players dance.

"You know it's very good of you taking Y/N the way you did," Oliver adds for good measure, "eleven years I think they said?"

"Oh," Elspeth's brow creases for just a moment as she thinks back, "I suppose it has been that long, hasn't it?" There's a faraway look in her eyes, but Oliver sees an opportunity for information you and Felix were always rather evasive about.

"I would have thought it would be strange," Oliver offers, his tone carefully neutral, but of course light, "having so many people here all the time; Y/N, Farleigh, Pamela, me. You're very generous, very kind." Elspeth gives a gracious smile at the compliment, eyes shining in the twilight. The same grace with which Felix accepts Oliver's soft spoken compliments when it's just the two of them.

"Saltburn was built for company, Oliver dear, nothing strange at all," she tells him in earnest, "James and I have always welcomed our loved ones with open arms, and I am proud to have passed that sentiment on to my darling children."

"Venetia certainly seems fond of Y/N."

Something about Elspeth's expression tightens for the barest moment, and she takes a sip of her wine with a hum that almost sounds like an agreement.

"Y/N seems to believe as much," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, "and I suppose she hasn't run them off yet, though I suspect their loyalty to Felix has far more to do with that than whatever apparent kindness my daughter has afforded them."

"I'm sorry...?" Oliver tips his head to the side, confusion masking his intrigue.

"Lord knows I try not to judge my darling children and their friends, so I of course would turn a blind eye to their youthful trysts and experimentation, but really Venetia's been using the poor pet in bad taste for years now, treating them like a dog; you've seen the way she antagonises them, I can't imagine what she's like behind closed doors, nor why Y/N puts up with it!"

"You haven't tried to stop it?"

"Felix has come to me about some of the things Venetia's apparently said, but he seemed more miffed than anything, said Y/N wasn't at all bothered," Elspeth sighed, shaking her head, "I think they pity her, honestly."

"Sounds like Felix and Y/N have pretty inseperable, and you obviously care about them a lot too."

"Felix has always been wonderful at making friends," Elspeth gives a sweet smile, casting her fond gaze at Oliver for a moment, "but Y/N was this tragic, little thing; the first time they met us their parents enquired about whether James and I would like to host them for the Summer, of course I wasn't even aware I was talking to their parents when the offer was made, but Felix had taken quite a shine to them so of course we were more than happy to agree. Then," she gives such a dainty shrug, expression fond and blithe, "they called again as schools were breaking for Christmas, something about how fond Y/N had grown of us all; after that they didn't even have to call."

"So they've been coming back here all this time?"

"Oh the children would often holiday elsewhere during the break, but Y/N was almost always with Felix, wherever he was," she smiled wide, mind alight with memories of your shared youth, "their parents have always afforded us a generous stipend for allowing them to remain with us and Felix so consistently through the years, so it was never any trouble or burden to take care of them."

A long pause follows, and Oliver lets himself mull over all he'd learned, fascinated by it all. But he keeps coming back to one thought;

"You didn't know you were talking to their parents?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You said back when you and Felix first met Y/N, you hadn't known you were talking to their parents?"

"Well, no," Elspeth says, and takes a moment to think carefully about the past, about her next words, "but we were at a business event, I suppose they wanted to remain somewhat professional." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. There's something there, something more. Something about these memories has softened the matriarch, even more than discussing her own daughter.

"Well I know they love you," Oliver tells her, though he's only rarely heard you and Felix talking about the family, "and I know they're grateful to you, and your husband, and all you've done for them, the care you've shown." And there it is, that faraway softness, that hint of maternal love that almost looks foreign on her.

"We haven't done all that much," Elspeth admits gently, soft smile gracing her features, "just what anyone would do, I think."

"More than what their own parents did, it sounds like."

Elspeth's expression falls, her gaze dropping to her hands. She takes a long sip of her wine.

"They're lovely people, really, please don't take what I've said as any kind of inducement on them as people, I think you'd actually find them quite charming," she says, almost forcibly cheerful, "they're exuberant, fascinating people; they've been wonderful friends to myself and James for quite some time, long before we welcomed Y/N into our home, actually," she laughs a little, looking back up, apparently having shaken her just moments ago, "I will say it was quite the surprise to find out they had a child just the same age as Felix." It's an evasive answer, one Oliver doesn't want to let her get out of but doesn't quite know how to turn the conversation back. The silence is not uncomfortable, but Oliver is still grateful that it's Elspeth that breaks it once more.

"He's never been particularly fond of them," Elspeth somehow gives him an in without Oliver even needing to pry further. Her tone is dismissive, like her son's distaste is simply childish, "but Felix has always been loyal," she smiles warmly once more after shaking her head, "I really do think you'll like them; so much of Y/N comes from them."

"I'll like them?" Oliver frowned with confusion, to which Elspeth nodded, reiterating the sentiment, "you think I'll meet them?"

"Of course, darling, they're coming to dinner tonight," she shakes her head after a beat, seemingly correcting herself, "well, their darling mother. She was at Oxford with James, studying Art History, if I do recall -" but she's cut short as Duncan announces the arrival of the first guests, and Elspeth stands, smiles, slipping comfortably into the role of the perfect hostess.

Oliver feels like he almost understands. Like he's right on the edge of putting all the pieces together. There's too much new information, too many social rules he still doesn't know; part of your discomfort was almost definitely related to your mother being here, and that vapid curator Felix hated -

"You are going to need this," Farleigh presses a glass of champagne into Oliver's hands. He seems more irate than usual, but unusually, it doesn't seem to be directed at Oliver. As the guests begin to filter in, they stand side-by-side at the edge of the garden. Farleigh looks like he belongs there, long and elegant, hand in his pocket and his own champagne glass poised delicately in his grip as he glowered at the others.

"Not a fan of the Arts Collective either?" Oliver enquires, carefully taking a sip.

"Tell me that isn't Fredrika's boy!" Comes a call from across the garden, and Farleigh plasters on a smile as he nods and tips his glass to the gentleman who'd gleefully identified him. They both hear him exclaim to some others he was with, "look how tall he's gotten!" But thankfully the man makes no move towards them, choosing instead to blatantly discuss Farleigh, and-or his mother, with little regard for the man himself.

"They've always been kind to my mother," it's the most diplomatic and genuine Oliver's pretty sure Farleigh's ever been while speaking to him. Still, his discomfort does not seem to ease.

"So I suppose there's just a few bad apples then," Oliver muses, "Y/N warned me about Pearl." It takes several seconds of silence for Oliver to finally give Farleigh his full attention. There's a curious look in his eyes, one Oliver hadn't quite been expecting.

"Did they?" He says very carefully.

"The woman sounds like a pain," Oliver says easily, trying his best to ignore the sudden strange vibe that has picked up around them, "but I assumed all these rich folks have an ego on them, so she must be some kind of something since they barely mentioned their own mother and I know they're not fond of her either."

"You are an idiot," Farleigh looks like he can't even believe the words coming out of Oliver's mouth. There's that lost feeling again, like everyone knows some kind of secret that he's not allowed to, like they all want to keep dancing around the truth, afraid of giving him real answers. Farleigh shakes his head in disbelief, an unsettling, quiet anger in his eyes, "you are a fucking idiot -"

"Oh my god, wow!" Comes a bright voice from far closer than Oliver had been expecting, "I'm getting flashbacks, Elle, are you getting flashbacks? Doesn't he look just like Freddie making that face?" Farleigh, beside Oliver, freezes.

When Oliver turns, he sees Elspeth approaching him with a painfully familiar woman on her arm, saying that this is the one I was telling you about; Oliver -

Oliver recognises your mother by her smile. It lights up her whole face, so comforting, so warm and full of affection as her gaze lingers on him.

"Oh, Oliver, I'm sure you're darling, but I must say hello to Freddie's youngling," she enthuses with a laugh. Farleigh looks like his body is three seconds away from engaging in some kind of fight or flight response.

"I see you remember Farleigh, my nephew," Elspeth points out, and the woman wraps Farleigh up in a hug that he does not reciprocate.

"Of course," she gleefully identifies, and Farleigh makes an uncomfortable noise to the affirmative. When she lets him go, she doesn't do so entirely, holding him at arm's length for a moment as she looks him over, "you are such a marvel, darling, every time I see you!" Glancing over her shoulder at Elspeth, she wears a charmingly teasing smile, "never tell James that his sister got all the good genes," and Elspeth, despite the backhanded compliment, seems only endeared by this woman's antics. Finally she lets Farleigh go, stepping back and continuing to size him up, sparkle of mirth in her eyes, "how is your mother, darling?"

"Elsewhere," Farleigh answers shortly.

"Of course, is she still in New York?"

"For the time being," it seems to be enough for her for now, letting him go. Then, she turns her attention onto Oliver, letting Elspeth make the introduction.

"And this is Oliver, a dear friend of my Felix's who's staying with us for the Summer," Elspeth rests a warm hand on Oliver's shoulder, but the woman forgoes propriety to also hug Oliver tightly.

"Oh wonderful to meet you, Oliver - Ollie, can I call you Ollie? Do they call you Ollie?" She says as he awkwardly hugs her back, running on autopilot. Oliver makes some kind of noise, he's sure, but apparently your mother takes that as an affirmative. Pulling back, she smiles with such genuine warmth it's almost jarring to think about what he knows of her, "oh Ollie, so lovely to have you here, it's so good to see beautiful, bright, fresh faces as fans of the arts; you are a fan of the arts, I take it?"

"I suppose," he offers awkwardly, to which your mother gives a laugh. It doesn't sound like laughter should, there's something a little mean about it, something condescending.

"Darling boy you're with the Arts Collective, at Saltburn of all places; one would think to do their research before attending an event such as this -"

"Wine and cheese in the garden were we get high -?" Farleigh's snide aside that hopefully only Oliver hears as he mutters it under his breath is cut off by Oliver's quick apology.

"It's my first Summer here; I'm a fan of the arts but I thought it would be best to set expectations low considering the calibre of guest. I'm not much of an artist but that doesn't hinder my appreciation," he bullshits quickly, and your mother's eyes light up, taking the bait entirely.

"Nice save," Farleigh mutters under his breath while your mother all but swooned at Oliver's humility.

"Oh! Then I do apologise, dear, I'm glad to have you here, glad to see not all hope is lost for the youth," she shook her head with a fond exasperation, "your friend Felix has never taken much interest unfortunately," she chuckles, "one of his very few flaws, I'm afraid."

"I'm also friends with Y/N," Oliver adds quickly, and immediately feels Farleigh's hand on the small of his back, voice in his ear - don't.

"Sorry darling, I don't know who that is," your mother sounds completely and utterly sincere; nothing in her smile or her body language betrays it as a lie. Despite Farleigh's warning, Oliver pushes.

"Your kid, Y/N," he can feel Farleigh actually grabbing onto the hem of his jacket, voice a snarl now - stop.

"Ollie, dear, I don't have any children," she says with what appears to be complete earnestness. Oliver blinks quickly, stepping back, faintly apologising.

"Sorry, I must have gotten some wires crossed," he says weakly.

"Are you feeling alright?" She puts her hand to his forehead, sweet concern written all over her face. God, she looks so much like you, he really thought - "can we get darling Ollie some water?" She snaps her fingers at one of the servers insistently, rudely, directing Oliver to sit down. He did so, and Farleigh took a seat next to him, wrapping an arm around Oliver's shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am," Oliver hears himself speak almost automatically, "I don't think I caught your name." Immediately the woman's expression morphs into a pantomime of apology, offering her hand.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so used to being known at these things - god, listen to me I must sound like I have such an ego, sorry, Ollie, darling," the woman's smile reeks of practiced perfection, "I'm Pearl L/N." Everything stops for a very long few moments as Oliver shakes her hand and processes this news. He blinks a few times, and Pearl laughs airily in the twilight, "oh, maybe he does know me; look," she tips her head to Elspeth, "the boy's starstruck." He's liking her less and less and the moments go on; he can see exactly what the others' problem is with her.

"Sorry, Pearl L/N?" Quickly retracting his hand, he tries to remember what you'd told him mere hours ago, "are you the same Pearl L/N who managed to sell Bijou L/N's Aurora's to..." he trails off, having no actual idea of where the paintings had gone, but banking on what you told him about Peal enjoying the sound of her own voice. As anticipated, she looks frankly delighted, throwing her head back as an uncannily familiar laugh echoes from her. In his peripheries, he sees the approving look Elspeth is giving him.

"My word, yes, they're still up at The Met," she tells him, "I suspect it will be a cold day in hell before they're taken down; they paid more than my mother paid for the house she painted them in."

"Your mother -?"

"I'll take care of him," Farleigh cuts him off with a cold smile to Pearl. It's enough to distract the woman, who coos fondly.

"Oh you really are Freddie's, she must be so proud of the man you are, Farleigh."

Farleigh gives a jerky nod, robotically thanking her for the compliment, and she swans away to greet some of the others who've just arrived.

"Sorry, I thought... she just reminded me so much of Y/N," Oliver mumbled. Farleigh extracts his arm from around Oliver's shoulders, something dangerous in his eyes as he watches the woman, now talking and laughing and socialising with such exuberance and ease.

"You are a fucking idiot," Farleigh bites out venomously, not even looking at Oliver. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest. They both watch for a moment as Pearl takes the arm of another guest, coaxing them and the group they're with to sit over on the picnic bench.

"Can you stop calling me that if you're not going to tell explain to me why?" Oliver finally snaps back, turning to level a glare at the tall gentleman beside him. Farleigh meets his unimpressed look with one of his own, gazing into his eyes as if his next words were of the utmost importance.

"Why exactly do you think that Y/N L/N has a problem with Pearl L/N?"

Oliver feels like a fucking idiot. All the pieces are finally in place, and the picture, Oliver realises, is much bleaker than he'd realised.

Farleigh looks back at the picnic table. The general chatter has died down now, and it seemed that catching up between members of the collective was in order. But his focus was captivated by the woman with your smile. Your mother. Everything familiar about her started to make his skin itch. Everything about you started to make a lot more sense.

There was an effortlessness to how she dazzled the collective, pouring affectionate praise onto the artists as they shared their creativity and triumph, offering support and suggestion to other curators and appreciators like herself who found themselves looking for advice.

Charming, exuberant, fascinating, just as Elspeth had told him she's be. Oliver just remembers hearing you weep about how, in the eleven years since you'd been welcomed into Saltburn, she'd never once asked about you.

"I'm in talks with the Vatican about doing a documentary on the Sistine Chapel," Pearl tell the collective airily when it's finally her turn to share. Chin in one hand, the other picking at the statue at the back of the table that's just behind her, Oliver remembers the argument you'd had with Elspeth just yesterday, "but it's been such a runaround," she groaned, reaching up for one of the stone seeds the sculpture was trying to eat, "so many legal meetings and all this red tape; I've got a meeting with the pope and several high ranking members of the clergy to see if I can get their blessing and bypass all this nonsense. I swear Michaelangelo would be rolling in his grave if he knew the effort one must put in nowadays to appreciate his work." A meeting with the fucking pope?

"Pope Benedict the Sixteenth?" Elspeth says with disbelief, the gaggle of women scattered around the garden echoing the sentiment.

"Has there been another one instated while I wasn't looking?" Pearl smiles, teasing edge to her tone that's uncomfortably familiar, but then there's a faint crack, and she looks up guiltily. Or at least, she looks exactly the way a guilty person should look.

"Darling, you do that every time," Elspeth laughs lightly, while the woman puts the stone seed down on the table before her.

"Surely it hasn't been that many times," she responded, though Farleigh's voice is in Oliver's ear.

"That's the third."

"Fine, let me get you another one," the woman offers, "a proper nymph for this darling little fairy garden, something pretty and fitting, not this..." She looks up at the statue, at the myth of Persephone gleefully eating what seeds are left, at the figure with your unmistakable likeness, "strange, sad little thing," she laughs, before adding that the garden itself was beautiful, and that Elspeth had to get her in contact with the landscape artist. Elspeth, surprisingly, suggests that they should head inside since it was swiftly approaching dinner.

Felix and Venetia are already sitting at the table, a mostly empty bottle of wine on the table between them, both cups far less than full. Farleigh takes the seat opposite Felix, and pulls Oliver down to sit across from Venetia. Neither of the siblings speak, but both are looking at Farleigh as if they can divine some secret message from his wordless expression alone.

"No, I take it back," Pearl's voice fills the dining room, drawing all attention as the others filled in around her. The way she's looking at Felix and Venetia is so painfully endeared; if Oliver didn't know any better, he'd say their glares in her direction were cruel, "Elle, I think Cattons are just cursed to have beautiful children," sighing with a teasing, faux disappointment to Elspeth as she passes behind the siblings to take her seat, she greets them both warmly.

"Children," Elspeth prompts, sharp look in her eyes like she's embarrassed by their lack of grace, both Venetia and Felix nod in greeting, her name coming out as a robotic mumble.

"How lovely are they," Pearl sits, fawning over the Catton siblings to the other guests, who all chatter in faint agreement. As expected, however, Oliver finds he can hear Pearl's voice over all the others, even though she sat herself across from Elspeth, at the other end of the table, "Elle, really I'm in endless awe of you and James, Saltburn has never looked so spectacular as it does under your care, I'm sure my home would go to ruin if Andreas and I ever attempted having a child, let alone raising one half as lovely as you've managed; twice!"

"Pearl," Elspeth told her, voice loud enough that it too carried, "I'm sure that if you had a child, they would be -"

"Oh you're just being kind, Elle, don't waste your breath on hypotheticals."

Across the table, Felix looks like he's about to cry.

Oliver feels... unexpectedly hollow. Every word Pearl speaks reminds him of the state he'd seen you in that afternoon.

"I hate her," Venetia snarls, loud enough for only the four at the end to have heard. There's something about this moment, looking at the siblings and their cousin so completely united against this common enemy, that finally makes Oliver realise and believe just how deeply they all cared for you. Even Farleigh was regarding him in solidarity.

Somehow Pearl still hadn't noticed the black cloud that hung over the other end of the table, or perhaps after eleven years she was used to ignoring it. At least the rest of the collective didn't seem too bothered by it, making bright conversation amongst themselves and leaving the furious youth to stew in their collective anger.

"Why didn't you tell me Pearl was your mum?" Oliver heads immediately to the lilac study. The door opens right as he's about to knock, like you'd heard him coming; you look better than you had that afternoon, but his words have your expression falling.

"I'm sure she didn't see it necessary to tell you I'm her child either," you snapped back, hostile. Oliver goes quiet. You crossed your arms, gaze dropping to the ground, "exactly."

"I don't know you," voice faint, Oliver steps back. Finally it starts to hit him, everything that's happened, everything he'd learned and witnessed and heard. The ache begins in his chest and blooms as he looks at you and tries to reconcile all he now knows. How had he not realised that in all the time you'd spent together, you'd never even given him your last fucking name? "I don't know who you are."

"I don't owe anyone anything -"

"Especially not yourself, right?" Oliver cuts you off, at war with himself when he sees the hurt in your eyes. Still, he can't stand by and let you talk like this, let you become a secondary character in your own damn life, "don't owe yourself the chance to believe that someone cares about you, wants to know you, to make you feel like you matter? I want to know you, I want to I love you," the words sound so raw, and he aches, shudders with each deep breath in, "but there is something wrong with you."

There was no anger in your eyes when you'd closed the door, nor any kind of betrayal. Oliver wonders if that would have been easier to stomach than the guilt, the look of apology. You agreed; you believed he was right. Regret begins to claw at his gut the moment he stumbles back, towards his room; he should have waited, given himself time to think, to process before going to you. Fuck, he really shouldn't have gone to you knowing the state you were in.

Oliver is hollow with want, despite his outburst, desperate to be close to you. But there's no way he can come back from this tonight. All he has is the people who care about you. If Oliver had learned one thing tonight, it was the Catton children and their cousin all did love you, each in their own way.

And Venetia Catton was smoking outside his window in a see-through nightgown.

[sylenth-l]

Im sure you answered this question but I cant find it on the ask tab as theres a lot.

What kind of ink do you use or recommend as a starter?

I use a lot of different inks and have no specific brand recommendations, only that all of them are fountain pen inks. Maybe only for waterproof inks - I use Tramol inks for linework all the time, and I'm quite happy with them. It's not easy to find nice waterproof inks and in a wide range of colors too.

(Also I got a similar question just now too, so here's a link to that post as well)

If you just wanna try out inks as a medium and see some of its unique qualities, I think I can safely recommend one of these 4, whatever colour seems more appealing to you. All of them are very well-behaved, easy to get, have some great chromatography and reaction to bleach. The ornament on top is done with a bleach (any household liquid bleach will do) and the paper here is Baohong S8 grain satin.

If I had to pick a personal favorite, that would be Parker Quink Black hands down, it's my favorite ink of all time. I use it absolutely always, either in mixes or on its own.

BUT I must warn you, because I barely see it mentioned anywhere - Quink Black also has a washable version. It's written on the packaging with a small font. Washable Black is also a gorgeous color, but it's significantly lighter and warmer than the regular Quink Black, almost olive in tone.

And the regular ink also seems to have some little variation in colour - this is my second bottle of Quink Black, and the first one, which I bought a few years ago, is a bit bluer and has a little less chromatography. The difference isn't too drastic, but still noticeable. 

Inks are also extremely sensitive to the paper used, much more than the watercolour or other similar mediums. Paper can change the ink's tone and behavior quite drastically. Here's an example of the very same ink swatched on 4 different papers:

So my suggestion is to test whatever paper you have in your possession to see what works the best for you. 

I'm so cheering for you to play with some inks, it's fun even if you don't draw anything in particular. Just wet the paper, add a few drops of ink on it and see the magic happen!

[pyramid-of-starrs]

My Kinda Different

Genres: Fluff, Smut (Poorly written)

Pairing: Jongho (Non-idol) X Alt Fem Reader

Warnings: Smut, lots of fluff, I subscribe to the Jongho bear agenda hardcore on this one, switch Jongho, bratty switch reader, reader curses a lot, chocking, ass slapping, squirting, unprotected sex (Use protection and get tested pls), reader calls Jongho “Cubby” derived from the word “cub”, AFAB reader and fem pronouns and names, tried making reader racially inclusive, Cum, drug use(Ac*d mentioned once), dacryphilia (Squint and turn your head to the side) if I’m missing anything please let me know

Author notes: Go easy on me it’s my first idol fic ~_~

Word count: 4.1K (I had a lot to say lol)

Minors dni

Smut starting now:

Loud music playing from your AirPod Max headphones can be heard by everyone sitting near you on the subway. Drawing even more attention to you as if your appearance wasn't loud enough. Carefully torn fishnets paired with stacked knee high black and grey socks that slightly showed over your demonia platform boots. A rather short olive-green cargo skirt you thrifted on your way home last week that you had to get, or you would simply "die". A simple black long sleeve crop top that stops at your pierced belly button. It had a double zipper right down the middle, the zipper at the top and bottom open so the shirt only covers your chest. lots of piercings covered your pretty face of course, it’s so on brand! Double pierced nose, medusa piercing, tongue (middle and snake eye) and eyebrow. Make up very natural with heavy eyeliner and thin 90s brows. With scattered tattoos on your skin. Yeah, you were something to look at.

You sat waiting for your stop with your sketch pad. When the train finally got to your stop you hopped up so excitedly. Everyone confused on how such a dark person can have such a bubbly vibe. Little did they know that you had the best person in the world at home waiting for you. You see, today marked your 1-year anniversary with the most amazing man in the world, Mr. Choi Jongho. Let's go back a bit just to refresh your memory.

You had given up on love after your 100th failed relationship, men and women all the same you tried and tried again they just kept disappointing you. Despite your hard and rough appearance, you deserved love too dammit! Where are your flowers and chocolate? Someone to go see pierce the veil with you. Your rave partner? Even someone to drop acid with? Nope that just wasn't written in the stars for you. That is until one day you were sitting at your favorite cafe working on your art class final project. You had been there for a while. A cafe worker walked up to you handing you a cup with tea in it.

You looked up looking at her with your natural bitch face. "I didn't order anything..."

"O-oh um...I know it's just that uh- the guy over there ordered this to give to you and yeah sorry for bothering you" She sat the cup on the table and hurried back to safety behind the counter.

You rolled your eyes at the workers dramatics and looked at the guy who sent the drink to you. He sat at one of the cafes comfy seating seats with his legs crossed with his phone in one hand and drink in the other. The guy looked like your any day prude. Light brown dress shoes, dark navy-blue slacks, dark grey long sleeve sweater and a button down. He had a really handsome face you had to admit, light brown hair, round framed glasses, a natural duck lip and cute little cheeks. He reminded you of one of the squish mellows you keep on your bed. You walked over to question him bringing your stuff and the drink with you. Once you reach him, he looks up from his phone.

"Oh, come over to join me? A Girl like you I thought I would need to do a bit more convincing than that, but I love the enthusiasm to get to know each other."

You arched your brows.

"The fuck are you talking about? I'm coming over to give you your drink back. I'm not interested." you stuck your hand out with the drink in it.

"That tea is a blend that makes you energized! I know most people assume tea makes you sleepy but that won't. Seems like you were super focused over there, so I decided to order you that. Enjoy!" he smiled at you and you kind of felt your heart throb.

You snapped out of the brief trance that cute smile had on you. "Look dude-"

"Jongho."

"What?"

"My name is Jongho, and yours?"

"What the f- its Y/N and I'm not fucking interested in you or this tea so here." you sat the tea down on the coffee table in front of him as a final protest. He giggles with his cute little smile.

"You're really cute Y/N, I'm going to take you out on a date next week if your free, okay?" he looked you in your eyes, but it looked like he looked directly in your soul.

"Listen Jongho I'm going to put this in terms you'll get. Fuck off."

And from that moment on you began your journey with Jongho. He didn't heed your warning and did the opposite of fucking off and visited you at the cafe everyday buying you new teas to try. You eventually caved and went on the date and the rest was history.

Now it's been a year and you just arrived at your shared apartment. You take your time taking off your clunky Platforms and yell "Baby I'm home."

Jongho appears from the bedroom. "Well, hello beautiful." He has his arms open while walking toward you because he knows that you are going to jump into them. Of course, you do with the world’s biggest smile on your face. You wrap your arms around his neck and squeezed him "Baby I missed you so much ugh please shrink down and live in my boobs or something so I can carry you everywhere." One thing Jongho loved about you is your colorful words and saying.

"If I could you know I would my love, but for now hurry and get dressed I want to take you out." he said as you released him finally.

"Take me out where?" you said with a puzzled look on your face.

"I'm taking you to this speakeasy restaurant that goes until like 3am. They have lots of vintage art and stuff and it's low-key. You'll love it. I'm already dressed so get ready."

Now that he mentioned it you decided to step back and get a good look at him. He had on black dress pants with a black leather belt and a black shirt tucked in with thin white strips. Pairing it all together with black rounded glasses.

"Not bad right? I tried to match your vibe." He kissed on your cheek and winked at you. "Now hurry up and get ready I know you're going to take forever." He slapped you on your ass while walking away.

"Fine, but I don't have anything to wear."

"Baby girl. It's me of course I got you a little something too. Go to the room and change now please and thank you." and that you did. You opened the door to your shared bedroom and on you bed was a dark purple long silk dress with a sexy slit on the side, a brand-new pair of platform heel boots, and lots of accessories to match. Oh, you could die at how good this man treats you. So excited to try on the dress in a hurry and slip on the accessories. When you're done you look in the mirror to check yourself out. Before you could put on your shoes you notice a new plushy has entered you room. A cute bear plushy with X and O for eyes. He had a card attached to him.

"Dear Y/N,

I hope you liked the dress I got you. I'm not much for expressing my feelings well but I hope you know for someone that claims to have such a dark and gloomy energy, you really are the light of my life. Even though you've been told you're “Weird" and "too different". I hope you know you're my kinda different. I love you my sweet baby.

-Love

Your fave plushy"

Oh, you couldn't take it anymore. You loved this man too much. Tears began to fall, and you sat on the bed squeezing the plushy. Jongho walks in just in time.

"I knew you were going to take forever baby come on we have to go to beat the crowd-" He looked up from his watch to see you crying with the plushy. "Ahh, I see you found Bear-ho" he walked over and sat next to you on the bed he wiped your tears while being careful not to smear your "Black as my soul" black liner. You chuckled at the name.

"Is that what you named him?"

"Yeah, you always say these things are your kids so I figured I would get you one so we can have a kid of our own." he smiled at you with the warmest and most endearing smile you think anyone has ever smiled.

"Aww cubby (A nickname you made because he reminds you of a bear) I love this so much how did I ever get this lucky." You leaned in to hug him. You used all your strength to push him down while you hugged him. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me Y/N, please always remember that." He looks you in the eyes and gives you a light peck. "You know in this dress you really look like a vampire queen."

"And you still look like a prude." you pecked his lips back.

"Hey! I like to think that I look very sexy today." he protested.

"Prudes are sexy too baby." You couldn't help yourself and dove back in for another kiss. This time it was more than just a peck. This kiss had love and passion in it. He wrapped his hands around your back to deepen the kiss. You decided to invite your tongue into his mouth, your two tongues now dancing with each other. He was the first one to break the kiss as you made a pouty noise in disappointment.

"Come on baby we have to go if we don't want to be in a huge crowd." He said while he grabbed your chin to make direct eye contact. He knew you; he knew you lost focus of the task at hand but that's why you two work so well. A Ying and Yang relationship, you're chaos and he enjoys it and keeps you in control. When you rage, he calls you cute and pinches your cheeks, when you're moody he gives you lots of cuddles and hugs and when your love for your sweet boyfriend makes you hornier than a sailor that just saw a woman for the first time in a year, he keeps you stable enough to still finish your plans for the day. However, this time may be a bit different. This time he can't control you. You needed him and you need him now and he knew better than anyone that you always get what you want. He knew that because he is the one that always gives it.

"I know but like fuck that place and fuck that crowd. I need to fuck you like right now." You fully climbed on top of him, hiking up your dress to sit comfortably while you place your other leg across him so you could sit on his crotch. You leaned back over him and begin placing hot open mouth kisses on his neck. He sighs while he places both his hands on each side of your ass. He knew if he would continue protesting it would fall on deaf ears.

"You liked your gift that much baby girl?" he started to snake his hands under your dress as he gripped your bare ass and thighs.

"Yes, I did Cubby" you continue the assault on his neck but this time being sure to lick from the middle of the neck to his ears. He lightly groaned, he’s very sensitive there, you wanted to try your best to have full control of the situation. You wanted to show him how much you appreciated him.

"My little Cubby is so sensitive let’s see what else I can lick." you lifted his shirt and started to kiss down his body leaving traces of your black liner and gloss lip combo (Well what was left of it at least). When you got to his chest you stopped at his nipples. "Hmm what about here. "Baby..." before he could say more you lightly licked his left nipple while you brushed the right one very gently with your thumb. He tensed up and made a cute little moan.

"Does my baby have little sensitive nipples? Do you like this Cubby?" You continued to lick and rub them and even added a little sucking action to really turn him on. He bit back his moans not wanting to admit that this felt so good.

"Baby don't hold back I wanna hear you moan too~ I guess I'll just have to stop and leave you like this." his little spoiled baby what was he going to do with you. I guess he had to show you who is really in control here. He gripped you on both sides of your hips and softly tossed you to the side of him.

"Baby why do I always have to show you your place?"

"Because you like doing it and I like annoying you duh!" You loved pushing Jonghos buttons. He is such a prim and proper guy that when he gets out of character it makes you so wet you could practically feel your heat begin to leak. You laid flat on your back and he leaned over you to kiss you deeply again. He kissed you sternly like he was trying to prove a point. While your mouths were entangled with each other his hands moved back under your new dress. He found his way to your clothed core. You had on a lace black butterfly thong you wanted to show off to him later when you got back but plans changed. He feverishly rubbed your pussy over your panties to tease you. You interrupted your kiss with little whimpers and moans.

He moved his fingers up and rubbed your throbbing clit. rubbing small circles on the bulb of nerves. Your moans raised from a soft whisper to a full moan.

"Cubby, I need you."

"How bad do you want my fingers my love?" he continued his devilish little games and picked up the pace on your clit.

"I want them so bad Cubby please finger fuck me already." you said between moans.

"Hey!" He stopped and grabbed your panties from the front and pulled them up. The thong bunched up and squeezed around your clit. You yelped "Watch your mouth, you’re lucky it's a special day and I still want us to make it out or I would stuff that mouth full."

"Oh, fuck you I'll say what I want." As you finished your sentence you felt your pussy clench around the abrupt two fingers that just entered it. You gasped and threw your head back.

"Fuck Cubby."

"Such a pretty face with such a dirty little mouth how tragic." he began to pump the two fingers into your soaking heat. The beautiful sounds of your pussy squelching filled the room.

"Oh, do you hear how wet you are for this prude? Your pussy doesn't think I'm some boring guy."

Teasing you and talking you through an amazing orgasm is 2 things this man specialized in.

“Oh, my fucking God baby please I need to cum so bad.” You started to want him more and more, you needed to touch him to feel grounded. You reach your arms out asking to be held. He didn’t stop his increasing pace in your core, but he did lean down so you could squeeze him tightly.

“My sweet baby, always so mean and cold to everyone but a messy bratty slut for me.” He said sensational in your ear.

He removed his fingers from your wet hole and rubbed on your sensitive clit. You moaned while babbling incoherently. Jongho knows how to make even the simplest sex acts feel even better because he knows what will set you off.

“I’m-I’m so close Cubby.” A stuttering mess all for this man.

He kissed your neck and moved down to your chest. The dress had a ruched top on it which gave him easy access for him to take your chest out, but he wanted to put you to work.

“Pull your pretty tits out for me baby and put them on my tongue.” he stuck his tongue out and you did exactly that. You took out both your pierced boobs and squeezed them together on the sides then perfectly placed both nipples on to his stuck-out tongue. He sucked and swirled both the nipples around in his mouth drooling and getting spit on your dress top. He briefly released them to say:

“I see you are wearing the new bar set I got you, good girl showing off everything I buy for you.” You complained to him that your current nipple rings were boring so being the loving boyfriend he is he bought you a new set. They were silver bars with cute bear heads on each side.

“Has anyone else seen these besides me pretty girl?”

“No Cubby just you and only you.”

“Good baby” He inserted 3 of his fingers into you pulsing heat. Scissoring them in and out while making the “Come here” motion. He licked your nipples and started to alternate between licking and sucking them. You felt your brain stop functioning. This moment was so intense even Jongho started to rut against you.

“I’m about to fucking cum Cubby Ah- “

The knot in your stomach snapped and you felt the rushing sensation ooze out of you. You became a moaning mess, and it made you need him more, your pussy still yearning for his dick in you.

“More please baby, I need you in me now.”

He sighed while getting up to remove his glasses and undo his belt. You took that as your sign to remove your dress, but he stuck his hand pout to stop you.

“Keep it on my love, we still need to go out.” He didn’t want to admit that he really just wanted to fuck you good in that dress because you just look good enough to eat, but maybe he’ll eat you out until you were begging him to stop later. For now, he wanted to fuck you just as bad. You pulled off your wet thong and Jongho pulled his pants and underwear down revealing his hardened cock. He was about 6 inches long with a good amount of girth, his dick was a pretty light brown with a pink tip that matched the natural color of his lips. Jongho sat down on the bed still sitting up his pants and underwear pooling at his ankles showing the tops of his black trouser socks. Jonghos all black outfit was his attempt to match your aesthetic poor baby is so old fashioned he thinks being alt is just wearing all black but his attempts to make you happy makes you love him even more. He patted his thighs signaling you to climb over on top of him. You hiked your dress back up and spread your legs through the slit to place one leg on each side of him as you hovered over his length.

You placed both your hands on his shoulders and began to sink down on his dick slowly to adjust to his size. Little moans falling from your lips once his entire rod was inside you made a “mm mm” sounds and slowly bobbed up and down. Your clit still ringing and over stimulated from your last orgasm you started to rock to make even more friction you had your head down to watch it all happen in real time.

Jongho watched you as you struggled to stay sane, he loved watching his dick turn your brains to mush. He wanted to drive you even crazier. He grabbed your neck and gently pulled you in for a hot and deep kiss. He squeezed your neck softly as the veins in his arms started to bulge out. You sped up your rocking pace moaning into his mouth. He fell back bringing you with him. He placed his other hand under your dress moved it up to reveal your tattooed ass. You had a small bear outline on your butt cheek (You are down BAD for this man), you remember coming home and showing him and he giggled and told you you didn’t need to do that.

“It’s so when we go swimming and shit people know who this ass belongs too.”

“Okay Y/N” He kissed you on your cheek and fucked you senseless that night too.

He fully gripped your ass and lifted his hand to come back down and strike your ass. You moaned more into his mouth as he did it again and again, the final strike you sat up and gripped both his shoulders as you dug your acrylics into him. Your mind was on nothing but fucking him. You started to bounce on his dick with dedication to cumming. His hand stayed around your throat, but he moved his other hand from your ass to your clit to rub circles onto. At that moment you became dick-notized, fully drunk off of the pure ecstasy he made you feel. He bucked his hips to meet your bouncing and pushed his dick even deeper into your cunt. Only whimpers falling from his lips while you had plenty to say.

“Oh, my fucking God Cubby please keep fucking me SHIT I’m about to fucking cum baby.” Tears started to sit at the edge of your eyes because the sensation was just that strong.

“Baby please cum inside me please cum with me and shoot inside me please please please” All you could do was beg at this point as you continued to ride his dick like her was your stead and you were a lone cowgirl in a western movie.

“My sweet baby have I ever told you no? Be good for me and lets cum together.” He said still choking you lightly and rubbing your clit more. Losing yourself in his touch you climax was reaching the very top of the hill.

“Cum for me beautiful, cum all over your Cubby.” Staggered yes’s is all you could say as your orgasm hit you like a truck. It felt like someone turned the faucet on and left it running. You squeezed your eyes shut and when you finally come to your senses you realized you had squirted on Jongho as he blew his load into your dripping wet core. His legs and pants now wet and all you could do is drop down on top of him, sweaty and exhausted. The room was humid and Jongho rubbed your back a few times before bushing you off to the side of him. You groaned as he moved you because his now soft rod fell out of you while the rest of your joined together cum spilled out of you. He removed his shoes and pants and pulled up his wet underwear and walked off. You couldn’t see him anymore, your eyes feeling like they weight 5 tons as you fought to stay awake. You heard the bathroom sink turn on for a minute then back off. Jongho reentered the room, and you felt the bed weigh down behind you. He reached over you, warm towel in hand and wiped around your area then wiped out the remaining cum that sat on the surface.

“Get up so you can get yourself ready and changed baby.” He said when he was done.

“Mmm”

“Y/N”

“I just wanna sleeeeep.” You shook your head no.

“Y/N at least get up to pee and change. Your dress isn’t in the best shape.”

You opened your eyes and looked down, your dress had all kinds of stains and spots from your love making. You rolled your eyes and got up. You walked to the bathroom to pee and remove the dress. You were fully naked when you came back as you bushed your hair into a quick ponytail. Unphased and use to your barbaric ways Jongho handed you an all-black dress from the dresser.

“Here put this on so we can go.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Why Y/N, what is it now.”

“Let's just stay home tonight and cuddle and watch movies. We can order food and-.”

“Alright alright put on your Pajamas and I’ll order take out.”

You raised your hands. “Yay!” you ran over and jumped on top of him.

“Clothes Y/N! Clothes”

[deltapng]

enjoy this silly little ramble i made about Lukas and his friendships

---

Lukas has no friends.

He spawns into the world and looks around in awe at the sights around him. There were hills and grass as far as his eye could see and it was beautiful. He looks around, trying to find anyone around. He finds no one.

He is alone.

He survives his first night.

Lukas likes his friends

He's a little more experienced now, less green than when he woke up all those days ago in the middle of nowhere. He wandered for ages until he found a quaint little town. A town he now calls home.

He meets another boy after the boy saw him draw sketches of the ideas he has in his head. Ideas of towers that stretched far into the heavens, ideas of bridges so grand and sturdy, ideas of colors swirling about and merging in beautiful architecture.

The boy shoves him around a lot. But that's okay because he's a friend. Friends do that, right? Friends are allowed to be mean to their friends right?

Eventually, he meets two others. One boy and one girl. Together, they call themselves the Ocelots.

They're a little mean, but he likes them.

–

Lukas isn't sure where his friends are.

He is sitting on the dirty ground, terror preventing him from saying anything to the group he has isolated himself from. He is staring into the fire, wondering if his 'friends' were okay, if they made it out safely, where they are. His silent questions go unanswered.

Cookies are presented. There is nothing for him. No friends here. But an olive branch is given to him, a gentle hand placing a cookie in his own. He tries to give it back. He fails. He accepts.

An argument happens. Words are said. Tensions are high.

He goes to leave but the boy who gave him the cookie is firm. He is not leaving the dirty shelter tonight.

He is starving.

He wonders whether his friends are out there or in here.

–

Lukas is pushed by his 'friend.'

He falls through the clouds, terror filling his veins as he falls and falls and falls. He sees no ground or water to cushion his fall. He keeps falling and falling and falling.

He closes his eyes, waiting for death.

His shoulder blossoms with pain as he hits water. The impact causes his arm to break. He crawls out, hacking out water and gasps as he tries not to cry from the pain. He slumps against a tree.

Two more splashed.

The boy who gave him a cookie shouts his name in relief. There is undeniable joy in his eyes at the sight of him. It fills him with warmth. He gets a hug, his arm throbbing with pain but his eyes crinkle upwards as gentle hands fuss over him.

They build back up to the sky and he is reminded of an idea from so long ago.

Towers stretching up into the heavens.

He closes his eyes and sits down.

The boy he met so long ago is no longer his friend as he had pushed him down to what he thought was his death.

–

Lukas reunites with his-

Lukas is kicked out by his-

Lukas has-

Lukas-

…

–

Lukas has so many friends now.

He waves at them as he walks through the city full of life. Colors burst in his vision as glances all around. There are towers that stretch towards the heavens, bridges grand yet sturdy, swirling colors and detailed architecture merging together in a beautiful canvas.

It is everything he has dreamed of and more.

"Lukas! It's good to see you!"

He turns to the hero (for he is not a boy anymore) who gave him a cookie who is waving his arms frantically, beckoning him closer as his nervous intern watches from behind in awe.

His heart is full.

"Hey, Jesse."

Lukas loves his friends.

[celestial-citrus]

More about Nechtan?

Nechtan is the firstborn of King Kenneth and Queen Deirdre of Pictii.

Calm, intelligent, driven. A perfect specimen of princely excellence.

Some years after his birth, his father's right hand man Maelchon is killed trying to quell a sudden uprising from a nearby village, leaving his only son Bridei an orphan. Having compassion for his late friend's child, he takes him in and claims him as his own, raising him alongside Nechtan.

Bridei is firey and rambunctious, far more likely to be found grappling an elk than sitting in a library. (Wink wink nudge nudge) The two get into shenanigans frequently, usually Bridei dragging Nechtan into it. He can be a little much for Nechtan, but they are pretty close.

Still fleshing things out, but Beira and Cérín forged a special medallion imbued with magic and gifted it to Kenneth, which, technically was a breach of the treaty— but they wanted to extend a small olive branch and allow Pictii to prosper under him. It would also give him the power to pass on his abilities when the time was right, and he should only do so at the end of his reign, since it would sap him of some health, due to the nature of magical exchanges.

Kenneth is taken ill and/or develops some sort of disability (loss of sight/mobility/etc) so he bestows power upon Nechtan earlier than expected and abdicates his throne, so he may have some peace close to the end of his life.

As mentioned in Morven's post, Nechtan been quietly influenced towards the Bad Magic ooUhh spooky, and starts to experiment, just small things at first. It begins building up over time, until one day he goes in over his head and Bridei finds out. Nechtan tries to get him to take the fall for him, *something* to save his crown, but when questioned by their father, Bridei can't hold up the lie and tells the truth to Kenneth. He is utterly heartbroken, and has no choice but to pass the crown to Bridei, and punish Nechtan.

Enraged at his brother's betrayal, (well idiot, maybe if you didnt start with the dark magic on the first place...) Nechtan lashes out, wounding Kenneth and attacking Bridei. Due to lack of control with his magic, he ends up cursing Bridei instead of flat out killing him, but he probably won't survive long. As he's already dying, and can't bear to lose his son, Kenneth also gifts Bridei magic as well, expending all the life he had in him, and he dies. The curse and the gifted magic interact in a way that Bridei is almost frozen in time, his inevitable death put on pause, it seems. Bridei is now the king of Pictii, whether he likes it or not.

Exiled and disgraced, Nechtan boards a boat sailing across the sea to the newborn nation of Riata, where he wanders for a time. He feels a draw of magic towards the mountains, and climbing atop their misty peaks, he ends up among the Fear Liaths, an infamous race of shapeshifting mist beings. Fear Liaths have a reputation for abducting people and posing as them until they are discovered, for their own amusement. They prefer chilly mountaintops over anything else, because of the natural solitude and abundance of stones, as their second most famous feats are stone carvings scattered across the lands.

Nechtan remembers their leader, Cérín; king consort to the Queen of the Fay, Baron of the Fear Liaths. He helped Beira bestow magic on Kenneth many years ago. Nechtan boldly approached Cérín and demanded more power. Now, if you didn't get the impression already, Fear Liaths are highly amused by the other races, and don't take them too seriously. They love entertaining themselves by toying with people. Cérín has nothing to lose by helping Nechtan, especially after the lad raves to him about Bridei for half an hour. "Oh? Isn't this the offspring of the king I gave magic to? This will be interesting."

So, he assists with Nechtan's demand for power. After some training and lending of ancient tomes, he sends him on his merry way.

Nechtan wanders back down the mountain, and it happens to begin storming. He careens down the slopes and injures himself. Badly. Once the weather clears and he is half dead, a shepherdess comes across him whilst trying to find a lost sheep, and she believes he is dead. Once she realizes he is not, she drags him back to her uncle's cottage and begins nursing him back to health.

Her name is Muire. Her parents passed a while ago, so she lives with her aunt and uncle, tending their flocks. She carries herself with dignity and grace; a sweet, compassionate young woman. Nechtan initially is too delirious to give her much mind. Once he regains most of his mental clarity, he thanks them. Muire questions how he ended up in such a sorry state, especially "wanderin' up them mountains", he quickly makes a cover story, and she feels oh so bad for him.

He still can't walk well, so he starts assisting with simple tasks for them around the farm, while sneaking off in the late hours to try healing himself, keeping his abilities sharp. He ends up with a permanent limp, but is able to walk unassisted after some time.

Nechtan isn't fully aware of Bridei's curse, and assumes he died shortly after he fled. As his royal status means nothing in this land, he begins finding ways to make a living, discovers a knack for medicine and starts studying. During a late night experiment in the rain, his magic goes awry and kills Muire's relatives, seemingly a mysterious fire breaking out, so he is free of blame. As she is unmarried, and women aren't usually in the position to own land, Muire is distraught as she will almost certainly lose the property. Nechtan, in a rare bout of kindness, claims ownership of the farm and weds Muire to preserve it in her family.

For quite a while they live a pretty normal life. Have a gaggle of children. There's months in between his experiments. That is, until a passerby happens to mention Bridei, and obsession and hatred reappear. Also he probably kills said passerby.

I havent figured out how things play out exactly, but Muire dies at some point. When she's gone, Nechtan really starts delving into his power, trapping small animals and experimenting on them, eventually moving up to humans. Since almost all of the children are out by this point, he burns down the farm and erects a new structure, slowly walling off the outside areas until he has a utilitarian little compound.

After some coaxing, a couple of his children return with their families, and thus begins the militarization of his own descendants.

Disgusted with the fay and their powers, (ironic as that is what he himself has), he starts researching what makes creatures able to wield magic, and how to replicate it.

I feel this is getting too long. So.

Nechtan turns his own family into a small army, also learning more about magic and extending his lifespan. He begins to replace parts with mechanical ones (this takes a few centuries), and genetically modifying embryos. He gets more ruthless as time goes on, killing off weak children, and if a woman produces too many failed children, he kills her. If it's the males fault, he dies as well. They must be perfect.

The new generations are indoctrinated into his cause. They are his soliders. They will die for their patriarch. Some disagree with this and escape. On occasion Nechtan will send others after them to cut the down, most times he doesn't wish to waste the resources.

35 years before the events of the main story, Nechtan finally engineers an embryo who can command magic. It only took, what, 500 years give or take? He names her Mary.

I'm gonna totally be an a-hole and say if u want the rest, ask for Mary's story. Mainly bc this was longer than I intended...

[radiowallet]

Eyes Open - Chapter 9

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Amy Oliver (ofc) Summary: Amy and Marcus are happy. WC: 2.7K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, talk of police work, a blatant show of testosterone, blood, injuries, kissing, making-out, dry humping, a smidge of dirty talk hurt/comfort, slow burn, yearning, idiots friends to lovers, financial stressors, second chance romance, workplace romance (sort of), older love interest, single parents, DID I MENTION THE YEARNING?

Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist II Marcus Moreno Masterlist

Cross-Posted to AO3

Part 8 >>> Part 10

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

------

“Mommy, why are you smiling like that?”

“Because I’m happy.”

“You look crazy.”

Amy's eyebrows shoot up into her forehead, not sure how to answer her daughter’s question. She tries her best to school her expression into something more neutral but fails almost immediately. Harris snorts into her bowl of cereal, milk spraying out across the kitchen table. A muffled ‘sorry’ is mumbled around a mouthful of crunch berries, and before Amy can offer an alternative, Harris is mopping up the spill with the sleeve of her shirt. 

And she still can’t stop smiling. 

——

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?

“Like you slept with a coat hanger in your mouth.”

Marcus sneaks a glance to the passenger seat where Missy is watching him, eyes narrowed, one sneaker propped on his dashboard. He briefly considers playing it off and changing the subject, but that tactic hasn’t worked on her in years. 

“Just happy, kiddo. What can I say? Just really happy.”

He watches Missy bob her head from the corner of his head, her own smile stretching her cheeks. 

“Next time they should come to our place.”

If possible, his smile gets even wider. 

——

“Hey, Oliver, you got that list of potential informants from Saturday?”

“…Oliver?”

“Oliver!”

A stack of papers and a cup of coffee hit Amy’s desk one after the other, and she blushes when she glances up and sees Derek staring down at her. There are certainly better ways to start a Monday morning than the chief of police catching her daydreaming about brown eyes and very kissable lips. But who could blame her, when the memory of Marcus’s touch was still so fresh, the bruise of his kiss still seared into her skin? She was already counting down the seconds until she could see him again, her mind on anything but police reports and notary stamps, only able to think about the way he – he…

“Oliver!”

“Shit! Sorry, Derek,” she apologizes, ducking her head and grinning despite herself. She shuffles through the mess, looking for the papers he was asking for when a cough draws her attention back to her boss, the cup of coffee he had put down nudged in her direction. 

“Seems like you need this.” 

“Thanks,” she offers between sips, closing her eyes and humming at the familiar taste. 

She hears the scrape of a chair and looks over as Derek takes a seat beside her, something stuck between a smile and smirk looking back at her. 

“Someone on your mind?”

“Oh god, what do you know?” 

It seemed only fitting that he knew about her and Marcus. A skilled detective with years of experience beneath his belt who has had a front row seat to the back and forth for years now? Of course, he knew.

Derek throws his head back, his trademark laugh filling out the stiff Monday morning air. “Not much, but I think I can take a good enough guess.” 

Amy snorts into her mug, taking another sip before returning to the task at hand.  “No jokes or warnings? Nothing about ‘bleeding hearts’ or ‘vigilante shit’?”

“It’s not like it would change your mind,” he reasons, leaning back in his chair, the heel of his boot resting across his knee. “Would it?”

“Mmmm, definitely not,” she hums, the smile returning to her face. She pulls out the list Derek had been asking for and passes it over to him with a wink. 

“You can spare me the details, Oliver. I’m happy you’re happy, but just do me a favor?”

The tone in his voice catches her ear, and she takes care to stop what she’s doing altogether, giving him her full attention. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, sharp eyes watching Amy from only a few feet away. Not for the first time, she wonders how much Derek really knows about her friendship with the Heroic and how even as it progresses so seamlessly into more, there is one piece of the foundation that remains. He clicks his tongue to the back of his teeth and shakes his head, telltale smirk returning. 

“Come find me when you’ve got these reports done. I need to take a look at them before the briefing about Wednesday night.”

——

“Falling in love with that file over there, Moreno?”

“Hmmm, what’s that?” Marcus asks, not looking up from the papers in his lap, Miracle’s question hardly registering, save for the call of his name. Whatever it is, it’s not nearly enough to distract  him from the memory of Amy’s kiss, and suddenly he’s wondering if it’s too early in the day to call her. Surely, she’s at work by now, and Marcus can’t think of a better way to brighten his own morning than by hearing her voice. He’s just about to reach for his phone when suddenly a blonde mustache is directly in his line of sight.

“Anybody home up there?”

“Jeez!” He shoots out of his chair, Miracle Guy’s intrusion into his personal space. “Warn a guy next time!”

“Oh, you mean the three times I called your name while you were daydreaming weren’t enough?”

Marcus feels his smile slip for the first time that day, his cheeks heating up at the realization he had been caught red-handed. The other man smirks before straightening and sauntering back to his seat on the other side of the room. He makes a show of swinging his hips back around and sitting in his chair before fixing a Cheshire grin directly on Marcus. 

“Sooooo…did you do something slutty?”

“Get back to work.”

“That’s a yes,” Miracle declares triumphantly, cheating his eyes back down to the file in his lap. 

“Not your business,” Marcus counters, shaking his head and doing his best to focus on his own work, hoping the subject would be dropped for good. The last thing he wanted was to reduce his weekend with Amy down to typical locker room talk, no matter how well-intentioned his friend was. No, this was something he wanted to safeguard, and protect, in any way he possibly could. 

They work in silence a little longer, only the scratch of Marcus’s pen to fill up the space between them. He’s just starting to make a little bit of headway when he feels it, the stare of blue eyes from across the room. Sure enough, Miracle Guy is still watching him when he looks up, but his features have evened out to something tempered and genuine. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he tosses out, cheating his eyes back down to his lap. “So, when you seeing her again?”

Marcus doesn’t bother pointing out that he had yet to actually confirm the shift in his relationship with Amy (or that it was even Amy that had him so distracted in the first place). Instead, he tosses the stack of papers onto his desk and folds his hand in his lap, giving up fully on killing his smile.

“Friday.”

Miracle Guy nods, leaning forward to meet Marcus’s gaze head on, his own smile splitting his lips. “What would you say to seeing her sooner?

——

The assumption has always been that Miracle Guy is dumb. People see the cape and the muscles and the smile and they draw conclusions to a very obvious (if not boring) narrative. Marcus grew up side by side with the other Heroic, a tenuous rivalry that blossomed slowly into a friendship that spanned two weddings, two kids, one devastating loss, one almost retirement, and one fake alien invasion. 

The two men brought out the best and worst in each other over the years. Miracle was strong, so Marcus took up swords. Marcus was quick on his feet, so Miracle took to the skies. They were so different in so many ways, but when push came to shove it didn’t really matter that Marcus was named team leader. Miracle Guy looked good on a lunch box and so that was his role to play. The face. The smile. The whole package. 

But the world didn’t know. 

They didn’t see it. 

Miracle Guy was the smartest of them all. 

And so when he pointed out one distinct pattern that Marcus had overlooked in every case filing, every box of evidence, every shake down of a perp, he knew the other man was right. About a lot of things. 

The air in the station feels less stale today, something static sparking at the tips of his fingers, even just the potential of Amy’s smile leaving Marcus breathless. He spots her quickly, her head bent low over her desk, her pen moving in short, sweet strokes, a half-empty cup of coffee beside her.  He shifts where he stands, giving himself a few seconds to collect his thoughts, admiring Amy from afar in the meantime. From the outside, she appears focused, her eyes sharp and her pen strokes precise, but Marcus doesn’t miss how she pauses every so often, the scratch of her pen falling silent, the tips of her ears tinging pink.

He can’t help but hope it’s him that has her so distracted.

She looks up, the weight of his eyes on her finally catching her attention. He gives a small wave, not bothering to hide his grin, delighted when she matches him beat for beat. He moves quickly after that, not slowing until he’s beside her.

“I didn’t think I’d see you today,” Amy greets him before taking a sip of her coffee. From the look of disgust on her face, it’s gone cold but she takes it in stride, standing and moving to the coffee pot behind her, mug in hand.

“Me either,” Marcus admits, his hand coming to the back of his neck. He watches her patiently as she tops off her lukewarm coffee before pouring a cup for him, adding his preferred two sugars with a smile and a wink. 

“So is it safe to assume you’re here for more than just a sweet surprise?” She murmurs, brown eyes cheating to where Baldwin’s door is shut tight.

“Guilty.”

Amy takes his confession in stride, handing him the mug of coffee before leaning in to kiss his cheek. It’s soft, a barely there brush of her lips, but still, he can feel his heart rate pick up speed. It’s another addition, something small and sweet, the change in their dynamic more apparent than ever. Her eyes find his, something warm spilling out between them, and before she can move away he leans in and steals a quick kiss of his own. 

“Okay,” she hums, settling back down in her seat and motioning for him to do the same. “Spill. Tell me about your day.”

Marcus grins but obliges, scooting his chair in until his knees just graze Amy’s. She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel her push her own leg forward into his space, and he takes that as his cue to talk

“Miracle Guy and I were doing a little bit of work today. Going over some of our notes from the past few weeks, and he noticed something interesting.”

“Mmm? What’s that?” She asks, not looking up from her own work, the perfect picture of feigned indifference. 

He takes a sip of his coffee, nodding his head left then right, trying to match her nonchalance. “The only piece of evidence collected.” 

——

Amy hadn’t really thought much about the bags of money from the weekend. Not since they had fallen into her face, interrupting her kiss with Marcus. After their giggling had quieted, and Marcus had leaned back in for one more kiss, softer and sweeter on the second go around, she carefully stacked the bundles of cash back on the shelf and promptly put them out of her mind. 

Until now. 

She can feel the heat of Marcus behind her as they navigate the narrow stairwell down into the evidence locker. Tendrils of warmth curl down in her stomach, the memory of Saturday morning still fresh in her mind. Somehow returning to the scene of their first kiss feels more intimate than anything else they’ve shared since, and it takes every ounce of willpower for her not to turn around and recreate the moment beat for beat. 

It isn’t just Amy that’s distracted by the memory, the brush of Marcus’s lips along the nape of her neck giving away his own thoughts. As her feet touch the bottom step his hands find her waist, holding her in place, his breath insistent across her skin. Logic falls to the wayside, one calloused palm cupping her chin and turning her head until their lips finally meet. 

The kiss is hurried, sharp and sweet, breaking apart and coming back together again and again. Amy does her best to hold on, one hand finding the bend of Marcus’s elbow, the other planted to the wall, chipped paint catching beneath her fingernails. She gasps into the kiss and his grip only tightens at the sound. Suddenly, she's spinning, her back to the wall, his chest pressed to hers, teeth and tongue taking even more. 

“Missed you,” he murmurs into the kiss, refusing to part from her lips any longer than necessary. 

Amy is vaguely aware of the growing risk, the busy precinct one floor up, filled with an endless number of people who could walk in and steal this moment. And still she can’t stop, kissing Marcus as if he was the air inside her lungs, breathing him in and holding him close and praying for forever. His tie between her fingers and his hands in her hair, and how could it be that only a week ago she was convinced this man didn’t want her. 

Couldn’t want her. For all the things she carried from point A to point B. 

Amy was never so sure of how good it felt to be wrong. 

Level heads and a gentler touch eventually prevail, the kiss ending with soft smiles and pink cheeks. But Marcus doesn’t pull away, even as his eyes find a spot over her shoulder, the shelves of evidence splitting his attention. 

“What are you looking for exactly?”

His jaw ticks hard to the left, his brows bunching in with the effort. When answers, it’s with his own question, something like guilt coloring his words. 

“How hard are those bags of money to open?”

——

It turns out, not very hard at all. 

Amy pulls one of the neatly stacked bundles down, running the tip of her finger along the sealed edges.

“You can’t open it here, because you’ll cut through these signatures,” she points to the scribbled names of two officers. The ones who had collected the money from the scene of the crime. “But if you cut here,” she slides her finger down to the bottom of the bag, “you can reseal it without it being too noticeable.” 

“It’s weird though,” she hums with the afterthought, turning the bag back over in her hands. “Once we confirm the money was obtained illegally the FBI comes to haul it away. Must be hung up ‘cus we confiscated it over the weekend.” 

Marcus nods in agreement, a sharp buzz starting to ring in his ears. He’s acutely aware of the lines being crossed, Amy’s voice pitched to a low whisper, her tone rushed with nerves. New layers of guilt are sticking to his every thought, and he hates how unsure he is of both of their motives. Is she willing to help because she always has, his friend first and foremost, their relationship built around little lies just like this one? Or is this something bigger? The memory of their kiss still bruised into her lips as she willingly helps him take something he knows he shouldn’t? 

“Marcus?” She calls his name, pulling his attention back down to her, her own eyes narrowed in thought. “What do you think is in here?” 

Slowly, eyes never leaving hers, he takes the bag out of Amy’s hands and places it back on the shelf behind them. With his hands free, Marcus cups her cheeks and leans in, pressing his lips, first to the crease in her brow, to the tip of her nose, and then finally, to her lips. When he pulls back, he keeps her close, her breath warm where it mingles with his own. 

“I’ll find another way.” 

------

A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading.

[juniperhillpatient]

ok I’m like… back to this. I do love that the coffin of andy & leyley is so brutally bluntly HORROR as in not pg 13 blumhouse ghost horror movies that shy away from anything too taboo but horror that’s meant to offend & upset. I like the way it sees shit you’re not “supposed” to talk about & goes as hard as it can like - I don’t think at this point it’s a secret to literally anyone who follows me or has ever discussed fiction with me ever that the controversial or daring are obvious draws for me in any genre but particularly my favorite genre of horror.

like an anon suggested this to me, I saw the words “cannibalism” “incest” & “botched satanic ritual” as soon as I googled & was ready to check it out BUT I think it’s worth noting that it’s not the dark concepts themselves that got this game its well earned hype or that ensure that it lives rent free in my head & the heads of other fans.

I think the writers have created really compelling & complex multilayered characters & a fascinating storyline with a lot of questions left unanswered about the nature of these demons & of human souls & the world these characters inhabit & I’m being so sincere here I also think it’s a really thought provoking critique or at least exploration of the american nuclear family.

I already said this but I would’ve stopped caring pretty fast if andrew & ashley were not more than their archetypes which SURE are fun we love a quirky evil girlboss & her simp boyfriend brother but the fun archetypes are not enough on their own to keep me hooked. luckily, these are some of the least 1 dimensional characters I’ve ever seen. this got carried away talking about how good I think the game is & giving an obligatory disclaimer that yeah, I totally got into it initially for shallow & edgy reasons lol but I actually wanted to talk about the themes because I genuinely think it’s an incredibly well crafted story. anyway -

I think it’s really interesting that ashley is the one that is originally shown believing / hoping their mom hasn’t truly abandoned them. andrew discourages her from having hope in their mom or considering trying to find her until it’s about finding sacrifices for the demon & getting money. yet this initial dynamic is totally forgotten once they’re home. ashley just wants to kill these motherfuckers while andrew is busy playing mind games & - one might argue- playing house / pretending be a happy family. it’s andrew who is offered the olive branch. who we see considering sparing his parents or at least feeling conflicted about killing them. in the flashbacks we see that “andy” was forced to take care of “leyley” & she uses it against him “mom says you have to play with me.”

ashley is so depressingly achingly desperate for any hint of affection & it’s so obvious the reason she’s latched into andrew is that he’s the only one who’s ever chosen her. that’s why she’s so obsessed with calling andrew “andy” despite the conflict it constantly creates. andy helped her hide a body. a possibly hot take but I don’t think leyley was going “yay murder” in her child brain - I don’t think she cared that the girl died don’t get me wrong - but I do believe it was an accident. this is a happy memory though because it’s the only time in ashley’s entire life that someone has chosen her with that level of commitment. yet for andrew it’s horrific & traumatic & he wants to get away from it - or so he tells himself. maybe his parents were decent to him or at least not actively hateful how they were to ashley but it’s abundantly clear based on the fact the story’s premise relies on them leaving him to fucking starve to death that they do not give a fuck about him.

when mrs. graves tells andrew that there’s still hope for him & that she always cared about him the compliments she chooses are telling - they thought he was easy, quiet, a good kid - they thought they could have another (& hand her off to him to take care of). and ofc it’s worth noting mrs. graves only says all this to save her own skin & would never freely talk about caring about andrew.

so andy is living this cold not abusive but certainly empty & devoid of nurturing life & along comes leyley. she’s annoying & needy but she loves him with such reckless abandon. adult ashley’s words say it all. “If only you could love me with half the heart I love you with.” but he DOES he just doesn’t know how to show it the way she does. so he chooses her again & again & tries to make her happy with violence & bending to her will & showing her he’d do anything for her with everything he can except the one thing she wants which is simple affection.

as things get more & more dire ashley gets more abusive, controlling & manipulative embodying the worst aspects of her mother - a cold heartless bitch who never cared about anyone but herself - & andrew gets more & more apathetic just like his worthless father who’s barely even a person in his wife’s shadow.

it’s a really tragic story & I love this idea of characters on the run but they’re really running from themselves & that’s something you can never escape. how telling is it that the one thing ashley doesn’t want is to be buried in the same grave as her parents? but this story is about a grave it’s always been about a coffin in one way or another, they thought they escaped when they got out of the apartment but they’re still in it because they’ll always still be in it, you can’t escape from who you are at your core & there’s a reason ashley having tarred soul is such a glaring theme & episode 2 (in some versions) ends with andrew gaining a mark on his hand from the demon. they’re marked & there’s no escape. I’m sorry it’s just REALLY good horror. ok I’m done for now

[vitiligo-is-not-a-trend]

Hi! Hope you are having a great day.

I have a question about the design of one of my characters and if its okay or if i should change it. I am sorry in advance if its offensive.

So she has an olive skintone and she doesn't have vitiligo but what she does have is white freckels, and she has them because she is one of the chosen of their gods, who where stars originaly still watch over the people in the form of stars often and are asociated with them. And i had the bright idea that since freckels are often described as constelations stars in metaphores and stars are white and her markings are supernatural in origin iwhy not give her white freckels? Would be a fun character design element. right?

I somehow completely forgot to take the existence of vitiligo and the fact that these marks aperance bear some similarity to it while also being the worst posible representation if actualy counted as such. I don't know how it never crosed my mind in years, i have no excuse beside stelar stupidity.

She has them since birth, they resembel no form of vitiligo in any manner, they are supernatural in origin and even thoug the power asociated with them is considered a blessing by the people around her, it has massive downsides that no one outside of her notices.

She has other identifiying marks that singel her out as the gods chosen, and i didn't intend for the white freckels to be vitiligo, but they resembel it (or rather a bad misconception of what it can be) and overlap with not so positive representation of it. Using it as "white paint" to draw designs on characters and in the proces making marks that resembel no form of vitiligo patches. ( Just small white dots in this case but they are way to neat to resembel vitiligo patches as far as my very limited knowledge of vitiligo spreads) Having no other effects on her beside the white patches, being supernatural in origin. Her having them since birth. I would like to avoid it being interpreted as vitiligo since it would be less than stellar rep

Is there anything i could do to make it clear that she doesn't have vitiligo and the marks are their own thing. Would giving them to someone with vitiligo who is related to her and explaining that the two are completely different help or would that be just oil on the fire? Should i just scratch it entirely and accept that white freckels are a bad design choice?

If you dont want to answer this thats completely fine, i understand why. I thank you very much for even reading this monstrum of an ask. Sorry if its badly phrased/repetitive i am sick and english is not my first language

Have a lovely day :)!

Hi! Hope you have a lovely day as well! Sorry for the delay in answering <3

Also, do NOT beat yourself up. Honestly, I don't think even I would have considered the possibility that it might be viewed as vitiligo!

I actually adore characters with star-like freckles I think it's super cute <3

If you are worried about it being too much like vitiligo I do think there are some changes you could do, like perhaps making the constellations have lines drawn to form the shape rather than just the aligned stars, you could also have them shift and reflect the stars that are either in her jurisdiction (region? area of space?) or what is currently above her at the moment! So, say there's a shooting star; you might see it pass by on her face, too!!

I also think that having her explain in character what they are/ have the meaning of them and how they came to be explained, or even having a character with vitiligo themselves, might also help with any issues of distinction.

Either way, I think you're fine !!

[helpfandom]

Yandere Stobotnik x Platonic Reader Chapter 2: The man

TW: Kidnapping, Threatening, Emotional manipulation. Kind of a mental breakdown/ anxiety attack?

You woke up without Maddie or Ozzy in the house, leaving it to feel empty. You were colder without Ozzy to lay on, and nothing other than Tom taking a shower could be heard. You checked the time, 6:52. I guess Tom took the day off to pack and get ready for San Francisco? You got up and got dressed in matching clothing, which soothed you a little bit.

You got downstairs and decided to go and make breakfast, which lead to slightly singed pancakes, but a meal you made yourself. Tom finished and was dressed in a casual outfit when he got downstairs and smiled when he saw that you made breakfast for him. You looked at him questioningly, "D- Did you take the day off or?" He sat down, "I asked to come in a little later today since I had to drive Maddie." You nodded, "Ah, that makes more sense. What time are you coming in?" He finished the bite he was chewing and then replied, "Around lunchtime, don't worry though, I won't arrive then take my lunch break, I'll eat here." 

You nodded and finished the bite you were eating before asking another question. "You think Maddie's over there by now?" "Yeah, I think so, I believe her flight arrived at 6:30, but I might be wrong so why don't we call her later today and find out?" "Have you seen anything weird lately?" He paused and asked for clarification, "What do you mean?" "Like have you seen anything like a quill but it was to big to be a normal hedgehog's quill, or a slightly anthropomorphic hedgehog?" He paused and looked at you incredulously. 

"D- did you know I picked up a quill yesterday?" You almost dropped your fork and knife in surprise, "What?" Your heart was fluttering, in a bad way. "Yeah, I saw it while I was at the speed trap. Oh! And one thing, I had my speedometer go off twice with high numbers." "D-do you think that maybe those are connected, I saw something weird yesterday." "What did you see?" You explained that both you and Maddie didn't know what it was that you saw. "Maybe it's aliens?" Tom joked. "Me and Maddie said the same thing, maybe it's a sign to get the heck out of dodge." You hummed a agreement out and finished the meal in silence with each other. It felt wrong without her or Ozzy.

You washed the dishes when you were done and then got started packing the books in your room, at around 8:30, Tom calls you down. "On the phone with Maddie!" You rushed downstairs to join the conversation.

"Whatcha' doing?" You asked, curious. "Just drawing, with Jojo, And Rachel." "Has she -she being Rachel- convinced you to leave me yet?" "No, but she wants me to check your phone for dating apps." "Good luck, the only apps I have are the ones that came with my phone." A moment of silence, then, "And the Olive Garden app," You pitched in on the "Cause' when you're there, you're family." Tom was remined of something, and said "Hey fascinating stuff here, we got a power outage."

"Oh, that's interesting ...." A clatter outside was heard, Tom looked at you momentarily before deciding it was racoons. He moved to the drawer with the tranquilizer in it while still continuing to speak, "Hey, how much does the racoon need before sleeping, Greenhill's finest Vet?" "Tom, That's for bears-" He finished setting up the gun to shoot, "Perfect, then it'll work." A gasp could be heard through the phone, "TOM!" He hung up on Maddie, leaving her to wonder what he was going to do to the poor racoons.

You followed Tom to see what that was, maybe it's what I saw yesterday? Hm, unlikely, but still.  We walked out to the garage, I walked behind Tom, who was ready to bust down the door. He kicked it in yelling "SFPD!" You chimed in, "Pending background check!" You both rushed inside and there it was, the ?hedgehog?. "Um, Meow?" Tom shot him with the tranquilizer in surprise, leading the ?hedgehog? to drop the thing that he was holding and create a ?portal? to the top of a building.

You walked back in shock, what the. The ?hedgehog?  flopped to the floor and dropped the bag that he was holding. You watched the bag fall into the ?portal? created on the floor and land on the building. You and Tom watched in shock as the portal closed in on itself. You shared a look and then Tom seemed to have broken out of his stupor. 

Tom grabbed the thing and shoved it in an animal cage that Maddie left in the garage. You got out of your frozen state when he handed you the tranquilizer gun. You held it until you two got into the house, then you put it on the cabinet. You and Tom had a moment of silence before he stuttered something out to himself. "Wh-what the fuck is that?" You sat down, and watched the thing breathe for a beat before saying something. "I think that this is what I saw."

He turned and looked at you, "Really?" You looked at him, "Yes." There was a pause as you both thought about what to say to each other. "I think we should call it a hedgehog." "Why?" You turned back to the thing in the cage. "Because that's what I've been calling it in my mind." He chuckled a little bit, "I don't mean to laugh, it's just that you're delivery was funny to me for some reason." You shrugged. "Gotta have humor in serious situations."

The silence was starting to settle in like a heavy, weighted, blanket amongst you two. Tom, done with the silence, beckoned to you to get up and talk to him. You got up from your seat and walked over to him. You both put your back to the hedgehog and were going to call Maddie before you heard the cage door opening and you stopped Tom.

You both turned around, shocked -even though you both were pretty sure he opened the door- to find that he escaped from the cage. "hgn, What happened?" You gasped and stepped back again. Tom walked to the hedgehog and asked "What are you?" "A hedgehog?" It asked the incredulously, like in disbelief that someone wouldn't know what it is. There was commotion outside, and it ran to the window. "Oh no, they found me again." 

You raised your eyebrows, "Again?" It turned to you, "Yes, again." It turned to Tom, "You've got to help me, Donut Lord." The commotions stopped. "Why should I help you?" "Because you shot me, and this is life or death." Tom looked in distress between you and the hedgehog. "You, Room, HIDE." You pointed to the hedgehog and Tom rephrased the sentence, "It- Attic, You- Room."

You went up the stairs and pretended to go inside your room. You could hear Tom open the door, and talk to someone outside. You didn't hear much though, only little snippets. You tried inching closer, but remembered the floorboards are creaky, and that would tell them that you are there. "So tell me why I should let you inside my house?" You put your hand to your mouth, What? Is someone trying to get in? "Are you aware of ..." Something came in through the window, which made you stand up in alarm. The floor boards creaked as you walked -more like ran- to your closet to hide. 

What the fuck? 

It was silent for a few minutes, most likely seconds but your impatience left you thinking it was longer -as far as you heard at least- before you heard thumping ?down? the stairs. You waited a few beats, and then you could hear a scream momentarily and then rapid fire gunshots with glass breaking.

You shut your eyes, you were panic stricken, and waited until you could hear something. It was minutes, -you counted to try and calm yourself- before you heard something come ?up? the stairs. You heard two pairs of feet, which meant it was likely two people who were here. Doors were flung open and you could hear that they were getting closer to where you were hiding.

Your bedroom door was busted open and then you could hear that they were right outside the closet door. "Hey, Doctor? Are you sure that someone was here?" A fluttering was heard as someone turned around. "Of course I am sure that someone was here." They flung open the door to your closet revealing you to them, as they did though, they kept talking. "Did you doubt my robots, Stone?"

'Stone' -at least as far as you knew, they were named Stone- pointed to you, and smiled at the 'Doctor'. "Of course not, Doctor." Doctor -this time you knew for sure who was who- grabbed your arm violently and pulled you up to them. "Now, adolescent, we need you to come with us to the police department." Dear god, he's scary. "O-okay. W-where's Tom?" Stone's eyes flicked to Doctor then to you. Doctor just let go of you and walked away.

Stone stayed behind and put a hand on your shoulder to try to comfort you. "Tom is- Tom is unavailable currently." Stone then lead you downstairs where you saw a catastrophe of a house. The table was broken, glass shards were everywhere, bullet holes riddled the walls and floor. Stone was preoccupied with something outside, which left you alone in the house. What happened? Is he dead? Who are these people? You saw that the tranquilizer was still on the counter where you left it, and you compulsively grabbed it and put it in your pocket.

Stone entered again to drag you away from the mess that was now your house. There were two large trucks outside where Doctor was standing outside one of them, impatiently waiting and tapping his foot. Stone explained "I had driven one of the trucks to investigate one area, and the Doctor had driven the other to investigate here, but now he wants to drive you down to the police station and investigate there, while I drive the other back to base. So, you'll be driving with him." Base? 

"O-okay." You got into the truck with Doctor in tow and sat down in one of the seats, and odd one since it was your lucky number and you needed all the luck you could get. "No. Sit somewhere else." The Doctor ordered you, so you sat in the next seat that was your lucky number -another odd number-, but that wasn't good enough for the Doctor. "Sit down beside me then, if you can't sit in the right place." 

So you did just that, you sat down beside him and yelled at him from inside your mind. Excuse me what? I can sit down in the right spot. I was sitting down to get luck, and it wasn't in the way of anything or anyone so I was in the right, you are in the wrong.

Your thoughts of anger were quickly burst when Doctor asked you why you sat in the wrong place. "I sat in the luck number spot." "What do you mean?"  You shrugged, "It was my lucky number where I sat, and you're kind of scary so I need all the luck I can get." He huffed. "I don't see why you think that. Luck doesn't exist, it's just a construct we created, all there is is probability. " You swallowed, I have to tread carefully. "I don't know why I think that way either." 

You quickly arrived at the police department, much to your relief, and got out of the truck. Wade's car was outside, alongside a few black cars, none of which you recognized. You entered the air conditioned police station in tow of the Doctor. Wade was surrounded by some people in black suits. Wade looked discombobulated and also looked like he was about to cry. You walked over to Wade, who looked at you in concern. "I thought Tom wasn't going to show up for a while today." You sat down at a chair, "Yeah, well um." You leaned towards him, and started whispering. "I think Tom's dead, and these guys-" You gestured to the men, "Had something to do with it." 

He whispered to you, "You think Tom's dead?" The shock of it made his hands shake, "I do, there were bullet holes and gun fire, and now Tom's missing." "O, M, G." He looked at you and wrapped you into a hug, "I'm so sorry." Doctor harumphed and then announced to everyone in the room, "So, you simple minded compatriots, I shall tell you what is going on." You and Wade looked to the Doctor, "There is investigation of the power outage incident, and it occurred in this sleepy little town." Stone entered the police station, and walked to Doctor.

You and Wade shared a look of confusion, but neither of you wanted to interrupt him talking, and so you kept silent. I thought it just happened here? Was it farther than that? He continued, "We are from the government, and we are taking over for now." Your eyes widened, the government? Wade gasped a little in shock, a sentiment you agreed with. The Doctor finished his announcement, and walked over to you and Wade. 

He looked around for a seat to sit on and then grabbed it once he saw a seat, Stone stood behind the Doctor. Doctor scooted close to you two before asking a question. "What do you know about terrorism?" You leaned back a little in shock, "W-what?" He grunted in annoyance, "What do you know about terrorism?" You looked around, as if searching your memory , when it came to you. "Acts of violence, particularly against civilians, in order to get a political point across?" 

"Close but what about domestic terrorism?" A look of confusion came across you and Wade's faces. "The same but done with someone from the country?" You asked, looking around again for something. "Hmm. Close enough. That's what Tom is." Your eyes widened again. "B-but-" Wade came to your rescue, "He can't put bait on when fishing, there is no way he can be a terrorist." 

You interjected, "I-isn't he dead anyway?" Doctor sighed, "Sadly-" He gave a look to Stone, "He isn't, nor is he captured." Tears came to your eyes in relief that Tom wasn't dead, You didn't want to lose another parent so soon. "Oh." "Oh?" Doctor queried. "I thought he was dead, ya 'know cause of the bullet holes, and gunfire." Doctor nodded, "A incorrect assumption, but I see how you jumped to that conclusion. But, back to the topic at hand here, Tom is a terrorist, even if you think him a good man."

No, no way he's a terrorist. It must be because of that hedgehog we helped earlier. The thing must be wanted by the government. You snuck a look at the clock, 4:41, whish was surprising because time had moved so fast. "Why is he a terrorist?" You dared to ask. "He is helping an enemy of the state, which reminds me of something." He stood up and beckoned you to do so as well. Stone stepped back to let Doctor through, and you followed Doctor to an empty room. 

Doctor grabbed something from Stone's pocket and held it in front of you. It seemed like a quill from a hedgehog, but it was long, glowing blue and sparkling with electricity. "What is this to you? And what was it doing inside your house?" "It must have been a glowstick, from a previous performance of mine." He hummed, "Then why is it so bright?" "Good glowstick, perhaps?" He hummed again, then handed it to Stone to keep. He started walking closer to you, and he grabbed your chin to look at him. "Look, adolescent, Don't play games with me." "I-I'm not, I don't know what's going on a-and I'm s-scared c-cause I thought that my dad was dead, and I didn't want him to die as well, and-" You burst into tears, all of your anxiety caught up to you and exploded within. 

You dropped to the ground and held your knees to yourself. You couldn't stop crying, even though it showed that you were vulnerable right now, you just couldn't stop. Stone kneeled beside you and started rubbing circles into your back. Doctor just stood there dumbfounded, he didn't know what to do, as someone just started crying in front of him, seemingly without warning. He just left you crying with Stone. 

It was hard, you didn't want to cry but your body was crying without you meaning it to, leaving you feeling awful making you cry more. Stone just kneeled there rubbing your back and giving you tissues while you were crying into yourself, which was for a while, because you couldn't stop. Eventually you did stop, but that was when all the tears in your body were gone.

You breathed in, and blew your nose again before standing up. "I'm sorry that you had to do that. I shouldn't cry." He gave you a sympathetic look, "It's okay to cry, it must have been a lot for you today." You laughed a little. "Yeah, it was." You threw away your tissues and breathed in really deep. "I'm okay now, I promise." "Okay. You ready to go out there?" 

"Yeah, I think so." You opened the door and took a look at the clock when you sat back down with Wade. 6:11. Doctor was talking to somebody else when you sat down. "You okay? Your eyes are puffy and red, did they make you cry?" You shook your head. "No, they didn't make me cry. I'm fine Wade." He said nothing, but moved the tissue box closer to you.

You were exhausted, but you fought with your tiredness to stay awake by stabbing yourself with your fingernails. You did end up falling asleep, but you woke up at 8:22, so it was just a little nap. Wade tapped you on the shoulder to see if you were awake. He needed to tell you something. "Hey, you awake?" You mumbled something, and then shook your head to wake up. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."

"It's okay, I understand, but they have a plan as to where you'll be staying." You were more awake at that point, "What? What do you mean?" He paused for a moment then shook his head about something mentally. "Um, so, you won't be staying at your house 'cause it's an investigation zone and you would be trampling evidence, and since both of your guardians are unavailable to watch you, you will be staying with them - I think." You blinked slowly at him, "Why can't I stay with you?" 

He shrugged, "I don't know. Sorry, kiddo."  Doctor and Stone stopped by Wade's desk where you two were, "Did you manage to relay the information?" Doctor asked in a demanding tone. "Yeah, I told Y/N that they wouldn't be staying with me." The phone started to ring, and Wade picked it up before Doctor could. 

Tom's voice was a bit staticky, but you could hear him through the phone. "Hey Wade." Wade whispered into the phone, "What is going on, Tom? There are these men in suits and they were asking about you and asking about terrorism, and I told them you couldn't put bait on, there is no way he's a terrorist." Tom cut him off, "Wade, I need you to not let them know I called you." Wade looked at Doctor and Stone, "Yeah, I think they already know." 

Doctor grabbed the phone out of Wade's hand, "Mr. Wachowski ." "Ah, Hello Robotnik." "I want you to know that the only other person to punched me in the face was the school yard bully, he hit me in the cafeteria causing a blunt force contusion to the soft tissue surrounding my orbital bone, humiliated me in front of the entire school and you know what I did in response?" "I assume that you went to the teacher and reported him?" "No, I examined the inefficiency in a world where brawn overtrumped brain and I used technology to resolve that inefficiency. The boy ate his meals through a straw for a year. You are about to become the bully with a straw. I am coming for you Mr. Wachowski and when I catch you- I'll." Tom hung up the phone abruptly, stopping Robotnik from finishing his sentence.

"Hello? Hello? Hello Hello Hello?" Wade interrupted Robotnik, "Um, I think he hung up actually, 'cause I noticed the light isn't on." "Thank you, Officer Brainfart." Wade pouted at the insult. "You know what, just sit there and be you - sless." He beckoned for you to come with him as he walked off from the room.

"Um, aren't any of you going to erase my memory or something?! I will tell people about this!" But nobody did anything.

You followed Robotnik and Stone where they stopped in front of the truck. "Now, adolescent, are there any questions for my superior intellect?" You fiddled with your fingers, "A-actually, yes there is, Why couldn't I stay with Wade?" He laughed a little, "You were in the home and care of a terrorist, why would we let you be alone with someone when we could watch you?" Stone entered the truck, and it was just you and Robotnik outside. 

"B-but I d-didn't do anything, Why are you watching me?" He put his hands to his temples and rubbed them in frustration, and screamed at you, "BECAUSE!"

You grabbed the tranquilizer in your pants, I am not going with someone with power in the government that high, he can do almost anything without consequences, he could do anything to me. You shot the man with the tranquilizer and ran, but you could hear him grab the dart out from his leg and drop it to the ground. The crunch of the ground beneath your feet was quickly doubled as the man ran behind you, quickly catching up as you didn't do much exercise.

All you saw in front of you was the bright vermillion eyes of a robot floating in front of you.

[lightxsheep71]

Hi sheep! Its StrawberryWritezz! I have a few questions for you

1. How do you feel about fanart? :0

2. In relation to art question, can you describe what N and Uzi look like for reference?

3. Whats your writing process?

1. i LOVE fan art! i've gotten a couple of pieces of fan art inspired by tiny angels already and i've been absolutely floored by it every time. you honestly don't even have to ever ask my permission to make art inspired by my fics, all i ask is that if you're posting it somewhere you include a link to the fic.

2. nolan: 6'2, white, same curly hair as he has in canon but more of a pale blond than straight-up white, amber eyes, heart-shaped face, muscular (he's not like, ripped, but he ain't scrawny either)

uzi: 4'11, asian (japanese/mongolian), olive skin, also the same hair colour/style she has in the show, grey eyes (but a very dark grey, like, almost black), round face, freckles, blonde eyebrows (she bleaches them), slim body type. it's also mentioned a few times in the fic that she's heavily pierced and tattooed, so here's specifically what i imagine her to have -

piercings:

left eyebrow

right side of nose

septum ring

snake bites

tongue

she has a lot of piercings on her ears too but i haven't thought specifically about what she'd have so just take some creative liberties with that i guess

she used to have her nipples & belly button done too but unless you're drawing her naked it isn't really relevant lmao

tattoos:

octopus on left shoulder/upper arm

gothic cathedral sleeve on right upper arm

vampire bat across chest

laser gun on lower stomach

constellations on the top of her foot (specifically the ones for cancer, sagittarius, capricorn, and gemini - yes this will make sense later. she also gets more constellations on her other foot at some point)

deftones "white pony" album cover on forearm

a crow somewhere (i'm thinking right below the octopus maybe)

patchwork sleeve on her thigh of caps from various anime/manga she likes (eg. serial experiments lain, oyasumi punpun, neon genesis evangelion, & junji ito's uzumaki, to name a few)

the date of her and n’s wedding anniversary on her left ring finger

a really ugly poorly done stick n poke of a skull and crossbones on her wrist that she did in high school but has never gotten removed or covered up despite how shitty it is because she sees it as a part of her that tells a story

at some point after her daughter is born (since pregnant women can't get tattooed) she gets an american traditional style portrait of her late tarantula on her shoulder blade. she also gets a tattoo for her daughter buuuuut i can't say what specifically it is because #spoilerz

she probably has way more, these are just the ones i've put thought into, however most of these would probably be a complete bitch to draw so if you wanna give her different tattoos or even forgo the tattoos entirely i would not be mad LOL. n and uzi's marriage in my fic is so funny to me... a goth baddie and the most normal guy ever

3. this is a pretty vague question haha but i'll try and give a generalized answer. the number one rule i have for myself (and the biggest piece of advice i can give to other writers) is to only write when i feel like writing. the reason i've been able to update tiny angels as frequently as i have (idgaf what anyone says, 100k words in 3 months on top of grad school and a job is damn productive) is because it's a fic i feel excited about and have a lot of ideas for. on average i'm able to post a new chapter within 2-5 days, but there's also been a few incidents where it's taken me a week or two. when this happens, it doesn't always mean i've been too busy to write, it usually means i either A) didn't know what i wanted to write or B) didn't feel like writing. or both.

if i feel excited about writing something (and this could be anything, from fanfic to essays for school - yes i am that nerd who gets genuinely excited to write essays), i will shit it out in no time at all. i see a lot of posts by other fic writers about being excited to write only to then open and stare at a blank google doc for hours on end, and i can sympathize with this to an extent but can't relate to it at all, because if i'm looking forward to getting my next chapter out there, the words will literally just flow from my fingertips and onto the document. sounds cliché, but it's true. if i'm forcing myself to write when i don't actually want to, then i'm putting out something that's less than the best work i can do. at the risk of sounding selfish and ungrateful, i'd much rather keep my readers frustratedly waiting for a new chapter and have it turn out great than deliver a lackluster, mediocre chapter just because people got tired of waiting. think of it this way: if you wake up early enough in the morning, you'll have time to make yourself a nutritious, filling, and tasty breakfast. bacon cooked to perfection, eggs prepared whatever way you like them, a stack of fluffy pancakes doused in maple syrup, a bowl of fresh fruit, coffee with just the right amount of milk and sugar (or tea if that's what you prefer, or freshly squeezed orange juice if caffeine's not your thing). if you wake up late, you'll throw a slice of bread in the toaster, slap some butter on it, scarf it down and head out to work, school, or wherever it is you need to be. both options are edible, sure, but one probably sounds much more enjoyable than the other, right?

something else i do is never coming up with an excuse not to write, even if i'm in a situation where i'm typically not "supposed" to be writing. as creatives, we can't control when or where inspiration hits, and if we don't log our ideas immediately, they can leave us just as quickly as they came to us. i have these little mini-notebooks that i bring with me everywhere along with pens, so that if inspiration strikes when i don't have access to a computer, i can just physically scribble down whatever i'm thinking and transfer it to a google doc later. this especially comes in handy when i'm at work - i don't think i'm exaggerating when i say probably about half of tiny angels was written while i was on the clock, LOL.

also: i never don't proof read. proof reading is helpful for not only catching grammar, spelling, punctuation, and continuity mistakes, but making sure i'm effectively conveying whatever it is i want to convey. i can't tell you the amount of times i've re-read a chapter before publishing it and decided to throw in an extra sentence or even just an extra word because even the finest of details can make a HUGE difference in impact. it also helps me to realize if i've repeated the same word too many times in a single chapter - for example, before publishing chapter 18, i read through it and noticed that i had used the word "completely" about 5 or 6 times. so i went back and swapped out some of those instances of the word for a different word with the same meaning - something like "utterly," "definitely," "totally," "entirely," etc. now, the word "completely" only appears twice within the chapter (and it's within the same sentence, which is intentional). a varied vocabulary is so, so important!

on that note: DESCRIPTIVE LANGUAGE. SIMILES. METAPHORS. these things are your best friends. use them, but don't over-use them. not every single sentence of your fic needs to be poetic prose, there's no shame in the occasional simple "He sighs." or "She shrugs." but a total lack of poetic language isn't going to make your story memorable and it sure as hell isn't going to evoke strong emotions in your readers (which is exactly what you're trying to do as a writer). for example, take this short paragraph from chapter 18:

Jade's eyebrows twitch up briefly and her eyes flash with something that almost looks like anger, as if she can't believe her brother would dare to challenge her like this. But just as quickly as it appeared, the indignation in her expression evaporates, her face frosting over with indifference instead.

now imagine if i had written this instead:

Jade briefly looks angry, but her face quickly becomes indifferent instead.

both betray more or less the same thing - that jade is mad at nolan, but is pretending not to be by pulling a poker face. however, the first one is much more immersive, and actually gives the reader an accurate glimpse into how jade is feeling during this moment. every word i've written here was carefully cherrypicked to make a statement about jade's character. "flash", for example. what else flashes? lightning flashes. ambulance & police lights flash. flashing indicates danger. the indignation in her expression doesn't just "go away," it "evaporates." evaporation is the process of a liquid turning into a gas. gases can be toxic. jade is toxic to nolan. her face doesn't just become indifferent, it "frosts over." frost occurs in the coldest months of winter, when temperatures reach below freezing. jade's personality can absolutely be described as cold. she assumes an unfriendly, emotionless demeanour here to conceal her true feeling, which is anger - thus, the word "frost" is appropriate. that post about how "the author just meant that the curtains were blue" couldn't be further from the truth - every word that went into this line had at least some layer of intent behind it.

that was a really fucking long winded answer. i'm sorry. tldr: write whenever you feel like writing but ONLY when you feel like writing, proof read, try to avoid repetition, use poetic devices but don't abuse them.

oh, and lighting either a scented candle or some incense while i write. i have no clue why it helps, but it does. 👍

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #13: Tape VI (Sugar-Coat)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, death wish

Jackie awoke to silence.

He realized that the lights were out. He didn’t turn the lights off last night—forgot to, honestly. Heather must have checked up on him at some point, but she had left without saying a word. That meant there was no new experiment. Yet. 

He didn't like the thought of her watching him sleep. He hoped—no, he wasn’t—well—

Better not to think about it. He was being paranoid. Old habit, paranoia, one that had protected him back then but was useless now. A burden that served only to haunt him. After all, what reason would she have to try anything? Why would she? 

He felt sick at that thought. There was no other way to describe that emotion—he didn’t want another way to describe it. Better not to think about it. Don’t think, don’t even imagine. What happened to that? Jackie had gotten so good at not thinking about it. Why did he have to slip up now? 

The trick was to distract yourself. Jackie got up out of bed, untangling himself from the covers. He turned the lights on. The items he requested were still on the nightstand. Oliver Twist sounded boring. He could read later. What Jackie wanted was the notebook and pen.

He sat back on the bed and took the pen, clicked it open. He took the notebook and spread it to the first page. A blank page, what a wonderful thing. He hadn’t drawn anything since coming to Heather’s house. Make no mistake—he wasn’t an artist by any means. Still, he liked to draw, the way a puppy liked to chase its tail. It was pointless, but fun. It occupied his hands and his thoughts better than anything else. 

The pen wrote smoothly, despite being a cheap thing of plastic. The ink came out thick and deep black. He scratched in a few lines before the door opened. 

“Sleep well?” 

Heather wasn’t holding a scalpel, which was nice. She instead held a piece of paper and the tape recorder. That all-knowing, eternally waiting thing. The only other witness. She also had a book bag slung around her shoulder.

“Slept great.” Jackie placed the book and pen into a nightstand drawer. 

“Don’t put the pen away.” The tape recorder clicked to life, an action that was starting to irritate Jackie. “We’re doing something more relaxed today. I thought I should give you a break. And we’ve already covered the basics.”

“Sure.” Jackie took the pen out of the drawer. 

“Right, so… you can sit there.” She pointed to the writing desk. “Take the paper and write something.”

He took the sheet of paper. “What should I write?”

“Whatever you want. Nothing inappropriate, of course.”

Jackie did as she asked and sat down to write. He was still too fuzzy from sleep to think of something clever, so he stuck to the basics—the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

Heather watched over his shoulder. “Subject has not lost their fine motor skills, despite their severe injuries. You have nice handwriting, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He put the pen down. “Was that it?”

“I need you to answer a few questions first. How is your pain now? Using the scale of ten, again.”

“One or two.” 

“How have the scars healed? Are they still there?”

“They’re still there. Healed fine.”

“I see.” She then brought a thick journal and a much nicer fountain pen out from the book bag. “Now, I never got an answer to those questions. Age, family, and birthplace, please.”

“Why does it matter?” Jackie didn’t want to answer. Where were those fighting words he wielded only weeks ago? Answering honestly felt like giving up. 

Heather didn’t register this comment as rude or snarky, although it was his intention. “It’s good to have that information later on, for my studies. In case I ever need it.”

“Let me guess. If I don’t answer, you’ll torture me?”

She looked up from her journal with an amused, yet puzzled, expression. “It’s only three questions.”

“Will you, though?”

“Torture is a strong word.” She tapped her pen against the journal. “I can take away your privileges. Would you rather sleep on the concrete?”

Jackie almost said yes, asshole, I’d rather sleep on the floor than be your lab rat, but that wasn’t a good idea. He needed to gain her trust. He needed to be patient.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he replied, forcing the enthusiasm into his voice. “I’m Jackie Rockwell, age twenty-one. I don’t remember my family’s names. I was born in Washington. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

Heather scribbled something down in the journal. “What do you mean, you don’t remember their names? Do you have memory issues?”

Absolutely not. He was not discussing this, not with her. “No, my memory’s fine. It’s a long story. We don’t talk anymore. Most of them are dead, anyway.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She looked more relieved than anything—probably happy that nobody would notice him gone, that sick freak—but she didn’t push the topic, at least. “Let's move on to the next question. Before all this, were you aware of your immortality? Or any sort of advanced… I don’t know, healing?”

“Not the immortality,” he said. “I guess I’ve healed pretty quickly my whole life. Never had any health issues. Never gotten sick before. I’ve got a good immune system.”

This all must have been fascinating, because Heather was writing like there was no tomorrow. “Never gotten sick? At all?”

“Yep, pretty much.” His usage of the term was strictly metaphorical.

“How curious.” She scratched a final sentence into her journal. “You don’t know why you’re immortal, I assume?”

Jackie nodded. 

“That’s fine. We’ll find out eventually.” 

Not if I can help it. “Are there any more questions?”

“No.” Heather opened the book bag up and stuffed her journal back inside. “What do you want for breakfast, by the way? I can make eggs again. I have cereal. If you want something specific, I can go buy it.”

“Cereal is fine, thanks.” 

Heather nodded and hurried up the stairs. The door opened, then it closed. He waited in silence. 

She returned with a bowl of milk and cereal, which he recognized as cornflakes. The spoon stuck out the top. The ceramic was cool in his hands. 

Heather didn’t move. The tape recorder was still running.

“I’ll eat this now, then,” Jackie said.

“Yes. Go ahead.”

He took a spoonful and put it in his mouth. Heather didn’t make any move to leave.

“Are you going to watch me the whole time?” He set the spoon back into the bowl with a tautness in his movements. It clattered against the smooth surface.

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“The plan.” He placed the bowl onto the writing desk. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

She took the bowl and shoved it into his hands again. “You need to eat.”

“No.” He handed the bowl back to her.

“Jackie.”

“What?” he snapped. “I’m sorry I don’t want to be drugged again. I’m not hungry. Leave me alone.”

“That was one time. Did I drug your breakfast yesterday? Or the day before that? Or the day before that, even?” She took his hand and placed it on the spoon. “There’s no sedatives in this. Trust me.”

Trust. Like they were friends. Like he could afford to have trust. Unfortunately, it was eating the damned cereal or getting shoved into a freezer. Either way, she had a point. Nothing else he ate had been drugged, not since that fateful first escape attempt. 

But he wasn’t giving in that easily. "Do you have to stand there while I eat?" 

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

His grasp on the spoon was deadly. He considered chucking it at her head. Considered being the key word, because he was certain that freezers were much more uncomfortable than basements. "The problem is that it's creepy."

"Oh, calm down." She rolled her eyes. "You’ll be fine. Just eat."

It was a struggle not to throw the spoon now, but he managed. Instead of using it as a projectile weapon, he began to eat the cereal. It wasn’t particularly delicious. Kind of bland. Still, he hadn’t eaten anything else that morning, so he didn’t dislike it. All the while, Heather stared at him with growing curiosity.

Halfway through, he stopped. "What’s your problem?"

She shook her head a little. "Nothing. It's nothing. Carry on."

He continued, but not before giving her another scathing glare. He ate the cereal without any further problems. Other than whatever was going on with his captor, of course. She was looking at him like he was sprouting daisies from his mouth. Had he done something wrong? Maybe she was losing her grip on reality—it wouldn’t surprise him, to be honest. 

She checked her watch. It, too, was expensive, the face inlaid with what looked like real diamonds, the strap woven of solid gold. A small smile shadowed her face.

"What's happening?" He leaned forward a bit, trying to catch a glimpse of the time. Eleven o'clock. That number was meaningless to him. 

"Nothing. Nothing's happening. That's what's so interesting." She tried to stifle that smile by biting her lip, though it still managed to crack through. "Subject—"

"What do you mean, subject?' He leaned back, his posture sharply upright. "I thought the experiments were over."

Now she was—she was having a seizure? Choking to death? No, she was laughing. Laughing. Because he ate a bowl of cereal. It was quiet, muffled through her attempts at keeping a straight face, but nonetheless audible. 

"Subject—" She took a deep breath, and her voice returned to normal pitch. "Subject can survive lethal doses of poison. Enough dosage to kill ten people, ap—apparently." Another fit of giggles. "It's—oh my God, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Heather!" He scowled as she grinned even harder. His voice took on a flustered, awkward pitch. "You said this wasn't drugged! Hey! Stop laughing at me!"

"I'm not—I'm not laughing at you—" She covered her face with one hand. The laughter ceased, unsteadily, the way ocean waves gradually crashed into gentler and gentler motions, cut through with brief fits of coughing. "I wasn’t—I didn't lie, did I? There weren't any sedatives. It was just arsenic."

"Arsenic?"

"Just a little bit!"

"Enough to kill ten people?"

"Don't sound so offended." Her hand dropped to her side. She was still smiling. "You're fine, aren't you? You're perfectly fine. God, Jackie, you really are a miracle."

He didn't know how to reply. He could see the comedy in the situation, yes, but his bewilderment at her sudden amusement and his ire won over. Why ire, he wondered, when he expected some sort of betrayal? Maybe a part of him wanted to be proven wrong. Maybe he wanted to finally trust, finally let his guard down, ridiculous as that was. Maybe he just didn't like being laughed at for not dying.

"Well, then, I suppose I can cross poison off the list. Experiment concludes here." She took the recorder and turned it off. Her face was a little flushed. From laughter, most likely, or maybe even embarrassment. Giggling was unprofessional, as Heather would put it. Doctor Moreau probably never giggled. Especially not at his Hyena-Swine. She swallowed, setting her face back into neutral. Then, she stood straighter, cleared her throat, and took the empty bowl from his hands.

"Where did you even get enough arsenic to kill ten people?" Jackie asked, ending the lingering break in conversation. 

"I have my ways." Her head tilted a little at his expression. "Come on, I needed to test it somehow. Would you rather I force feed you arsenic?"

"I don't care. It’s not like I get a choice, anyway." 

He wanted the words to scrape her, cut deep into that guilt he'd seen before. It didn't work. She got up and walked away instead. 

"I'm glad to see you're catching on." Heather placed her hand on the door handle. "I'll be back in a few days. Yell if you need anything."

"You better not forget my lunch.”

"I'll set an alarm, don't worry." She waved his concerns away with her other hand. "I'll bring your dinner as well. Or supper."

“You’ll bring me dinner? Or supper? Bless your heart. What did I do to deserve such mercy?” He stood up with an affronted stiffness. “Honestly, this sounds like a lot of trouble for nothing. You wouldn’t even need to set any alarms if you just—“

“Spare me your escape plans.” She slipped through the doorway. “Don’t break any furniture, by the way. I’m not replacing that bed.”

“Oh, yeah? Well—“ Heather was gone before he could finish that clever retort. 

The lock clicked into place. A strange, echoing feeling struck a chord in his chest. He wanted to be left alone, yes, but not alone in the basement. Not in the eternal stillness of what was really a sugar-coated cell, stagnant and stuck in place until she decided to visit him again. He walked up to the door, hesitating all the while, listening to the sound of her retreating footsteps with bated breath. 

“Heather!” He knocked on the door, at last. “I need something. Get back here.”

No response, even as he repeated his call once more, then twice more, then a reluctant third time. His captor had failed to realize that it was difficult to hear anything behind a locked door, unless you were close by. Heather must have already reached another floor by then. She, unlike him, was free to move, free to leave, free to indulge whatever whim struck her. 

Otherwise, she had heard him clearly, and had simply chosen to ignore him. It wasn’t hard to believe.

Jackie turned back to his room—not his room, just the room he was locked in, Jackie reminded himself—as the feeling rose in pitch, plucking every taut sinew in his body. He could draw, or he could read, or he could scream into a pillow. He could think about things, talk to himself. He could break every single piece of furniture in there, just because. He could let the tap run until the whole place was flooded. He could throw his comb at the walls until it snapped. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to do any of those things. He didn’t want to do anything at all.

What did he want? To die, of course, but other than that? Sleep was the closest thing. It was good enough. A few hours of forgetting. He could escape the concrete floors and blank walls, if only until he woke up, if only in his dreams. 

He collapsed into bed with a small groan. All things considered, it had been a good day, but it had exhausted him nonetheless. A break from reality would be more than welcome.

happy Friday the 13th! :)

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

[chamerionwrites]

Tag Nine People You'd Like To Get To Know Better

FAVOURITE COLOUR(s): Rusty red-orange, deep cool spruce green, bright cobalt blue, wine red, the various shades of slate green/grey/blue.

FAVOURITE FLAVOUR(s): Weirdly difficult question, in that what I think I most enjoy about food is the way that different flavors and textures complement each other to become more than the sum of their parts. But I am a huge fan of deep rich fruity-savory umami (sundried tomatoes, a great red chile sauce, things braised in red wine) as well as absolutely any kind of citrus or fresh herbs.

Also, while this isn't exactly one thing and it might be simpler just to say that I like strong flavors, I fall firmly into the These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things camp on a lot of polarizingly funky/briny things (smoked salmon, goat cheese, blue cheese, olives, anchovies, preserved lemons, etc).

Also the taste+aroma of both fresh bread and corn tortillas hot off the comal is imo the human equivalent of catnip, ie "provokes immoderate feral delight on some bizarrely primal level."

FAVOURITE MUSIC: The very sexy Bermuda Triangle where blues/rock/folk bleed into and/or influence one another. Anything else that takes my fancy, including but not limited to a lot of soul, post-punk, and highly danceable salsa or big band swing stuff. Sad jazz. Gratuitously melancholy strings. Great lyrics, great harmonies, deep rich vocals.

FAVOURITE MOVIE(s): I have never in my life been able to pick one favorite book, but Pan's Labyrinth is easily my favorite movie.

FAVOURITE BOOK(s): This is the impossible question to me but The Periodic Table, Signs Preceding The End of The World, The Things They Carried, The Little Drummer Girl, and everything Arundhati Roy has ever written are all on the list somewhere.

FAVOURITE SERIES(es): The Same Sky is exquisitely good and The Night Manager is my id-stroking comfort rewatch. I also loved Andor and the first season of Hannibal.

LAST SONG: I was just going through this tag earlier.

LAST SERIES: Thanks to holiday craft fair season I have had zero ability to do longform TV anytime within the last few months. (Also, frankly, multi-season TV series are the one of the most difficult media formats for my brain to engage with; it's a fantastic storytelling medium when done well, but I personally have a much harder time sitting down for two hours of TV than for two hours of reading and thus getting started often feels like a huge commitment. I am really a 3-6 eps and done miniseries person at heart.)

That said I am a big podcasts-while-working person and I've been listening to a lot of Friends At The Table and Bad Gays recently.

LAST MOVIE: The Wind That Shakes The Barley, which has been on the Somehow I've Never Seen This And I Really Should list for a while. It has promptly been moved to the OFC It's Possible To Make A War Movie That Doesn't Glorify War, Y'all Are Just Fools And Cowards list.

CURRENTLY READING: ...I have to admit that I'm re-reading Kissinger's Shadow (to Mark The Occasion).

CURRENTLY WATCHING: Nothing (see above), though I have ambitions of giving Black Sails a shot.

CURRENTLY WORKING ON: The sketching stage of some linocuts, some experimental worldbuild-y map-drawing (important as Cartography And Its Imperial Misuses are kinda thematically and plottily relevant to the story, at least in its nebulous conceptual form).

TAGGED BY @silkenred (thanks!), and TAGGING (only if you want ofc) @sassysnowperson, @tobermoriansass, @cosmonauthill, @essayofthoughts, and anybody else who feels like doing this. (No really, I'm shy about tagging but please do the thing if you're interested.)