#tally mark system

[tallymarksystem]

"[character] lives in my head rent free" same bestie. probably in a different way though

[theeflowerofcarnage]

I think omeluum exists in the game to show players that there are good mindflayers but I kinda hate the “omeluum good so emperor bad” comparisons people have. It lacks nuance like? “Well Om tried to find an alternative to brains and tries to cure you meanwhile emps is pro MF powers AND enthralled stelmane” okay and? Om worked with a lich for years, still eats ppls brains in the same morally ambiguous way as emps. As far as I’m concerned they both believe we’re gonna become MF at some point the emperor is just much more practical about it

[divorcetual]

"things in japan that would make americans go insane" kill yourself kill yourself take a gun to your head and shoot I am begging you

[down-thedrain]

sc!jonah shaking and crying because he just learned that tally hall doesn’t exist in 1992 LMFAOO

BAHSKAHSKSHDKSDJ LITERALLY

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

No offense but it feels like absolute torture living as an extrovert who processes things by talking and has a base need for social interaction when you have no outlet/source for that

[ghouljams]

ghoul

ghoul you keep hitting the mark on every one of my kinks

monstrous size differences, seeing ur person as holy, ovul-

its like ur in my brain get out of there before u see something that starts turning these rough military men into men that fear what i want to do to them (the erotica of cyborgs, mechs and their maintenance handler just DOES something to me. someone just turning my screws and fixing my internal wires while i look down at them feeling up my most vulnerable parts. my engineer knowing every external and internal piece of me, my repairman knowing exactly which metal plates are bothering me and which screws need to be tightened more often and which parts i won’t say need fixing but he knows, i want to be known wholly and entirely by someone who can fix me and make me into their own theseus’ ship)

The eroticism of the machine.... thinking about android!Ghost....

He always seems to be hanging around when you're working on other droids or laboring with mechs. He checks over various weapons while you sit crosslegged on the tiled floor surrounded by neatly organized plates and screws. You can feel his eyes on you, but every time you look up at him, he's studying a trigger switch or tipping a gun barrel this way and that. You try to keep your attention on the open chest cavity in front of you. Your fingers trail over wires and trace circuits, looking for the too tight screws and miss-laid paths. It's delicate work, work that takes years of practice to get good at even with natural skill.

You twist to check the diagnostics window running on your bulky tablet, the cords running between it and one of your favorite droids humming with electric life. Binary flickers over the screen, replaced by strings of code as the machine parses and translates subroutines and operating systems. You squint at the glowing green letters, eyes flicking through code as you push your finger against the screen to scroll back up. You lean closer to the open cavity, flick your safety goggles down as you turn your attention back to your hands.

"I don't want to have to shut you down," You tell the droid, "So let me know if your servos start locking up." The droid gives you a thumbs up from their position on the floor.

"Isn't it safer shuttin' 'em down?" Ghost hums from the other side of the room. You ignore him, flicking the spark on your torch until it lights. You need to rewire the auxiliary movement board for the right leg, maybe reprogram the routines that are making it twitchy. You doubt anyone else noticed this bot starting to drag its foot when it walked, but you did.

"Five doesn't like being shut off," You explain, heating the metal connecting the wires to their "hip", "Says the lost time cuts productivity." Which is as close as you've ever heard a bot get to expressing an opinion. Even then saying they don't "like" being shut off is a stretch. Machines don't "like" or "dislike" anything, they simply are. You prod at the loosened wires with a pair of tweezers, pulling them from their places and examining the frayed ends. Definitely need replacing.

"Suppose I can understand that," Ghost grumbles. Again you ignore him. You don't know what he's doing, trying to bait you into a conversation or engage your curiosity, two things you can't afford when you're doing detail work. You solder the other end of the wires, rolling your shoulders to try and get some of the tightness out of them. You really should work on your posture, you're sure you look like a shrimp curled over your work, but you need the leverage.

You sit back, inspecting the freed wires, mentally tallying their length and checking the screen readouts. You set about snipping and stripping new lengths of wire, push a few buttons on your little screen, and feel your shoulders hike up to your ears as you lean to get the new parts installed. You think part of your fascination with machines comes from how repairable they are. You've long since come to terms with the fact that detaching your shoulders and giving them a good scrub down isn't actually possible. Not unless you want to look into cybernetics for yourself, and with the grade of parts the military offers you think you're better off eu natural.

"Still good five?" You ask, soldering in the new wires, you glance at the screen, watching the routines for speech zip across the green.

"Yes."

You smile to yourself. It looks like everything is running normally up top, that's reassuring. You weren't sure if this was a systematic issue or a parts issue, never know 100% until you open up whoever you're working on. You mentally scroll through your project list as you run the wires from the metal "hip" to the central data column. You scratch your tweezers against a bit of flashing, frowning. That shouldn't be there. You wave your torch over the distorted metal, and trying to find the defect. You hear a soft 'click, click, click' like nails flicking against each other as you heat the area.

You're jerked back by your collar as the bot jerks, its defensive system snapping like a bear trap over its open chest. Your heart hammers in your chest, your tools still tightly clenched in your hands, and your breath coming quick with adrenaline fueled fear. Ghost hauls you up to your feet like picking up a kitten, all titanium and inhuman strength getting you to standing. He leaves you to swipe the repair pad from the floor, the wires stringing it to the android shredded as cleanly as your neck would have been.

"Still stubborn enough to get yourself killed," He grumbles, shaking his head, the red glow of his cameras seems almost disappointed under the white skull paint. He tosses you the pad and you fumble to catch it. "Inter-system problem, shut 'em down." It's an order, his voice carrying all the authority it should as your superior officer.

You nod quickly, swallow some of the dryness in your mouth, and punch new numbers onto your little computer. "Um, thanks," You manage, watching him re-assemble his rifle with practices precision.

"Don't mention it." He replies, and you get the feeling he means that as an order too. Don't mention it, don't go spreading around that he saved your neck. Don't try to thank him again and he shoulders the rifle and pushes past you out of the landing bay.

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader)

Red-Leg Zeff wakes up to surprising visitors.

You can read Part 1 here! Original AO3 link

Days on the open ocean were long and monotonous.  It was a decent struggle to keep track of the sunrises and sunsets, but Red-Leg Zeff had developed a system, very recently at that.

Next to a parchment letter and three photographs he nailed to the wall of his captain’s quarters, he tacked up a separate piece of paper and made a tally mark for each day that passed since he received the small parcel.  Each day that went by was another day of inwardly hoping to see the image of the Thousand Sunny off the deck of the Baratie.  It was wishful thinking, and Zeff was a level-headed man, not one for futile hopes or daydreaming, but could you blame him?  He had a grandchild and a daughter-in-law, all things considered, anyway.

The three photographs that Sanji had sent in the package were what greeted him every time he awoke, and were the last images he saw behind his eyelids as he shut in for sleep.  As the days turned into weeks, and then months, and now well over a year according to his tallies, and as Zeff’s braided facial hair continued to slowly turn gray at the roots, the pictures stayed the same.

Like clockwork, Zeff rose from his stiff mattress before the sun rose in the morning, stretching his aging muscles and groaning.  He gazed off across the room at the photos hung on his wall.

“Good morning, Sa–”

“CAPTAIN ZEFF, YOU’RE NEEDED ON THE BOW.”

Patty’s booming voice outside the thin wooden door sent a startled shockwave through Zeff.  He jumped and yelped at the commotion.  Followed by the command, a pounding on the door caused the blonde man to grumble and stomp across his small cabin towards the noise.  He swung open the door, right before Patty threw his fist into the wood for the hundredth time.

“What in the fresh hell do you want?  You’re gonna wake up the whole crew, you oaf.”  Zeff rubbed two calloused fingertips against the bridge of his wrinkled nose.

Eagerly, with a light in his eyes, Patty waved a hand in the direction of the ship’s bow.  “There’s a large vessel spotted approaching from northwest, about ten miles away.  It looks like a pirate ship but we couldn’t make out the image on the sail.”

Zeff stepped into his one boot and rolled up his pants around his peg-leg, making it easier for him to walk.  He firmly gripped his chef’s cap in his hand as he marched past Patty and closed his door behind the two of them, leading him out to the front of the Baratie.  It took them a few moments to roam down the flights of stairs to the lower deck and dining hall, and upon opening the large double doors to the outer deck, he spotted his kitchen crew huddled around Carne, who firmly gripped a pair of binoculars in his large hands.

“What are you all doing?” Zeff’s voice boomed over the hushed whispers of the kitchen staff, who quickly turned their heads to address their captain.  He pushed past the men and placed a firm hand on Carne’s shoulder, yanking him back slightly and grabbing the binoculars out of his hands, holding them up to his own eyes.

“It’s definitely a pirate ship, Captain, but my eyes are shot,” Carne eagerly noted.  Zeff merely grumbled in response.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the binocular lenses, but when they did he managed to make out a fairly clear picture of a ship in the distance, now well less than ten miles away and approaching quite rapidly.  Definitely a large pirate ship.  It had a very odd looking nautical figurehead, almost like a sunflower he assumed, but his heart leaped into his throat when his blurry eyes focused on the primary sail which flowed outward, fully unraveled and pushing the vessel towards the Baratie.

A simple Jolly Roger, a rudimentary skull and crossbones design, with a peculiar red-banded straw hat placed on the head of the skull.

“Should we man the–” Patty began to ask, before being cut off by Zeff.

“It’s the Straw Hats.  Prepare the mooring ropes and fenders, they’re going to tie up to us.”  Zeff shoved the binoculars back into the chest and hands of Carne, who once again put them to his face and gazed at the sail of the ship.  The rest of the kitchen staff ran to awaken the boat crew and make the necessary preparations for a vessel connection.  

“Sanji?” Patty simply asked, with sudden wonder in his voice.

“Hopefully,” Carne responded, passing the binoculars to his coworker.  “It’s definitely them.  Look at their Jolly Roger.”

Zeff had turned his back to his two right-hand men to help the others prepare the baratie’s starboard side for the tie-up.  Crew men, freshly shaken awake from their slumbers, bustled around the lower deck tossing heavy, tightly coiled ropes to each other, tying them around the deck’s bollards and laying them down to make them easier to access when the Thousand Sunny would pull up alongside.  Zeff quickly found that there wasn’t much for him to do, the sight of his crew excitedly scurrying around as the news of the Straw Hats’ return to the Baratie spread like wildfire from the mouths of the men bringing a fond smile to the old man’s face.

Now within enough distance to the Straw Hats’ ship that they could hear the excited yelling of their captain perched cross-legged on the top of the figurehead, waving his hand in the air.  A few of the other crew members leaned over the side of the ship, excitedly waving to the Baratie crew.  Once close enough, a large, strangely built blue-haired man launched a heavy rope from the deck of the Sunny downwards towards the Baratie’s crew, who grabbed it and began to pull it taught.  An orange-haired woman (Zeff thought she looked familiar) instructed the sails to be furled while the larger men of the ship helped the Baratie’s sailors moor the two vessels together.  A few stragglers from the floating restaurants crew looked through their portholes at the commotion.  Carne and Patty assisted the blue-haired man (were his arms made of metal?) in raising a gangway for the Straw Hats to board the Baratie, but their captain, still donned in the same straw hat that he wore when they first visited the luxury cruiser, wasted no time in launching himself off of the figurehead and landing with a hard thud on the wooden deck.

“Hey, Geezer!”  His smile almost covered his entire face.  “Do you have any food?”

“Luffy, seriously?  Can you not wait a single minute?”

A familiar voice caused Zeff to turn his head.  Through the hustle of the crews finishing their mooring duties, a head of bright blonde hair and a thin trail of gray smoke met the old chef’s view.  He immediately broke out into a fond smile.  Sanji was leaning precariously over the side of the Sunny, any more and he would tip over the side, a large grin on his face.  Next to him was a young woman, a bit shorter than him, with a steady hand placed on his shoulder ensuring that he didn’t fall overboard.  She gazed down at Zeff, and her face broke into a grin just as large as Sanji’s.

He recognized her as the woman in the photographs.  She was just as beautiful in person.

The gangway was successfully tied, joining the two boats together, and the two first mates excitedly welcomed the Straw Hats aboard the Baratie.  The four who had already visited almost five years prior marveled at the impressive renovations done to the vessel.  New decks, refurbished dining and lounging, impressive paintwork on the outer hull.  The same blue-haired man from before (his arms were made of metal!) was starstruck by the craftsmanship of the restaurant and immediately began asking questions to a few of the crewmen.  A green-haired man with three swords on his hip and a shorter man with curly black hair greeted Carne and Patty with excitement, remembering the two of them from their first visit.  The two women from the Straw Hats, with tangerine and black hair, quickly exited the gangway and joined their companions.  Zeff watched curiously as a skeleton donned in formalwear hauled himself over the side of the Sunny, followed by a fishman.  The Straw Hats were a very curious bunch, but he was filled with a giddy, child-like joy at the sight of them all, healthy, fit, and just as excited as his own crew was for the surprise reunion.

Sanji and his wife disappeared from the side of the Sunny, but quickly reappeared.  Sanji was the first to step onto the gangway before turning around and taking something from his wife, who swiftly followed his lead.  She looked like a natural on the water, and Zeff hummed, pleased.  Sanji turned around to march down the ramp, a child held in his arms, tightly gripping his shirt in her fist.  The two were the last to disembark, and immediately headed toward the Baratie's captain, who stood in mild shock as the three approached.

Sanji passed the child back to his wife so he could greet Zeff with a handshake, but he was beaten by the captain’s speed as he enveloped the smaller man in a bear hug, almost lifting him off his feet.

“Sanji,” he muttered, voice quivering.  “You look incredible.”

“Hey, no crying on me now, Zeff,” Sanji returned the gesture in kind, squeezing his adopted father back and jostling the hat on the older man’s head.  

The two released their warm embrace, and Sanji held out a hand towards his wife and the child in her arms.  The woman stepped forward with a warm smile.

“Red-Leg Zeff, it’s an honor to finally meet you!” she said with profound enthusiasm before introducing herself.  “Sanji’s been talking nonstop about this visit and how excited he’s been to see you again!”

Sanji flushed, embarrassed, but Zeff could only muster a hardy laugh.  He remembered Sanji as a stubborn, hard-to-crack kid, endlessly determined and stopping at nothing to get his way, and the man who stood before him was all of that and more.  He was gazing tenderly at his wife, cheeks rosy with embarrassment and adoration, a smile adorning his thin lips.  Zeff was beyond proud of the man Sanji had become.

“So, who’s this little one?” he asked, cautiously approaching the child in the woman’s arms.  His heart fluttered at the sight of her.

She had wavy, strawberry blonde hair and her dad’s ocean-blue eyes.  A mixture of her mom and dad’s skin tone, and she was clearly developing Sanji’s facial features.  The right corners of her eyebrows had a very slight upward curl.  She was beautiful, and her large eyes gazed curiously at Zeff as he approached.

“Sora, this is your grandfather,” the woman said affectionately.  “Say hi!”  She bounced the baby on her hip.  

When she came to the infantile conclusion that Zeff was indeed not a threat, her chubby cheeks wrinkled with a smile revealing a few barely there baby teeth.  Zeff held out one of his thick, calloused fingers, and she eagerly reached for the man.  Sanji’s wife passed the baby, Sora, over to him, and he held her like a delicate porcelain pot, like she could break at any moment.  Sanji watched the action fondly.

“Her name is Sora, she’s almost two now,” he said, his voice light and airy, almost a whisper.

Zeff bounced Sora, his granddaughter, in his arms, and she released a shrill giggle which brought a smile to his face.  “Sora…”  He knew that was Sanji’s late mother’s name.  It seemed only natural that his daughter would take the honor of bearing her name.  “She’s beautiful,” he sighed, looking at his son and daughter-in-law.  

Sanji looked like he was fighting back tears at the sight of his honorary father holding his daughter.  His wife gently squeezed his hand, and the floodgates leaked, making her chuckle.

“He’s been a bit nervous,” she said toward Zeff.

The gruff captain stepped toward his son and ruffled his smooth blonde hair in his free hand.  Sanji sniffled, picking his head up and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  His shoulders trembled slightly with the motion of his repressed crying, but he quickly shoved it down and locked eyes with the fatherly ones staring at him.  Zeff didn’t need to ask any questions to know how much a moment like this meant to Sanji.  A child so wronged by his family and the world, growing up with no purpose, no encouragement, losing the one source of love in his life, forced to age so rapidly to survive some of the worst experiences a human should ever have to face.  To have been blessed with a crew that cared for him, fulfilling his dreams, practicing his passion, meeting one special woman who loved and supported him, and being the father of his own child, Sanji was finally content.  He was finally happy, finally content.

Zeff’s voice cracked as he uttered the sentence that he knew would make Sanji crumble.  “I’m so proud of you, son.  Look at how far you’ve come.”

Sanji’s blue eyes welled with tears that he had been holding in since his own childhood.  The commotion from the rest of the two crews faded into a muffled static as Zeff pulled Sanji’s head into his chest, holding him close.  Sora’s hand lightly smacked the top of Sanji’s hair, making him laugh, but it came out as a crackled sob.  His wife laughed, rubbing his back.

“I didn’t want to cry,” he uttered into Zeff’s chest, voice blank with slight resentment.  

“It was inevitable,” you responded with a humorous lilt.

“I know.”  He easily relented to your words, picking his head up from Zeff and placing a hand on his father’s shoulder, giving it a firm smack.  “Sorry for getting your shirt all wet, old man.”

Zeff’s chest bounced with the force of his laughter.  “You’re gonna pay for it, kid.  You’re on dish duty.”

Sanji’s mouth fell open in a panicked retaliation, but after realizing Zeff was, in fact, joking around, his tense shoulders fell in relief.  Sora reached back out toward her mom, who took her from Zeff’s grasp leaving both his hands free again.  He was able to deliver a quick, encouraging slap on Sanji’s back.

“I do expect you to help prepare this feast, though.  Show me how much you’ve improved since you left.”  He winked at his son.  “Though, I doubt you improved that much.”

“Shut up, old man!  I’ll make you the best feast you’ve ever laid eyes on.  A feast that could kill you!”  Old habits die hard, and the family meandered towards the rest of the crew, who were now milling around the lower dining hall excited for a meal to celebrate the Straw Hats’ return, and Zeff’s new granddaughter.

Zeff clapped his hands, alerting his own crew, who frantically took their places around the ship to cater to their pirate guests.  He quickly made his way into his kitchen, rustling through the main pantry for a piece of equipment he hadn’t needed to use in a very long time.  He pulled out a small food processing machine, equipped with an internal blade perfect for mashing fruits and small vegetables.

“Captain, do you need anything?” Patty was rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands in the large wash basin.

“All the fresh fruit we have.  The kid doesn’t have teeth yet, she needs some mush.”

[dulltoned]

Kismet Facts!

In order of oldest to youngest band member.

Ablaze

Four years older than Branch.

- Part Rock Troll. - Anger issues through the roof - He learns how to manage his anger later in life but when he's a kid it's bright and boiling and constant and it makes him feel alienated and unwelcome and scared. - Branch is the one who helps him realize that everyone gets angry, even if it isn't explosively like Ablaze, but Branch himself can relate to feeling like he's nothing more than a ball of rage. - He has a lot of energy and can really be the epicenter of a party. - Ablaze is one of the first candidates to take an exhausted or wasted Troll home from a party because not only will he keep them safe but he's strong enough to carry them home if they pass out. - He lives with his parents and his grandpa, he lost his grandma to Trollstice but he never knew her. Sometimes he feels bad that he doesn't mourn her like the rest of his family. - He thinks Hype is annoying at first and he isn't quiet about it. After he spends a bit more time with the glitter troll, though, he finds that Hype is actually a kind-hearted soul who's eager to offer an ear and apologizes through gritted teeth about his behavior. The two of them are incredibly close after that. - He's not good with trickier emotions but Kismet knows that when he does sit down to talk about things or assure them, even if it's with a scowl on his face, that he's being sincere.

Trickee

Three years older than Branch

- Painfully optimistic but not nearly as bad as Poppy. - Trickee can be a little ignorant to how terrible the world is sometimes but it's not by lack of exposure. He grew up around his Aunt and Uncle going at each other's throats and to him conflict is just a normal part of life. Sometimes it takes a little extra push to get him to realize that fighting or insults aren't normal. - He lives with his Mom, Aunt, Uncle, and baby cousin. He gets overlooked fairly often thanks to the infant in the house but he doesn't mind too much, he uses the freedom to explore the village and spend time with Branch. - His mother hates Branch, she thinks he's a skid mark on the bright image of the village. She doesn't know that he's Trickee's best friend. - After his initial confrontation with Creek to help Branch Trickee's made it a goal in his life to help people who can't see to help themselves. He gets into a lot of fights but he hasn't lost one yet. He keeps a tally of how many times he's had to pleasure of punching Creek. - Trickee is very in-tune with his emotions but he's not really eager to feel the more negative ones. He'll go desperately out of his way to try and cheer himself up and it's a good tell for the others that he's not in a good headspace. - He constantly trips over boundaries but he's very apologetic when he realizes. - He doesn't know what happened to his Dad. His mom says that he died during Trollstice but Trickee thinks she sounds too angry with a dead man for that to be true.

Hype

Three years older than Branch

- ADHD Nightmare - Hype struggles a lot with executive dysfunction. He's a very energetic and organized person so when he knows he has to get things done but he just can't he spirals. - Kismet do their best to help. When Hype just can't do something they'll start for him. If Hype needs to organize his room Kismet will be there with some tubs to start the process and make it a game between friends and it usually helps a lot. - He's really loud and he's constantly moving but he's one of the sweetest trolls you could ever meet. He's always happy to listen and he'll be a shoulder to cry on for anyone that needs it. - He's ridiculously smart. When he's eventually allowed into Branch's bunker he's the only person who ever recognized his organization system. - Hype lives with his parents and his siblings. He has an older sister and a younger brother and while they aren't the closest they do love each other. His parents are a little overbearing and don't really understand how his brain works but they try. - He has stupidly overreactive tear ducts. It does not take much to make him cry, happy tears, excited tears, angry tears, sad tears. Kismet will tease him about it sometimes and he'll glare daggers at them while they laugh.

Boom

Two years older than Branch

- Gay but not a stereotype. Your typical gay wouldn't be able to clock him if he didn't lean into the aesthetic as he gets older via rainbow hair and gay earring. - He's a bit of an airhead sometimes but he's astonishingly emotionally intelligent. He's the best at reading the rest of Kismet and he'll always be the first person to pull one of the other members aside to make sure that they're okay. - He's a great listener, to the point where you won't even realize that he's doing it. He'll say just the right thing to get you talking about whatever's bothering you and then by the time your done letting it all out he'll just be there with a soft smile and gentle assurances. - He wishes he was smarter. He's not stupid but sometimes he misses the mark and his dad has always made fun of him for it. He can tell that his dad doesn't mean to be malicious but the jokes hurt sometimes and it's made him a little insecure about his intelligence. He's jealous of Branch and Hype sometimes, they're both so smart, but that only makes him feel worse because it's not their fault. - Life of the party. Boom is the kind of troll that'll bring the good alcohol and end the night drunk on the nearest table, screaming the lyrics at the top of his lungs and shining like the sun under the spotlights. - He wished he wasn't gay when he was a kid. Not because people were mean about it or because it was wrong but because it made him different in a way that he wasn't really comfortable with when he was younger. The more time he spent with Kismet the more he realized that differences made people better and made them easier to love and so he leaned into what made him stand out. - He lost his mom during the Great Bergen Escape. He and his dad assume that she's long dead but losing her has only brought them closer.

Branch

Twenty-four as of Band Together (Twenty-two in the first Trolls).

- Getting close to people again terrifies him. Everyone he's ever loved have left him, willingly and otherwise, so meeting people and caring about them shakes him to his core. - He tries really hard to keep the rest of Kismet away. He snaps and he threatens and he scowls but they all keep coming back. They come back because he treats their wounds when they're hurt, he listens when they're angry. These people have entered his life and shown him kindness and support that felt so foreign to him now and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left them alone to hurt. - Hype is the only person Branch will ask for advice on his inventions and projects. He's seen how brilliant Hype is and he can respect it. - It takes him a long time to let them into the bunker for any longer than ten minutes at a maximum. They're only allowed in for patch jobs for a while and they're never allowed pasted the first room. It's only after he finishes the kitchen and the living room that he even begins to let them look around the space and even then it makes his skin crawl. - Eventually Branch makes them their own space. He hates having them in his bunker but he's come to enjoy spending time with them so he does something about that. He finds a big space under some tree roots not too far away from his bunker and he transforms it into a large recreational area with couches and games and even a small kitchen and bathroom. That space is where they end up forming Kismet.

[memories-of-ancients]

Wooden Money in Olde England,

The use of tally sticks as an accounting tool goes back to ancient antiquity and the dawn of civilization. In an age when the vast majority of people were illiterate, the simplest way represent a certain number of goods was to simply cut markings into a stick, a piece of bamboo, bone, or other similar item. Such systems were common all over the world including Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Pre-Columbian Americas. If you have, say 12 goats, you could go to the market, find an interested buyer, hold up the stick with 12 notches cut into it and say, “I have this many goats, want to make a deal?”

 By the Middle Ages in Europe, Asia, and The Middle East, tally sticks were used as a record of debts, almost like a wooden credit card. An agreement to an IOU was made with the amount notched out on both sides of a stick. The stick was then split in half lengthwise, with one half held by the creditor, and the other half held by the debtor. Believe it or not this system of recording and settling debts continued well into modern times. In 1804 the use of the split tally was acknowledge as legal proof of debt in the Napoleonic Code. The split tally continued in use in Switzerland into the 20th century. When the Bank of England was founded in 1694 as a public corporation, the bank issued tally sticks to it’s investors as proof of their investments. Since the investments were recorded on stocks of wood, they became known as “stocks” and since then the use of the term “stock” for a investment in ownership of a public company has continued to this very day.

In 1100 King Henry I of England began issuing tally sticks as a form of money due to a lack of coinage in the kingdom and Europe in general at the time. The denomination of the stick would be etched onto both sides of the stick. The Dialogue Concerning the Exchequer, written in the 13th century, notes the different denominations as thus,

“The manner of cutting is as follows. At the top of the tally a cut is made, the thickness of the palm of the hand, to represent a thousand pounds; then a hundred pounds by a cut the breadth of a thumb; twenty pounds, the breadth of the little finger; a single pound, the width of a swollen barleycorn; a shilling rather narrower; then a penny is marked by a single cut without removing any wood.”

Like other split tallies, the stick was split lengthwise, with one half being circulated among the populace as money, and the other half being stored at the local exchequer’s office (treasurer).  If one believed they were being cheated with a counterfeit stick, one only had to make a visit to the local exchequer and match his half of the stick with the half held by the treasurer. 

The use of the split tally for money and the recording of debts ended by act of the British Parliament in 1826.  In 1834 Parliament ordered the burning of thousands of ancient tally sticks representing centuries worth of wooden money and debt records to be burned. During their destruction, the chimney of the stove caught fire, resulting in a blaze that destroyed most of the Palace of Westminster.

[mindofadoll]

I Imagine making mommy real mad. I don't really know how. Maybe I flirted with her friends a little too much. Maybe I came home with a mark from someone else (I was just playing around of course). Maybe she caught me touching something that belongs to her. But either way she pissed, she decides that I need to learn that not everyone is as nice as her. So one day she tells me she's taking me out to dinner and ask me to dress sexy. I do, only for us to pull up infront of some sleazy girls bar. I try to question her but she brushes me off and tells me to get out of the car. When I do she grabs my hand and we walk in. As we walk in some girl at the bar asks "Is this her? " to which mommy responds with a "Yes" before I can give her a questioning look she throws me onto a sturdy table. I begin to scream and cry as some girls from the bar strap me to the table. When I look at mommy I see her taking money from who I could only assume to be the owner. After taking it she begins to coo me "Aww baby are you scared. You should be, I tried so hard to make you a good girl but you want to act like a slut. So today I'm going to let you get all that out of your system. " I begin to sniffle as I feel other female hands grab at my body. As Mommy begins to walk to a chair I hear one of the girls groping me say "What about her pretty clothes. " to which mommy responds "Just rip it off of her." For the rest of the night mommy just smokes as she watches as girls come up and fuck me. They shove their fingers where ever they can fit. They smack me how ever and where ever they wish and most humiliating of all they write on me. With their marks they tally how many times I've came. They circled my clit and labeled it useless. The wrote their names and phone numbers and anything else they could humiliate me with. By the end of the night when mommy unstraped me I was a fucked out mess of marks and numbers, just sobbing into mommy chest. But by the time I got home I realized "Mommy was right not everyone is as nice. "

♡*♡∞:｡.｡ 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 ｡.｡:∞♡*♡

[darlingofvalyria]

As lovers, you and Aegon were the best. As exes, you and him might be the actual worst. But he can't help himself, and you're powerless to your own desires. A Halloween Party, more than hard liquor, and glances that attempts to stifle stares of want— everything comes to a catalyst.

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ INTOXICATED, DOM/SUB DYNAMICS ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,359 ] [ masterlist ] | Modern!AU Aegon Targaryen II x F!Reader

contains— smut, angsty - exes to lovers, frat parties, college au!, possessive, cheating (not you or aeg), intoxication - messy sex for the messy exes, sorta toxic if you squint - petnames: sweet angel, sweet girl, sweetheart - mention of drug usage, slight hint addiction - nsfw: fingering, overstimulation, marking, dubcon + enthusiastic agreement, degradation, praise kink, dom!aeg— dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink if you squint, creampie - no betas.

a/n— hopefully this works for the request! it's a little... sadder and smuttier, but hey! ahahah! this is why i don't do daily kinktober. as an overwriter, it's just not possible to be quick jsdhjsh. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

It starts with, "Don't look, it's your ex."

And you pause. You freeze. You physically feel the adrenaline course through each and which way vein in your system, finding the end of your epidermis and hairline. It's a lot and you still have yet to land your eyes on him. The punch you've been offered not long ago that's slowly been condensing between your fingers register in your brain as cold, a drink, alcoholic— that you toss your head back and chug.

You sputter and choke afterward, your friend slamming her hand on your back in sympathy. "F-fuck. That's gross."

"Dude," she nervously giggles. "I don't think you were supposed to throat shot that."

"It tastes chemical, like chugging a nuclear reactor. I don't recommend it either." You exchange each hand to wipe the wetness on your skirt and holding your glass, trying to settle your nerves. "Where is he?"

"Got waylaid by two frat brothers, Dumb and Dumber, I think... think he's chatting up— yep, Frat President, with... an Olsen Twin on his lap. Fuck. I'm sorry, bestie."

You try to laugh but it comes out strangled. Because of course. Aegon is a pretty comet who streaks by, just as pretty and just as infrequent, coming to pass like a godly miracle and people just devours him.

Because he's Aegon, always the shiniest star, the bestest friend, somehow everyone's first something. First kiss, first messy hookup, first 'and he did this thing with his tongue, oh my gods, I saw five stars and the moon!', etcetera.

You aren't his first love and you sure as shit aren't going to be his first heartbreak. You wonder how many heartbreaks it'll be tonight; there's a running tally of three heartbreaks within one party, a fantastical rumour, a proud, mysogynistic chidding between male friends— before you got together with him, before your sphere ever clashed with Aegon Targaryen when he too was just a comet to you, a moon, an asteroid— always on orbit but always outside, unknown to the taste of his lips when he giggles between kisses, nor the pretty sighs when your fingers find the bulge in his pants.

Fuck. You're getting teary and you're in your first Halloween party since breaking up with Aegon. You got dressed up and had gotten your makeup done by your more creative friend.

You need to stop wasting emotions and cruelly painful thoughts for the star haired boy.

"Fuck it. Where's the hard drugs?"

Your friend snorts. "I'm not letting you do hard drugs. I am going to do very nice grass with you from very nice people on the sofa already hallucinating."

"Fine. But we're doing shots."

Aegon didn't see you the first time he arrived, but he will always, always find you in a crowd.

It's your laughter that triggers it this time, a sound embedded in his bones that he turns like a dog at the sound, as if finding his master. And then you're there, loose and happy, his heart stuttering at the pure joy and fun in your face, in your body, as you swayed slightly the beat, holding a freshly emptied shot glass.

He swallows. Fuck. You're still so pretty.

Your makeup is done sharper, your lips glossy and bright— a cherry red. His mouth watering when you pout dramatically at your friend, the pulsing lights caressing every dip and bow, every curve and edge of you. Your hair is loose, framing your face with a fake, paper halo over your head that sparkles in glitter, matching the body glitter across your shoulders and collarbones, even the peeks of your thighs under the white, silk dress that, with a jump in his throat, has his cock standing at attention.

He knows that dress.

He remembers the ghostly echoes of the lace detailing atop your chest, how it feels under his palms when he skates his hand over to squeeze your tits, the feel of the silk against his stomach when you lean over his body as your pussy flutters, clenching, while you roll and grind against him, trying to find pleasure—

"Fucking hell," he downs the punchy, mysterious liquid that's just straight vodka with rum, soda and strawberry syrup (absolutely disgusting but good enough for college students on a Friday), because he's fucking hard, and you're just there, oblivious, dancing, looking gorgeous, and his heart is aching. You're everything he's ever want, desired and should have kept better care for— fuck all the arguments, all the fights, all the stupid little reasons that he can't remember anymore why you two broke up —

And his stare is heated, penetrative, because the next thing he knows you're looking back at him. A thread of swallowing gaze, of empty thought but the baseborn sound of a Halloween party and two people who can't look away. Their past is twisted between them, their future uncertain, but their present is here and the want is certain.

The shared heat is gone when a hand is on his shoulder and he is forcibly turned. Qoren Martell shakes his head, lips turned down.

"No, dude. That's a bad idea."

And Aegon smirks because that's what's expected of him. His fingers tingle as he clench and unclench them. He can't be seen mooning over an ex.

"Not if she wants it."

It's a douchebag reply, an Aegon Second of His Name reply, but Qoren knows him better than that, even Jason who's not even looking at him, staring at Solana who was grinding against some frat bro from Beta Theta while staring directly at him.

Aegon snorts when Qoren smacks Jason's head.

"So that's why you didn't bring Johanna, you fucker." Aegon takes another beer, itching for the paraphernalia hot in his pocket. You've turned away and the itch is back, low but steady.

Jason shrugs. "I don't know what you mean."

"I am not babysitting both of you, motherfucks," Qoren mutters. "You're both responsible of your mistakes tonight I'm meeting Somi tomorrow and neither of you messy fuckers are going to ruin that for me, alright?" With that, he slaps a hand on both of their backs, making Jason curse as his beer spills.

When Aegon watches Qoren leave, he turns back to you and see you're already staring, irises too wide, full lips slightly open, and the thrum of heat, nice and striking, runs down his body.

He's going to fuck you. Or you're going to fuck him. It's set in stone, written in fate's ink. When you move away, his stare hooked on you, he smirks the moment you turn back to see if he's still watching, starving, and cocking your head as if asking,

Not going to follow?

But of course he does, it's you and him.

It doesn't start with a kiss. It's a hungry stare meeting in a bathroom mirror spotted by dry water, and he knows what you need, taking your hair in his hand as he stands beside you, tugging you toward him as a gasp leaves your lips, your hands winding to his hips, anchoring yourself.

"How much have you had?" he asks, moving his hand to your neck, stroking the edge of your jaw, watching your wet lashes and licking lips. "Come on, sweet angel." His other hand moves to the edge of your white silk, running his nails across your thighs.

"Does it matter? I want you." A breathy whimper leaves your lips as his mouth latches on your neck, tugging your hair to the side to start sucking bruises as his hand finds your panties and a groan rips out of him.

"You're this wet, sweet angel? All for me?"

"I was grinding on, hhh— Jon, don't flatter your—" You yelp, a sounding slap on your wet cunt and your wetness clings to his hand. You squirm in his hold, but he tightens, cupping your centre with his thick hand.

"This is my pussy," he hums sweetly, cheekily, but you know better. Aegon got sweeter when he was jealous. He smiled brighter when he got angry. He goaded when he hears warning in someone's voice. Daring them. Daring you. "How fucking dare you let someone— Snow, that creepy, depressed asshole, really, sweetheart? — my pussy?"

A flash of heat in your eyes meets his mullish blue gaze. Heat and hurt. "We've broken up, Aeg. You don't get to own me."

His heart thrums, head swimming— but not much as yours. You don't do drugs as hard as him, and you've been hitting something tonight. Your irises are wider, blacker even when you're turned on. You kept wetting your lips even as slick already covers your gloss. With a hum, he thrusts two of his fingers inside without preamble and you keen, arching against him as he kept a steady, fast pace, using the meat of his palm every few chuckles to rub your clit until your leg shakes.

"F-fuck, fuck, Aeg—" Your hands hold onto him for dear life as you feel your orgasm tide but he doesn't let up, continues his humming with his fingers, his mouth sucking your neck until you feel slobbered through the haze, until it starts to hurt with your overstimulation, forming bruises continually sucked on— and you cum again, too fast and too painful the second time. Pushed rather than pulled into the peak and he coos as he slows once you start crying out, tears in your eyes, mouth agape, patting your pussy and even you can hear the squelch.

His last pat is more of a slap, making you jolt and wail.

He smiles as he meets your watery gaze in the mirror, leaning back against the tiled wall to pull your skirt up, bracing you against his knee so you can see your wet and abused fluffy folds.

"What'd I tell you, darling? This is mine. Even she recognises me when you couldn't. For being an angel, you sure do got a mean streak."

You sniffle, nodding along in your hazy mind. "S-sorry. I'm sorry, Aeg."

"Aw, it's okay, only hurt my heart a little." He gives you a sweet peck on the cheek, fingers running down the wet path of freshly forming bruises on your neck. "I've missed you s'all."

"Me too. I-I've missed you too, baby," you say, eyes burning as you blink at the sincerity, smile turning a little softer, more real. "Wanna feel you."

"You already did, sweets, you did well too. How many special grass have you had?"

"Just okay." You twist in his hold, his knee straightening as you turn to him with your hands on his chest, looking up, pouting. "But I want you."

His cock throbs and you feel it against your thigh, but his face remains neutral, tinged with amusement as if he doesn't want to hoist you and fuck you into oblivion.

"It seems such the angel has forgotten her manners." He presses his thumb against your lip until he pushes it deeper, pressing it against your tongue before letting you suck on it, lashes fluttering.

"That's not what we say when want something. Use your words properly, baby," he mock, heat sizzling inside you, cunt throbbing. Though pleasing him has always been how your dynamic works, enjoying the way your mind blanks, filled only with the desire to be his sweet girl, his good girl while he relishes in dominating you.

Physically manhandling you was one thing, puppeteering your wants to mould his was another.

Loss of control was a soft tissue in Aegon's armour. And though you had gotten close, he had never opened up that part of him.

It was one of the reasons you broke up.

Your intoxicated-addled mind comprehends that, to a level, this is bad, but b, he's close, distracting you with his presence, his thumb on your mouth a familiar action, and you never get just one orgasm from Aegon so it doesn't linger long. The thought vanishes like a salt-licked ghost from a too recent past before you're holding on his hand and you're smiling sweetly.

"I want you to feel good too, Aeg," you whisper. "I want your cock inside me."

And he smiles— won, lost, who knows anymore. "There she is."

The next events are truly hazy. All you can remember is that he's close, closer than he's been in months, in you and stuck to you, snapping his hips against yours while your legs are up and jelly, bunched up in his arms while you hold strong against the wall.

The world is mush of thought, tongue, and messy kisses that are more spit and moan between your familiar, favourite cock driving into you again and again. A steady, almost sweetly, rock of his hips driving into that spongy, hard part of you that makes your toes curl and the pleasure to overwhelm. There's sweat and there are tender presses of his lips on your face when you both calm down, almost too sweetly, too needy for the Aegon that you know.

But every time you're about to come down from that high, he's rocking into you again, squeezing your thighs, your tits, using the mess of your cum and his to rub against your clit, and you're gone again.

The pleasure, driven again and again, wipes your memory of the more tender words he murmurs against your skin.

"L-love you so much, baby, god, you don't know how much I've missed you."

"You cumming again? T-that's a good girl, so sweet f'me, fuck, so good."

You don't know how you got to the room the morning, but you're dry and clean and the morning is stale but not head pounding. And you wake up alone, no trace of Aegon at all.

If it wasn't for the trail of bruised kisses against your throat, the throbbing between your legs, full of shared cum when you dip a finger in— you could've said he was nothing more than a ghost of the past, a pretty little dream.

Hooking up with your ex ends with a toughened heart, too empty to cry as you read a message from him.

BLOCK HIM: i'm sorry.

[tallymarksystem]

Even with all of the hate and threats we get when we post about either neopronouns or nonhuman alters, we are not going to stop. It is incredibly important to us that people who are like us feel seen and heard and accepted. If you use neopronouns, I'm proud of you for being yourself. If you're a system with nonhuman alters, you're not alone in your experiences. Have a good day :) -Cassie

[jubileemon]

Loona started off as a fan favorite, but as the series progressed, some hate her for being your typical "misunderstood teenage goth girl" who is bratty, temperamental and mistreats others around her as little more than nuisances, even her adoptive father, Blitzo.

Background and Trauma

Loona exhibits a complex personality shaped by a traumatic upbringing. Her behavior is rooted in her experiences at the Hellhound Adoption Foundation, where she was raised by uncaring caretakers. Devoid of affection and subjected to violence for disobedience, Loona's formative years were marred by isolation and mistreatment. This harsh reality of her childhood in the orphanage left her with deep-seated trust issues and an inability to properly give or receive love, influencing her interactions with others, including her adoptive father Blitz.

The so-called "adoption center" looks like a cross between a run-down dog pound and a juvenile detention center, with most of the hellhounds Blitzo sees looking malnourished or deformed. When he sees Loona, her cellmate is threatening her with a bloody nail bat before she flings him at the bars, growling and then she starts crying, looking more like a frightened, feral dog than anything. The social worker's indifferent description of her in her emotionally dead tone doesn't help, saying all this directly in front of Loona's cell, and only highlights how lonely Loona's life had been for almost eighteen years.

Loona's living space gets more tragic the longer you look at it. The back and side walls are covered in tally marks scratched into the tile. And there's a typical "Hang in there!" poster ripped with obvious claw marks, making it clear Loona had long given up hope of being adopted into a family. There are some drawings on the walls of Loona with storm clouds above her head and a giant version of her stomping on a city. Either they were drawn by Loona in which case they show just how frustrated and fed up with the world she has become over the years, or they were drawn by the other hellhound kids who only see her as a vicious monster.

The fact that this place is essentially a pound and not an adoption place paints Loona's situation as much grimmer. They're not treated as individuals but as animals and would normally just leave as rescued dogs. When the social worker mentions that Loona will age out it's implied that it doesn't mean that she's exactly leaving safe & sound.

You can also see that Loona takes a look at her tally marks, and as it lines up with the social worker's statement on her aging out, it wordlessly states Loona knows about this. Whether she's put to sleep or kicked out ownerless, it's a cloud of pitch-black dread she can do nothing about except countdown to.

The social worker's dialogue makes it clear how hellhounds are treated in this world. They're not treated as sentient individuals; instead, they're valued for either being strong laborers or cute family pets. Loona is both strong and beautiful, but being a self-actualized person with internal struggles and self-preservation instincts makes her undesirable. For an imp, one of the lowest creatures in Hell's hierarchy, to be able to adopt a hellhound as a pet or servant shows that despite their strength, they're seen and treated as even lower than imps.

If Blitzo hadn't adopted her, Loona would apparently have "aged out of the system" and been "out of the kennel's hair". This could simply mean that Loona would be kicked out, but given a mix of how scared she looked, the way hellhounds are treated in this setting and what sometimes happens to real dogs when they're deemed too old for adoption…

Personality

Loona's past manifested in various aspects of her demeanor. Her reluctance to perform her job may stem from a newfound appreciation for freedom, contrasting with her previously constrained life. Her agreessive nature, particularly towards characters like Moxxie, can be seen as a defensive mechanism, a way to assert control in situations where she might feel vulnerable.

Blitzo's adoption of her before she aged out ensured her gratitude and was why she didn't leave him. But years of hardship have made it hard for her to open up to him properly. Despite her tough exterior, moments of genuine vulnerability reveal her social awkwardness and desire for connection, which she struggles to navigate due to her lack of social experience.

Loona is shown throughout the series to have a strong aversion to being touched, reacting either with threatening growls or violence. However, her aversion to being touched might've stem from her past in the adoption center, yet she can handle being touched when she's the one initiating the contact, as seen when she allows Octavia to hug her and then holds her hand through the portal. That being said, she never reacted aggressively to Blitzo's affections beforehand, so this felt out of place, even for her.

Social Skills

Loona seems to be hiding some deep insecurities and feelings of loneliness, having never had any friends before meeting Vortex and briefly glancing with visible sadness at a picture of an happy family in "Murder Family", which implies Loona does wish to have good relationships in her life, but is unable to due to her tendency to see the bad in people and vent out her frustrations on others, including (and, arguably, especially) those who try to be nice or fatherly to her, like her adoptive father Blitzo.

However, after having been friend-zoned by Vortex, Loona didn't resent him and kept in touch with him, becoming great friends with him and going to parties with him, which might be making her more open to people and less hostile, as she's gradually becoming less rude and apathetic towards her co-workers.

Father-Daughter Relationship

Blitzo is her adoptive father, but she almost always refers to him by his name since she doesn't like showing the fact that she cares about him. That said, there are times where she slips up: on Instagram, she was so worried about him being kidnapped that she straight out called him "dad", though she immediately tried to walk it back out of embarrassment by claiming she was just upset that food was running low in their home. In "Spring Broken", she was so flustered with seeing Vortex that she almost slipped and called Blitzo "dad" before catching herself.

Once, she showed to be more than capable of both showing affection to and taking care of Blitzo: when he became severely intoxicated at Vortex and Queen Bee-lzebub's party to numb his pain after having rejected Stolas, she drove and carried him back to I.M.P. headquarters, set him on the couch and covered him with a blanket. When Blitzo shared his insecurities regarding loneliness and asked her if she'd be by him once he met his end, Loona promised him she would, showing her seriousness and true care by willingly calling him "dad".

Sisterly Bond

For the longest time, Loona and Octavia never met each other, only being connected to each other through their dads being in a rather complicated relationship with each other. This changed one day when Octavia snuck into I.M.P.'s office to obtain her father's grimoire so she can watch a meteor shower on Earth on her own. Loona actually spots Octavia trying to sneak in, but deliberately chooses not to say anything (partly because of lingering anger from a discussion she had with her father earlier).

As Loona approaches Octavia when she finally finds her, she's incredibly gentle with the girl and even compliments her on her photos. Loona rags on Blitzo at the beginning of "Seeing Stars", even physically assaulting him. But on Earth, she ultimately does do what he wants in finding Octavia, confiding in her that she recognizes that Blitzo is trying to be a good dad to her. It's as close as Loona gets to admitting that maybe things with Blitzo aren't as bad as she's ever gotten.

When Loona asks Octavia if she's ready to go while extending her hand out to her, Octavia gives the grimoire over to Loona and hugs her, glad to have someone who listened to her and can relate to. Previous episodes have shown that Loona does NOT like physical affection, shown most often with Blitzo. Yet here, Loona accepts and even returns Octavia's hug with no resistance whatsoever. It's even better since Loona was the one who initiated the contact. She holds her hand out to Octavia twice as though to help her stand up and looks a little confused when Octavia instead hands her the book the first time.

Conclusion

So far, I can see that Loona's character among fans is kinda mixed. While some viewers are sympathetic with her traumatic past and understand her defensive behavior, others find her attitude off-putting, which is understandable. It's also understandable that due to her recent absence and lack of dialogues during the second season, Loona's VA was probably given time to grieve due to the losing her partner and probably a busy schedule with other projects.

[sexybabystevie]

Hi! I just saw you reply the Steve comparing hands as flirting and I had to also then check that your requests are open, they are 😂 so could I please request that one? I had a boy flirt with me in grade 7 by doing that with shoes/feet (mind you I was oblivious 😂) and that reminded me of it and I had a giggle.

A/n: Okay so first of all, thank you for this request! It's SO cute, and I planned on this being maybe 1k, but it turned into a bigger fic, which I'm not mad about lol. This is seriously one of the softest things I have EVER written and I adore it. Like seriously, this has my heartbeat skipping down sixteenth avenue type shit 😭 Anyway, enjoy some soft Stevie, Family-Video-loserboy-with-a -crush style!

Small Hands, Big Heart

Steve Harrington x Reader

Tags and Warnings: No Warnings, Pure Fluff, Soft!Steve Harrington, Semi-Shy!Reader, Flirting, Steve Harrington is a Major Dork, Family Video!Steve Harrington, Crushes, Hand Holding, Tooth-Rottening Fluff.

Word Count: 3581

Summary: Steve Harrington has a massive crush on you, but his recent lack of luck in the romantic sense has him stuck on how to make a move. Plus, something about you makes him nervous in a way he's never been – in a way he likes.

His simplest solution? Flirting via the old 'comparing hand sizes' method.

Steve Harrington Masterlist

There’s an air about you – something laid back and relaxed, comfortable and familiar – that strikes Steve Harrington every time you walk into Family Video. Hair perfectly styled even on the days when you’re in sweatpants, gliding around the store like some kind of celebrity on the red carpet, he can practically see the golden, glittering stars surrounding your body like an angelic halo. You don’t even notice though, he can always tell in the way that you smile at him as you shyly ask if there’s a copy of Pretty in Pink available, like you might somehow be imposing upon him by asking him to do his job. Like he wouldn’t set his entire workplace on fire for you if you batted your pretty eyelashes and asked him to.

Okay, yeah, he’s in deep. Deeper than he should be for some enchanting stranger, that’s for sure.

But you’re cool. Yeah, that’s it, cool, and what’s he supposed to do? Just not think about slipping a paper with his number inside the case of the latest movie you decide to rent? Not have Robin point out how he gets lost in romantic fantasies while staring at you, completely forgetting to tend to the other customers in the store? As if.

No, Steve thinks he’s not about to let this go, even if it means eventually messing things up by accidentally saying his favorite genre of movies is boobies – massive apology to Rachel Moore for that disaster, although at least Robin found new reason to start up another You Rule, You Suck chart on one of the fancy sticky notes embellished with the Family Video logo. Yeah, that was great.

So far, he’s losing zero to twelve, a score that’s humiliatingly worse than anything he ever achieved – or didn’t achieve – working at Scoops Ahoy, and he doesn’t even have to wear that stupid hat anymore. His self-proclaimed best quality is flawless and in full view of anyone around, a little messier than his high school days but stylistically so, and yet he still can’t work the charm like he could just a few years ago. If it wasn’t the ridiculous sailor uniform or the hat that covered up his hair, then did he just lack game entirely?

No, absolutely not. He still had it, and he was going to prove it. He would find some way to talk to you – really talk to you, not just the small conversation he’d make while searching your name into the computer system to charge your account – and he would pull it off. He was going to get a perfect grade from Miss Professor Robin, doctorate in the study of loser and non-loser romantic interactions. So much so that she would have to give him a million You Rule tally marks, something totally achievable and normal to want, he was certain.

Were you out of his league? Absolutely. Did that deter his persistence? Not at all.

He was going to do this, even if it turned out to be a dumpster fire. Even if his hair wasn’t looking exactly the way he wanted it to be. Even if Robin was jokingly preying on his downfall in that long-time-best-friend way that she did. Even if the doorbell was ringing right now to signal your superstar arrival, and even if you were flashing him a smile that literally made him forget how to breathe for approximately forty-seven seconds.

Shit.

Steve’s leaning forward, his elbows plastered to the countertop, almost falling over it because he’s so glued to watching you. You give him a little wave that nearly sends him toppling backwards into the floor – now that he thinks of it, are you sure you aren’t a god with some kind of wind powers? You certainly are pretty enough to be one – before beelining straight to the romcom section. Like usual. He can’t help but smile to himself, definitely the lovesick puppy look Robin said he had mastered recently.

As you peruse the movies in stock, his mind does its typical wandering. Romantic-comedy seemed to be your favorite movie genre, but what was your favorite type of music? Favorite food, favorite color? Were you more into pop music, sweet vanilla cupcakes, and various shades of lilac, or did you prefer the darker hues of colors, savory cheeseburgers, and something a little more lyrically intense? Or were you a mix of both, maybe even neither?

Everything about you was addictively unknown; you were a package of silly little mysteries he wanted to unwrap bit by bit, saving the more intimate and personal details for later. The best for last, right? Thinking of the possibilities was driving him wild, though, because how could he not know your all-time favorite song yet? And, god forbid, your favorite ice cream flavor? Now that was something he was skilled in – he’d probably never forget the sweet but slightly nutty scent of pistachio ice cream ever in his lifetime – and maybe he could show you that. Would it impress you if he let you try the mean banana split he could conjure up? It was good enough to be the primary thing Erica Sinclair ever ordered from the ice cream parlor, even demanding that Steve be the one to make it himself instead of the other workers. Poor Robin – or maybe lucky Robin, knowing the sass of the young girl all too well. Yeah, lucky Robin, for sure.

But maybe Steve could be lucky too. He knew the moves other guys his age made, flirtatious comments that were borderline crude – and yeah, okay, he admits he has occasional conversations about boobies – but he doesn’t want to play that kind of game with you. He doesn’t want to be like all the other guys, expendable and almost disrespectful in his mannerisms and language; no, he wants to treat you right. He wants to be good to you, to treat you with all the care and love and wonder of a da Vinci painting, and if he’s finally lucky then maybe you’ll let him, because, really, what did the Mona Lisa even have on someone as beautiful as you, anyway?

Robin’s elbow crashes into Steve’s side a little too forcefully, which she seems to be aware of since she gives him a slightly serious, apologetic grimace before her eyes become knowing in that way that he sometimes is afraid of. Her head jerks to the leftt and she leans in to whisper, “Incoming, ten o’clock. Shoot your shot, dingus!”

It takes him too much time to realize that she means ten o’clock as in the direction the little hand of a clock makes, though, and he doesn’t have time to prepare his lines before you’re at the counter with a VHS tape between your fingers. He doesn’t even have time to properly wipe away his token furrowed brows of confusion, so when he turns to look at you, there’s a moment where his face is half grimace, half giant smile. Your eyes narrow a bit, undeniably trying to understand what that face is about, and Steve internally face palms. Great start, Harrington, you probably look like a total nutjob.

He quickly shakes himself out of it and relaxes his face into a kind smile, leaning off of the counter to make room for you to slide your movie on top of it. You do, but he’s too busy staring into your eyes – has he ever seen eyes as magnetic, as charming as yours? – to really notice.

“Hey,” he says, just like he’s talking to any other pleasant customer, except his voice is softer, more gentle. “How are you doing?” Unlike with any other customer, he genuinely wants to know the answer.

The way your eyes light up as he asks… he didn’t possibly think he could find them more adorable. If asking about your day did that, then how would you react to him actually making moves?

“Good,” you reply, tone matching the care in his. You then glance around the store briefly, giving Steve the chance to admire the soft curve of your jawline. He pretends not to have been staring when your gaze falls back onto him. “You must be pretty bored today. This place is empty besides me.”

Was there a hint of something teasing in that last remark of yours, or is Steve imagining things?

Either way, it’s only now that he realizes you’re right – they haven’t really had any other customers. Not very typical for a Tuesday night, but he couldn’t care less, really. Not when you’re here.

“Don’t worry. You’re my favorite, anyway,” he says, heart thudding with an annoying intensity. He resists the urge to wink at you – god, he really is a loser, isn’t he? – and his hand moves to rake across his head, fingers nervously tangling in his brown hair.

You don’t answer, eyes wide with a hint of surprise. Your smile grows more bashful, something that makes Steve’s mouth grow dry, and you look down, a few strands of your own hair moving to cover your eyes. The sight of you – so shy and cute – standing right in front of him, only separated by a mere old countertop, sends his mind reeling. So close, but there’s an island between you – literally.

Seeming to overcome your brief embarrassment, you look back at Steve and smile again, this time a hint of your teeth showing behind the tiniest gap between your lips. Noticing all the small details, wondering what other little things he could find out and memorize about you, he almost feels like he’s drowning in emotion.

Get it together, dude! he thinks to himself, the voice in his head sounding suspiciously like Robin.

He’s snapped out of it by your hand meekly pushing the tape further up the counter, undoubtedly trying to get him to do his actual job instead of being ridiculously distracted by you.

Like he could help it, though; you were practically his dream. Hell, he hoped that he had dreams of you each night, that he could spend time with you even if he managed to screw it up in reality. Dreams were less intimidating, despite the fact that he had no control in them. Reality was where he held the cards, where he could choose what to say and do. Somehow, that thought’s empowering enough to bring him back down to earth.

Steve takes one look at the movie you’ve chosen, though, and laughs to himself as he reads the title. Instead of staying in his mind this time, he can’t help but speak his thoughts aloud.

“Christine, huh?” He can’t fight the amused little smirk that takes over his face even if he wants to. “That’s quite a shift from your usual, isn’t it?”

You just give him a simple shrug, unapologetic aside from the way you cheekily bite the inside of your lip. Now there’s definitely a hint of that same playfulness that he thought he saw earlier, and Steve could scream out in joy as he notices that gleam in your eye. Maybe he really didn’t lose all his charm.

“Thought I might switch it up a bit, you know?”

Steve nods and turns to the giant computer next to him, tape in one hand as his other slowly and loudly types away at the clunky keyboard. He finds Christine in the film catalog and quickly flips over the tape to type in the exact product number before his deep brown eyes glance back at you. It’s like you’re a golden statue shimmering in the sun, the only neon sign in a pitch-black forest. His gaze just naturally gravitates towards you, not that he’d ever complain about it.

“You didn’t strike me as the type for Stephen King,” Steve remarks, unable to keep his true thoughts to himself.

“Is that a bad thing?” You let out a soft giggle, head tilting in a way that reminds Steve of a parrot learning how to speak. Have you been waiting to learn more about him like he has about you? You did always seem to stop by Family Video when he was on shift, making sure to have small conversations with him about your movie choices while he added the rented tape to your account, making sure that you always were in his line to be checked out, even if there were lots of other customers…

“Oh no, not at all. It was just a little surprising,” he says, shaking his head and letting out his own small chuckle. He makes sure to look you in the eyes as he says, “I’m the kinda guy who likes surprises.”

He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t like the more world-ending, Upside-Down-related surprises that seem to haunt him and his unusual friend group. No, that’s more of a fourth or fifth date kind of thing to bring up.

Steve relishes the more prominent curl of your lips – oh god, don’t look at them, don’t think about how soft they would be, don’t do it! – and the way it makes you look a bit smug as you say, “Noted.”

He could think of millions of ways for that to come back into play, each one making his chest swell in an almost delightful way, but instead he continues adding Christine to your Family Video account. He finally gets to the webpage where he has to type in the customer’s name, and you must be familiar with the process because you open your mouth, the first syllable of your name escaping your lips, before Steve cuts you off. He says your name before you can, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of himself for the way your mouth parted in shock.

A little cockily, he says your name again as he types it. “I remembered.”

You’re only left gaping for a few moments, your expression then changing into a smile that’s even brighter than any from before, if that’s even possible. Looking at you out of the corner of his eye as the computer processes your name, Steve Harrington feels like he’s hit the jackpot.

A part of him can’t believe that you’d be so stunned at him remembering you. As if he didn’t spend far too much time thinking about you, as if he didn’t somehow end up telling everyone around him about you despite barely knowing you. As if everyone else who knew him didn’t know he was utterly infatuated and bewitched by you and your pretty little smile.

The computer finally processes the movie with a ding! and Steve reaches under the counter for a plastic bag. He takes some time packing the tape, a tiny thread of dread sewn into his heart because, while he’d certainly done a little bit of vague flirting, he still hadn’t made his real move yet, and he was running out of time. His fingers fumble with the handles of the bag as he racks his mind for anything that can help him – any line or gesture that might seal the deal.

It’s when he reaches out to pass you the plastic bag, and it’s when your knuckles brush against his that he gets a last-minute idea. With no time left to lose, he goes for it.

“Woah, you have really small hands!” he exclaims, and he’s not wrong, which is part of why it works. The other part, unbeknownst to him at the moment, is that you’ve got just as much of a silly crush on him as he has on you. “Here–” he raises one of his hands, palm facing you, “–put yours against mine and you’ll see what I mean.”

You search Steve’s eyes for a minute, a glimpse of a knowing smile on your lips, and he doesn’t even have to worry about you disagreeing or getting upset. He can just tell that you’re catching on, and that you may even be up to something when you lift your hand and press it to his.

Skin meets skin, and Steve feels dizzy. Nothing could have prepared him for how soft, how warm, it feels to have his palm against yours. It’s barely anything, an action that could be casual or friendly with anyone else, but it still makes his fingertips tingle.

He’s never felt like this with anyone else, never been quite this flustered at such a simple movement before. Not with any of the girls he knew or messed around with in high school, not with anyone else that he had few fleeting moments with working at Scoops Ahoy or Family Video. Not even with Nancy Wheeler.

He was always the cool one, always unbothered and rarely found himself blushing, never ever swooning. But here he was, feeling like he could fly over the moon because your palms were flush against each other, and despite everything, the anxiety and nerves were welcome. He likes the butterflies that gather in his stomach, that being around you puts him a little on edge, but in the best possible way.

If this is what it feels like to have a genuine, no-bullshit-attached crush on someone, he thinks that maybe he can get used to it.

He was right too; your hands are small. With the heels of your palms level with one another, your fingertips end where his finger pads begin. It’s cute, only making Steve’s heart race even faster – and if he really thinks about it, he can feel the vague vibration of your heartbeat in your thumb. He doesn’t even have to wonder if it’s pumping far too quickly like his own, he already knows it is.

His gaze moves from your hands together to your face, flickering to try and see what expression will be on that gorgeous face of yours. It’s a timid, happy smile and eyes that are staring right back at him, soft and doelike. The expression is so gentle, so special, that it makes his breath catch in his throat. He silently hopes that he’s the only one you’ve ever looked at like that.

“Told you,” he says quietly, to match the intimacy of the moment. “Small hands, but… they’re cute.”

Seemingly an instant after he says that, you shift your hand around and position your fingers between his. Before he can ask any questions or really even process it, you intertwine your fingers to hold his hand.

Luckily his body responds before his brain does, curling his own fingers and moving his thumb to rest on top of yours. Heat rises to his cheeks as he stares, and he can feel the dopey grin hopping onto his face before it’s fully there.

You giggle again, a bit louder this time, and for once his goofiness isn’t something he wants to internally chastise himself for. You actually think it’s cute, maybe even silly. He can be cute and silly for you, if that’s what you want.

Something in your eyes tells him that it is exactly what you want.

“You know,” you start, pursing your lips for a split second. “I’m used to watching all these fluffy, silly romance movies.”

You pause, eyebrows slightly risen as you wait for him to catch on to what you’re implying. He doesn’t, though; you can blame his heightened state of absence on the warmth of your skin. He’s far too caught up in that, in the fact that maybe he still does have game – thank god – to process anything you’re trying to hint towards.

The trance he’s in is visible – eyes spaced out on your face, his lips left parted so he can breathe out of his mouth slowly, and his hand gripping yours with more strength than before, like maybe you’re too good to be true and will disappear if he blinks. It’s all too much and you laugh – a real, genuine, hearty laugh that Steve immediately loves with every ounce of his heart. He’s certain that your laugh could cure anything that ails him.

“What I mean is,” you start again, taking a deep breath to recover from your short bout of joy. “I might get scared watching a horror movie.” Your eyes focus on his, giving him a little wink as you continue. “I might need someone there to keep me safe, Steve.”

The gears click in his brain, everything falling into place, and he becomes the embodiment of smugness with that signature smirk of his.

With a chuckle, he shakes his head and replies. “Well, what kind of guy would I be if I denied you that?”

The smirk fades down into a heartfelt smile, and his voice softens as his hand gives yours a brief squeeze. He can tease, but he also wants to make sure that he is being serious. “I’d love to.”

Half an hour later, after a little more conversation, you leave Family Video with a movie, a Family Video sticky note with Steve Harrington’s phone number on it in swoopy penmanship, and a promise to meet at his house tonight for a movie date.

Robin makes a reappearance from the back room, smirk on her face – Steve doesn't even have to ask her if she was watching the whole scene on the grainy security cameras, he knows her too well to already know that she was – as she marks a line and writes ‘You did it!’ under the You Rule portion of her notepad in congratulations. “Maybe you can be pretty lucky sometimes, Harrington.”

Steve can’t help but agree.

[lillywillow]

Tallied

Summary: Every time a person falls in love, a red tally mark appears. When they find the person they were supposed to be with, the mark turns black. Natasha Romanoff has never received any marks. You on the other hand have many red marks.

 Written for: @avengersbingo

 Words: 1368

 Square Filled: Soulmate AU

 Pairing: Natasha x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Mild angst

 A/N: I saw this fantastic AU and I know it’s not technically a Soulmate, I found it so fitting for Nat that I gave it a Soulmate twist.

 Natasha never believed in this whole tally mark system. She always thought that love was a thing for children. Throughout her life, every person she met had at least one red tally mark, some of them had changed into those coveted black marks… the ones that meant one had found their soulmate. Nat was the only one of the Avengers that didn’t have a single tally mark, not even a red one. When you first joined the team and introduced yourself, Nat was surprised at the number of marks you had acquired. They were mostly all red except for the most recent tally which was scarred. Scarred meant their lover had died. You on the other hand thought it was sad she didn’t have even one single mark.

…

 One night, the Avengers were having a small party with just a few people to celebrate your initiation to the team and the success of your first mission. You started chatting to Nat and it wasn’t long before the subject of your tallies was brought up.

 “I just don’t get you, Y/N. Most people I’ve met have so few tallies but you have so many…”

 You looked at the marks on your wrist and gently run your fingers over them. All of them were red except for one which was scarred.

 “I just… fall in love easily…” you quietly replied.

 “But how can you do that? Allow yourself to get hurt over and over again with the same result every time,” she asked.

 “Because… I keep hoping that it’ll be different next time… that one day I’ll meet my soulmate…”

 Nat listened to you as you traced the scarred mark.

 “You know this one, as sad as I was when they died, what hurt even more was that the mark never went black… maybe it was for the best though. I can’t imagine how it would have been to meet my soulmate only to have them die in a car accident…”

 “But why do it? Why put yourself through all that pain?”

 “Because I don’t want to be lonely… It’s you I don’t understand. How can you not even have one mark?” you asked.

 “Love is for children,” she dismissively replied, sipping her drink.

 “That’s so sad…”

 Nat looked at you with confusion.

 “To close yourself off to one of the greatest experiences a human can ever have…” you softly explained.

 “Look at you… you let yourself fall in love and it only got you hurt…”

 “But with pain, comes experience… Pain is another very human emotion that we need. You know even though I got hurt, I enjoyed falling in love… being close to another person… I wouldn’t change anything,” you wistfully smiled.

 Your words made her think. Could she be wrong? Could she be missing out on a whole experience? But opening herself up meant being vulnerable. She couldn’t afford that.

…

 After that night, you and Nat started growing closer. You would spend hours talking, sometimes staying up the whole night. Often you would bring her little things that reminded you of her and at first, Nat thought maybe it was because you were friendly but after a while, she came to learn that you did them more often for her than anybody else on the team. On movies nights, you would cuddle up together. On missions, you had each other’s backs and patched each other up afterwards. She started to form an attachment to you.

 Then one day, it happened. Nat woke up with a red line on her wrist. This scared her more than anything. She couldn’t possibly be in love with you, that was just for children. Nat thought about your words… about how living a life without someone to love would be a lonely one. But… there was that possibility she could lose you. Nat wasn’t sure her heart could handle it. She thought of asking Clint for advice but that would mean actually admitting she was in love… to put the words out there for the universe to hear. Nat wasn’t sure she was ready for that. For now, this tally mark would be her own little secret.

…

 For weeks, Nat was able to strategically hide her mark with long sleeves and thick bracelets but there was only a matter of time before it was revealed. Nat had also tried to distance herself from you but found herself unable to stay away.

 It was during a mission that it finally came to light. Nat had been terribly distracted and was badly hurt. You managed to take out the bad guys and get her to safety.

 While she was in hospital, you paced the hallway, waiting for news. It was while you were wringing your hands that you noticed the change in your newest mark. You had noticed some time ago a new red mark had appeared next to the scar. It gave you hope that maybe Nat had returned your feelings, that maybe this time you wouldn’t get your heart broken again. As you looked down at your hands, you saw that this new mark had turned black. Could it be true? Had you really found your soulmate at last? You only prayed as you waited for news of Natasha that your new mark wouldn’t turn into another scar.

…

 Nat had remained unconscious for days while you stayed by her side. You spoke to her, read to her, held her hand, hoping she would come out of it soon. The others tried to convince you to leave for a while but failing that, they at least made sure you ate.

 Finally, Nat opened her eyes, filling your tired soul with relief.

 “Y/N?” she groggily spoke.

 “I’m here. I’m here, Nat,” you assured her, wiping away the tears that had suddenly formed in your eyes.

 Natasha smiled weakly at you but when she realised her mark was uncovered, she started to panic. She grabbed at her arm, desperately trying to hide the tally mark but you gently took her hands. Her line of vision followed from your hands, up to your inner arm where your collection of tally marks. She noticed you had a new black tally mark that matched hers.

 “You… you knew?” she quietly asked.

 “Of course, I knew…”

 “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 “Because I know this is new for you and it scares you… I knew when you were ready you would come to talk to me about it…”

 Nat fell silent as you carefully helped her to sip some water.

 “I… I am scared, Y/N. I’m scared of losing you, I’m scared that you’ll lose me… scared of letting myself get attached to you…”

 You gently kissed her forehead.

 “I’m scared too, Nat. When I was waiting for news, I was terrified that my new black mark would turn into another scar…”

 Nat held your hand and softly squeezed it.

 “What do we do?”

 “We go through this together, Nat. I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine… we’re soulmates and now that we’ve found each other, I don’t want to let go…”

 Nat kissed your hand.

 “I don’t want to let go either,” she smiled, tears coming to her eyes.

 “So, we go through life together…”

 Nat smiled and nodded.

 “Together,” she repeated.

 If there’s anything this life has taught you is that soulmates are made. You find that one person you want to be with, fall in love and before you know it, your souls are intertwined. Both you and Nat never thought you would find that one person but the fates had brought the pair of you together to become one.

[windmillcrusader]

“Deadly serious. But go put another mark under ass joke anyway.” Nona was happy enough to get up from the table and cross to the big sheet of brown paper tacked up on the wall; to take the pencil and wait for Pyrrha to say, “One higher, one left, stop right there,” so she could make a blobby tally mark.

so we know cam and pal are taking note of: nona’s dreams, eye color, the time she kissed the mirror, what she finds sexy (not redheads), and jokes she finds funny (e.g. ass jokes). and as we know they have some sort of grid system for tallying up gideon behavior vs harrow behavior. but what else is on there