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woso-dreamzzz · 6 months

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Tattoos

Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x Child!Reader

Summary: You have pens

"Sorry," Mumma says as she bounces you on her hip," She's in a grumpy mood today."

You grunt, angling your head away as Tia Patri tries to rub at your cheek.

"Very grumpy," Tia Patri notes before smiling at you anyway and waving you goodbye.

"Okay," Mumma says, readjusting her grip on you so you can tuck your head into the crook of her neck," There we go. I think someone needs a little nap."

"No," You whine," No nap...jus'...jus' you. Jus' Mumma."

"Okay," Mumma agrees," Just Mumma."

You've been out of whack ever since the flight over for the semifinal Champion's League match. Mapi's still returning from her knee injury so she's been dropped to the bench and continues her rehab even though she's on the squad list so Ingrid's kind of been solo parenting for a bit.

It's not that Mapi won't help but she very much can't do things like play rough with you like you enjoy or bounce you on her knee to calm you down.

Ingrid hasn't done that a lot since she started dating Mapi, who dived head-first into things like that in an attempt to win you over.

"Mamí too," You insist as you whine out a low note.

"Are you having big feelings?" Ingrid asks as she fishes out her phone to ask where Mapi is.

You nod tiredly against her, practically limp but still with enough energy to kick and snap your displeasure.

Ingrid wonders if it's a lack of stimulation. The plane ride had been long and you didn't have any of your usual things to keep you occupied.

Your story books had all been packed in the big suitcase (the last time Ingrid will ever trust Mapi to pack your bags) and your colouring book and felt tip pens had been deemed too messy for you to use on the flight. That coupled with your inability to stay asleep for more than twenty minutes, means that you're exhausted and bored.

It's a dangerous combination.

Ingrid shoots off a text to Mapi about the situation and walks the length of the hallway, quietly hushing you and allowing you to suck at her collar even though she knows that it's going to feel bad against her skin later on.

Mapi replies quickly, saying that she's in the canteen with Alexia.

"Mumma," You whine as Ingrid makes for the elevator," No go out! No want!"

"We're not going out," Ingrid assures you but the damage is already done because the exhaustion and the boredom finally catch up with you and you burst into a round of frustrated tears.

Ingrid bounces you more firmly as you babble and sob and whine all the way down. The staff sends her sympathetic looks, some of them having children themselves, and the rest of the team look equally distraught as you clearly feel when Ingrid (frazzled and stressed) bursts into the canteen.

Mapi's at the table in the corner, a packet of temporary tattoo pens by her side as she transfers a sketch from her book onto Alexia's arms.

Alexia's been talking about getting another tattoo and Mapi had drawn up designs easily.

She's animatedly talking about the one she's transferring to Alexia's arms interspersed with flicking through the book to show alternative ideas.

She stops immediately though as your cries echo through the room and Ingrid approaches.

"What happened?" She asks," What's wrong? Is she hurt? Sick? She had that tummy bug a few weeks ago. Is it back?"

"She's having some big feelings," Ingrid replies, sitting down next to Mapi," I think she just wants some company while working through them. Look, she's already calming down."

She's right.

Your gasping breaths are evening out again and the tears roll down your face mostly silently. With your Mumma and Mamí now together, you're happy to just sag against Mumma and allow Mamí's conversation with Tia Ale to wash over you.

You slowly reach out for the pink pen that's resting on the table. You pick it up. Mamí doesn't use the pink a lot, especially when she's drawing ideas on people like she's doing with your Tia.

Mumma leans with you as you angle yourself towards Mamí's arms where some of her tattoos are on show.

"Open," You tell Mumma, your voice a little scratchy from all your crying and general unease. Mumma takes the lid off for you.

You press the tip against Mamí's arm, taking a lot of care to colour in the lines of the pictures she's got there.

She stops drawing on your Tia when she first feels the press of the nib against her skin.

You give her a little teary eyed smile when she catches your eye.

"Following in your footsteps," Mumma says fondly, finally able to plait your hair into a neat braid," Little tattoo artist."

"Yeah," Mamí agrees, moving to uncap all the pens on the table," Make sure to get in as many colours as possible, alright?"

You nod.

Mamí continues to draw on Tia Ale as you continue to colour in her tattoos.

The repetitive action soothes you and you make pretty swirls in her arm pictures even after she's finished showing Tia Ale her designs.

"Finished?" She asks.

You nod. "Finished."

"Ingrid," Mamí says," Take a picture of this." She flexes her arm. "I want to brag to everyone about how much more exciting she's made my arm."

#woso x reader #mapi leon x reader #mapi leon #ingrid engen x reader #ingrid engen #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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moonstruckme · 9 months

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Hi! I am absolutely in love with your writing! The way you portray our boys is just *chefs kiss*

Anywho, I was wondering if I could request poly!marauders x plus size reader? Maybe she is very confident until somebody picks on her and she starts becoming obsessed with dieting and stuff. (I'm struggling a lot with that rn) just a bunch of worry and comfort from our boys.

If you don't feel comfortable writing this or just the prompt I gave it's okay. Ily!♡

Hi, thanks for requesting my love! I'm really sorry you're struggling right now, I know how hard it can be and hope you're doing your best to take good care of yourself. You're beautiful just as you are <33

cw: size insecurity, behavior that hints at disordered eating

poly!marauders x plus size!reader ♡ 1.2k words

The worst part is, you know they weren’t even really trying to insult you.

You smiled as best you could, said your thanks politely, and moved on. Moved on outwardly, that is. Inside, the words play over and over in your head, like a song on the radio that gets worse each time you listen to it. It wasn’t that they were vicious, or particularly clever, or even wrong. It’s just, you’re not used to people commenting on your body like that.

You know you’re not skinny. So does everyone else. Neither of you typically feel the need to confer about it. Every now and again, some cruel busybody will say something, but that’s fairly easy to brush off. They’re insecure about their own looks, they have nothing better to do than fixate on strangers’ appearances, they’ve probably been on diet pills since they were twelve. You wish them well and mostly forget about it. But what’s worse is when someone comes to you with good intentions. The idea of being perceived as pitiful or wrong—really, having your physical form perceived at all—by someone who seems to want the best for you is what really hurts. That’s what makes you want to hide, to shrink yourself down until they can’t see you anymore. To become the invisible status quo.

It’s why, over the last few days, anything skintight or remotely showy has been relegated to the back of your closet in favor of things that hide your figure. Why you’ve stopped drawing attention to yourself with colorful makeup and instead started focusing on your health. Well, your health as it presents itself externally.

“Anyone else fancy a dessert?” Sirius muses as you sit reading on the couch, Remus reading the next book in the series beside you.

“Um, no,” James says, holding up a hand of cards from the game he and Sirius have been playing, “you only want to go so you don’t have to stick around and lose.”

“Whatever my other, subconscious motives may be,” Sirius says guilelessly, “I really feel like something chocolate. Don’t you, Moons?”

That’s always a safe bet. Remus looks up from his book, intrigued. “I could go for some chocolate.”

Sirius grins. “What about you, gorgeous?”

That’s usually a safe bet too. But you shouldn’t. “Thanks, but I’m still full from dinner.”

Sirius looks cheated, and Remus cocks his head at you. “Really? Didn’t seem like you ate much.” He’s not wrong. Remus had made the most incredible feta pasta, it was borderline heartbreaking to leave any on your plate. But you’re trying to practice restraint, and thankfully, James had happily taken care of your leftovers for you. “Did you have a late lunch or something?”

“Mhm.”

James looks up, eyebrows furrow bemusedly behind his glasses. “No you didn’t, angel. You said you didn’t feel like lunch after we had breakfast together, remember?”

“Oh.” You nod. So what? You’d had a late breakfast, and a decently sized dinner, and why do you really need more than two meals anyway? Who made that rule? You’re a bit hungry, but your body just needs time to adjust to your new routine. It’s used to overindulging. And nothing about today means you deserve dessert. “Right.”

Sirius wraps his fingers delicately around your ankle, smoothing a path up your shin with his palm. “Darling,” he says, and he looks distracted as he runs his fingers over the old scars on your knee, but you know him well enough to recognize when he’s keyed in, “did you eat anything today, other than breakfast and that little bit of dinner? Any snacks or anything?”

You can’t help the little rush of pride that goes through you. “No.”

Sirius doesn’t look proud. In fact, he’s frowning, as are Remus and James. You change tactics. “I’m not really hungry, though.”

“No?” Sirius' voice is unsettlingly gentle. “Why don’t you want to have dessert tonight, pretty girl?”

“Because,” you say, beginning to feel defensive (though you’re not sure of what), “I don’t need it.”

“It’s not about need, though,” James says, and why is it beginning to feel like you’re in an argument? “It’s about what you want. Do you want a little something sweet?”

“I…” Yes. The answer is yes, but do you want it more than you want to feel good about yourself? “I think what I want more is to prove to myself that I can go without it.”

Remus’ scars shift as his face scrunches in concern. “Dove,” he says, and you can’t decide if his tone is more reprimand or pity. You don’t like either option. “Where is this coming from?”

“I’m just…I’m trying something new,” you decide. “I want to lose a little weight, okay? Nothing crazy.”

“But why?” James sets down his cards, looking completely befuddled. “Angel, you’re gorgeous. You can do whatever you want, but we love you just like you are.”

“And,” Sirius adds before you can reply, “we love you most when you’re happy. I sort of thought,” he says, lowering his voice like he’s telling you a secret, “that our late-night treat runs made you happy. No?”

“They do.” You pull your legs up onto the couch, away from Sirius’ touch. “I just…I think it would make me happy to be a more normal size, too.”

Remus looks gutted. “Honey, you…it’s your body, and you should do whatever feels right for you to be healthy, but…we love you like this,” he insists, ardent. “You’re beautiful, I mean it, and I hate the idea that you might want to change for…well, for anyone other than yourself.”

You hesitate. You’re not actually sure who you’re doing this for. When had you become one of the people who want for you to be smaller so desperately? “You seriously don’t think I would look better if I were thinner?” You’ve never been one to put much stock into what any men think of your appearance, so you feel silly for asking, but you’re in a vulnerable state. And really, don’t all guys want a girl that looks like the love interests in the movies you all grew up with?

James looks you in the eye, letting you see the earnestness in his as he says, “You’re absolutely lovely, right here, right now. We wouldn’t change a thing.”

Your answering smile is oddly watery. Remus makes an awfully lovely cooing sound, leaning over to wrap an arm around your waist and paying no mind to the chub there as he pulls you into his side. “Don’t be upset, darling. You know what I bet will cheer you up?” He smiles as you look up at him questioningly, kissing between your brows. “Some chocolate. How would you feel about that?”

You let out a quiet little laugh. “Pretty good.”

“Yes!” Sirius pumps his fist in the air, already abandoning his cards and standing up. “I knew you’d come through, gorgeous. Now I think the more pressing question is, do we want chocolate pastries or chocolate ice cream?”

“Ice cream, obviously,” James says. “Before it gets so cold out we don’t feel like it.”

“Not all of us suffer from weather constraints,” Sirius argues. “I vote pastry.”

“Why would you bring ice cream up if you didn’t want it? Think long and hard, Pads. Are you going to feel like a frozen dessert when you need three layers to go outside in a few weeks?”

Remus rolls his eyes at you as you follow them out the door, letting your boys continue their bickering all the way to the store.

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adnauseum11 · 4 months

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Unexploded Ordinance (John Price x Reader)

You and John navigate the process of moving in together. John is pleased you are home.

1.4k words

CW: swearing, explicit sex MDNI

If the end of this chapter feels a bit abrupt it's because I split it in two to keep it from being a ridiculous length. You can expect the next chapter to pick up where this one left off.

Still not completely happy with this chapter but in the interest of not circling the drain forever and moving forward I'm posting anyways lol yolo

feedback welcome!

When John hasn’t returned from his call before you are done eating your breakfast - and polishing off the last of the raspberries - you take yourself to the bathroom to shower. He’s waiting for you in the living room when you finally emerge, feeling a bit more like yourself. He’s clearly lost in thought, your hand on his shoulder finally knocking him back to the present.

John is easy to talk into moving more things today, on your impromptu day off. When you arrive back at the apartment, he checks the door before he lets you enter, satisfied it’s been undisturbed. You immediately bicker with him about your furniture and what pieces will stay or go. You can tell he’s pleased when he wins the debate between the couches, you being partial to your vintage re-upholstered and wildly heavy chesterfield sofa. It’s too short for John to lay down on, forcing him to bend his knees and isn’t very comfortable, truth be told. It’s a gorgeous deep green velvet that draws the eye but otherwise isn’t overly practical. You pout about having to give it up until he gives over on your books entirely. He’s consistently bitched about moving your personal library, filled with heavy anthologies from your university days. They’ve been dragged from pillar to post over the years and you’ve refused every less than subtle suggestion to sell them. He doesn’t even try to make you choose which ones to keep, sighing deeply in resignation and asking how many boxes you think it will take to pack them all. This earns him the hardest hug you can muster and a rain of kisses he has to crouch for, chuckling lowly.

You make a trip back to his place with your clothing, the colourful array of fabrics making John’s limited selections seem all the starker by comparison. It brings you up short, seeing your things beside his in the wardrobe. You get caught up wondering what the hell you are doing, agreeing to this. You don’t get very far in your spiral before John finds you, kneeling surrounded by folded t-shirts. You’re jealous of his ability to seemingly pick a course of action and execute it without the self-doubt that swamps you occasionally. If you hadn’t known him as long as you have you would say it’s something he learned in the military, but you’re pretty sure that’s all John.

His presence steadies you again and you end up making another trip to collect your hairdryer and various other products needed to make yourself presentable for work tomorrow. Most of your everyday use items and valuables are safely rehoused in John’s flat by the time you are ready to throw the towel in for the day. You agree to go to the pub around the corner for dinner, neither of you feeling like cooking. On the walk down, John’s big hand stays on your lower back, keeping you close as you wander down the street together. It’s quiet at the pub, early in the week meaning the clientele are mostly regulars. You get your choice of seats and John steers you to a booth against the back wall, tugging you to sit on the same side as him.

He questions your half-baked plan to quit your job while distracting you from giving an answer, his hand creeping over your thigh and shoulders, bracketing you against him. You finally cross your legs, pinning his warm hand between your thighs so you can formulate a coherent response. He presses a smirk against your temple and listens as you complain of your treatment this morning, and then just in general. You've had a volatile few days and vent your spleen accordingly.

He removes his hands from your body when the food arrives, creating a tiny sliver of space between you on the bench seat. John hums sympathetically at your complaints but finally convinces you to get through the rest of the week before you submit anything in writing, pointing out you should probably update your resume first at minimum. You grumble but reluctantly agree, his even-keeled approach to the situation a better tactic than your instinct for dramatics.

John’s level head only seems to extend to your choices because by the time you’re out the door and on the way home he’s truly unable to keep his hands to himself. Twice on the short walk back he’s pressed you up against the wall of a nearby building, his hands cupping your face as his eager mouth finds yours. You make out like teenagers until you can feel the cold creeping into the tips of your ears, a gentle push against his chest enough to back him off temporarily. You’re getting better at reading John in this state, how his eyes glaze with want and his focus narrows. You finally resort to threading your fingers with his to keep his hand from constantly drifting over your ass, wrapping yourself around his arm to make him behave.

You open the door using your key, John too preoccupied with working his hands under your jacket and shirt. His big body corrals you against him, kicking the door shut after wrestling you through it, almost not giving you time to get your key out of the lock.

“Fucking hell John.”

You breathe out as he spins you around, your arms going around his neck automatically. He kisses you hungrily, his palm cupping the back of your head. You feel the thump of the wall at your back, his hand leaving the back of your head to shove your coat off your shoulders. You wiggle out of it and push at the thick lambskin jacket he’s wearing, slipping your hands under it to grip his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, his lips finding yours again almost immediately. You can feel desire vibrating through his frame, his thigh working its way between yours. Before he can overwhelm you completely, you push back against his chest.

He's breathing hard, confusion mixing across his face as you flatten your palms against his chest and push, reversing your positions by backing him up against the opposite wall. You have to go up on your tip toes, gripping the back of his neck to tug him down to kiss you again. He’s got his hands full of your ass, too preoccupied to catch on to your intent until you're slipping out of his grasp, sliding to your knees in front of him. Your nimble fingers have his belt undone and his jeans open before he can process and stop you, hissing out your name as your fingers wrap around his twitching cock.

You smirk to yourself and wrench a deep groan from his chest as your lips close around the flushed head of his cock, your eyes locking on his face. His cheeks and throat are flushed with the same shade of red as his cock, his blue eyes now nearly black, his pupils dilated with desire. He looks so intense it sends a thrill through your belly that you’re capable of affecting him like this. You swirl your tongue over the head, tasting the salty pre-cum and slide your palm up the wiry hair of his firm abdomen, pushing his shirt up.

John growls lowly, his fingers burying into your hair, gripping close to the roots. He doesn’t try to direct your movements, content to let you work him over however you see fit but the gentle pull on your hair sends flashes of sensation down your spine. The muscles of his stomach jump at the drag of your fingers on his cock as you squeeze the base, sucking on the tip deeply, making John’s fingers clench in your hair. You lift off him and press his erection against his belly, running the flat of your tongue over the underside before teasing his balls with the tip of your tongue.

That has John rocking up onto his toes, hissing your name again followed by a curse. You can’t stop the pleased smirk that slides across your face and wrap your lips around the tip again, focusing your tongue on the sensitive spot on the underside. You can feel his cock twitching, the tension in his body ratcheting tighter with a moan. You let his shirt drop and cup his balls, lapping at the tip intently.

That seems to finally push John beyond his limit and he firmly tugs your hair to pull you off him. Your scalp tingles and you hum in disappointment but John’s already got a hold of your arm, lifting you to your feet again.

“C'mere love, I want to be inside you when I cum.”

He growls lowly, making you shiver, backing you down the hallway to the bedroom with predatory intent. The look on his face makes your stomach quiver in anticipation, your insides going molten.

Next Chapter

Tag list:

@deadbranch @cadotoast @beebeechaos @syoddeye @writeforfandoms @itr-00

#fanfic #call of duty #captain john price #john price x reader #john price cod #john price #friends to lovers #john price x f!reader #john price x you #moving in together #falling in love #fluff and smut #this work has smut

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nameless-ken · 4 months

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Silent Confessions, Loud Masks - Billy Hargrove x Reader Series

I'm so excited about my brand new series! Not going to lie this first chapter was difficult for me to write. I have a serious battle with the dreaded delete button!

Anyways, hope you all enjoy this first chapter. It truly means a lot to me how excited you have been for this series <3 Comment below to be added to the taglist.

(Please reblog!!!)

Happy reading!

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: mostly angst with some slight rude remarks/bullying

Introduction to the series here!

Masterlist

(had this song in my head while writing this chapter)

In the tumultuous whirlwind of your teenage existence, embarking on your final year of high school, you've recently become aware of a singular truth: put full trust into the future that stretches far beyond the grasp of your present moment. Amidst the unexpected certainties that await, there's one you never anticipated – Billy Hargrove.

Billy reigns as the new king of Hawkins High, his “coronation” following the departure of Steve "The Hair" Harrington. He embodies the archetype of a manic attention-seeker, parading through the halls with a rotating carousel of girls, each week presenting a fresh face to the crowded hallways. It's a spectacle that leaves you utterly perplexed, unable to fathom the allure that draws countless girls into his orbit, only to be summarily discarded days later.

Thankfully, you've managed to maintain a safe distance from Billy and his band of lunatics, skillfully navigating the school corridors to avoid any unwanted encounters. While you share a few classes with his entourage, you've strategically positioned yourself in the front row, creating a buffer zone that shields you from their antics.

However, fate has a penchant for upheaval, as evidenced by your first detention – a consequence of arriving late to homeroom on three separate occasions. As you begrudgingly endure the mind-numbing 30-minute sentence after school, Robin, your loquacious best friend, offers her trademark blend of sympathy and sarcasm.

“They seriously gave you a detention for that? Couldn’t you pull the ‘I’m a straight A student who has never gotten in trouble before, please help dear little me this one time’ on them?”

“Sadly no. I definitely tried to get out of it but they’ve been cracking down on a bunch of seniors for a couple weeks now.”

“I'll wait up for you after band practice.” Robin slams her locker shut.

“Thanks. See you later.” You turn to go down the opposite hallway than her.

“Have fun troublemaker.” Robin pokes fun at your new “status” and you give her the finger back jokingly before you both wave and disappear down your own paths.

With a sigh, you resign yourself to the monotony of detention, selecting a seat near the window to alleviate the stifling atmosphere of confinement. The rules plastered on the board, NO FOOD. NO TALKING. STAY IN YOUR SEAT, serve as a constant reminder of the school’s misguided attempts at discipline.

You roll your eyes at the obnoxious nature of this situation. Why do schools think detention is ever going to work? You are put in a room for a certain amount of time with other delinquents. If anything you’re setting up a scenario for more trouble to happen.

You pull out the current book you're reading, ignoring all the rest of the students who walk in.

“Alright, welcome to detention. I have quite a lot of work to finish so I will be checking in periodically. When it’s your time to leave per your detention slip, come see me in my classroom and I’ll sign you out. Please respect the rules.” Mr. Thomson, the junior science teacher turned detention overseer, delivers a perfunctory address before retreating to his sanctuary, leaving the delinquent assembly to their own devices.

Amidst the murmurs of discontent, Billy's name resonates like a discordant note, signaling the unwelcome intrusion of Hawkins High's reigning sovereign.

“Are we gonna flake out again Billy?” It didn’t even cross your mind about the possibility of being stuck in the same room as him.

“Can’t. I’ve skipped so many that they want to try and expel me.”

“That'd be hardcore to see.”

“Not to my dad it wouldn’t. Besides, it's not that bad. We have quite the sight sitting up there in the left corner today.”

As Billy and his cohorts encroach upon your solitude, you bury your nose in your book in a feeble attempt to shield yourself from their presence.

“Let’s have some fun.” You turn another page as footsteps echo towards you, stopping in front of your occupance. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

You don’t give him the time of day in reality but in your head, you’re fighting with the embarrassment and attention he’s solely giving you right now. Billy's charisma knows no bounds, his toothy grin and smug demeanor penetrate your defenses with effortless ease.

“I’m Billy but you may already know that. What’s your name, little mouse?” Billy rests his hands face down on your desk, leaning in so his face is parallel with yours.

“Such a quiet thing.” Ignoring his advances proves to be an exercise in futility as Billy's persistent pestering chips away at your resolve, culminating in a daring theft of your cherished book. Yet, you refuse to grant him the satisfaction of a response, maintaining a stoic facade despite the numerous emotions raging beneath the surface.

“It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.” His friend to the right chimes in.

“There’s some ways I can think of to change that.” You look up, narrow eyes meeting Billy’s. He sends you a wink with his usual smirk resting on his face.

“Not going to say anything?” You can feel your heart racing, hating the way he’s making you feel, more annoying that he’s causing any kind of reaction from you.

The sudden arrival of Mr. Thomson offers a reprieve from Billy's relentless pursuit.

“Y/N, you’re free to go.” He grants you an opportunity to escape the confines of Billy's gaze. As you hastily gather your belongings and make your exit, Billy's parting words linger in the air as he whispers close to your ear, “See you around little mouse.”

Feeling like you could breathe again, you're greeted by a note from Robin stuck to your locker.

I got called into work :( Call me later - Robin

You groan inwardly, the frustration of detention compounded by the looming task of finding a new ride home. Billy and his entourage have succeeded in tainting what was already shaping up to be a less-than-ideal day. You trudge outside, seeking solace in the cool breeze that sweeps through the schoolyard.

The pleasant Indiana weather offers a small comfort, prompting you to forgo the immediate need for a ride and opt instead for a beautiful stroll to clear your mind. As you walk, you reach into your bag and retrieve your trusty cassette player, the familiar weight of it grounding you in the midst of chaos running through your mind. You mentally curse Billy for crowding every corner of your mind.

With a deft motion, you slipbthe cassette into the player, the soft click of the mechanism soothing in its familiarity. The strains of your favorite mix fill the air, providing a welcome distraction from the events of the day.

Lost in the music, you barely notice the passing cars, each one a blur against the backdrop of your thoughts. That is, until a certain familiar shade of blue catches your eye, the sudden halt of the vehicle drawing your attention like a magnet.

You turn, locking eyes with Billy as he idles beside you, his presence an unwelcome intrusion on your solitary walk. His voice cuts through the quiet, laced with an air of amusement that irritates your nerves.

“Didn’t think we’d meet again this soon little mouse.” he remarks, his smirk evident even from the confines of his car.

You pause your tape, the rhythmic pulse of the music abruptly silenced as you face him, a mix of irritation and annoyance evident in your expression.

"What do you want, Billy?" you questione, the weariness of the day showing in your voice.

He chuckles, the sound grating on your nerves as he leanes casually against the driver's side door, his gaze fixed on you with an unsettling intensity.

"She speaks!" he exclaims, his laughter ringing out in the quiet of the street. "Need a ride somewhere?"

You bristle at the suggestion, your resolve hardening as you met his gaze with a steely glare.

"Not from you," you retort, tone firm and uncompromising.

“Oh come on, I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.” You rolle your eyes at his innuendo, a flush rising in your cheeks as you resist the urge to give in to his persistent advances.

"I don’t need your help, Billy.”

He relents, his expression shifting to one of mock innocence as he reaches over to open the passenger door, a silent invitation hanging in the air between you.

"Come on, little mouse," he urges, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Just this one time."

You hesitate, torn between pride and practicality, before ultimately capitulating to the inevitable. You step into the car, the door closing with a soft click behind you as you buckle yourself in.

"No speeding," you warn, your voice firm as Billy complies with a laugh, the car pulling away from the curb at a reasonable pace.

As you settle into the seat, a strange sense of calm washes over you, the tension of the day slowly dissipating in the confines of the car. Despite your reservations, there was an undeniable comfort in Billy's presence, a realization that both puzzles and unnerves you in equal measure.

“So are you going to tell me where you live or am I bringing you back to my house?”

“I live near Curly. By that trailer park.”

“Thought you lived more in the pristine area of the Wheelers and Harringtons.”

“Well you thought wrong.”

As Billy maneuveres through the streets, you couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort mixed with a strange intrigue. You steal glances at him, his confident demeanor and reckless charm contrasting sharply with your own cautious nature.

"Why'd you get detention anyway?" Billy's question broke the silence, his eyes briefly leaving the road to meet yours.

"Too many tardies to homeroom," you reply, keeping your answers short.

"That's it? Seems a bit harsh," he remarks, his tone genuinely curious.

You shrug, not wanting to delve into the details of your run-in with authority.

As the familiar landmarks of Hawkins pass by in a blur, you couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead, the uncertainty of the future looming large on the horizon. You couldn’t help but think if this would be the last time Billy would go out of his way to acknowledge you.

Navigating the familiar streets of Hawkins alongside Billy, you're acutely aware of the palpable tension that simmers between you, a potent cocktail of unease but also lingering with intrigue. Though you strive to maintain a facade of indifference, the magnetic pull of Billy's presence proves undeniable, stirring emotions you've long sought to suppress.

You’re thankful the remainder of the drive passes by in a relative quiet, punctuated only by the loud rock n roll blasting from the radio. When you finally reach your destination, you find yourself hesitating before getting out of the car.

"Thanks for the ride," you say, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice.

Billy grins, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Anytime, little mouse."

With that, you step out onto the sidewalk, watching as Billy drives off into the distance. As you make your way towards your house, you couldn't shake the feeling that this chance encounter with Billy Hargrove was just the beginning of something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Little did you know, the lines between your world and the world of Hawkins' resident bad boy were about to blur in ways you never imagined possible.

The following day, you find yourself once again navigating the familiar halls of Hawkins High, the events of the previous day still fresh in your mind. As you settle into your seat in English class, you can’t seem to shake the lingering sense of unease that accompanies your newfound proximity to Billy Hargrove.

It’s the most infuriating feeling and you hate yourself for allowing him to overtake your waking thoughts all throughout your night and morning.

The classroom buzzes with the usual chatter of students, the mundane rhythm of academic life marching on despite the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. As the bell rang, signaling the start of class, Ms. Paterson enters the room with her characteristic air of authority, a stack of papers in hand.

"Good morning, class," she greets as she makes her way to the front of the room. "Today, we'll be embarking on a new project that will count towards a significant portion of your grade for this year."

A collective groan echoes through the room at the mention of yet another assignment, but Ms. Paterson pays it no mind.

"As part of this project, you'll be working in pairs to research and present on a book report of your choosing," she announces, her gaze sweeping over the room as she distributed the assignment sheets. "I'll be assigning partners randomly, so I expect everyone to work together cooperatively."

Everyone exchanges a wary glance around the classroom, the prospect of being paired with someone like Billy Hargrove looming ominously in the air. As Ms, Paterson began calling out pairs, you held your breath, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

"Y/N, you'll be paired with... Billy Hargrove.”

You felt a sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach as Billy's name reverberated through the classroom, the weight of his presence suddenly suffocating in its proximity. You glance in his direction, meeting his gaze with a mixture of apprehension and resignation.

Billy, for his part, seemingly unfazed by the news, his trademark smirk firmly in place as he turned to face you with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of class, you found yourself hesitating by your desk, unsure of how to broach the subject of the upcoming project with your enigmatic partner.

Billy saunters over to your desk with his characteristic swagger, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Well, looks like we're partners, little mouse" he remarks, his tone laced with amusement as he leans against the edge of your desk.

You fight to suppress the urge to roll your eyes at his cavalier attitude, instead meeting his gaze with a steely determination of your own.

"Yeah, looks like it," you reply as you gather your belongings.

Billy's smirk widens at your response, his gaze lingers on you with a mixture of curiosity and something else you couldn't quite decipher.

"So, partner," he begins falling into step beside you as you both maneuver out of the classroom. "Where do you wanna meet up?"

You pause, considering your options carefully before responding. The thought of inviting Billy into your home sent a shiver of apprehension down your spine, but meeting up at his place didn't seem much better.

"How about we meet at the library?" you suggest, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself. "It's neutral ground, and we'll have access to all the resources we need."

Billy raises an eyebrow at your suggestion, his smirk morphing into a grin of approval.

"Works for me," he nonchalantly responds. His tone surprises you at how agreeable it is and non combative about trying to get you into his bedroom.

"4 pm. Don’t be late. I will not be waiting on you." You demand.

“See you then, little mouse.” He winks, walking in the opposite direction. You groan internally at the use of that nickname he’s decided to give you. This is going to be a long year.

As you and Robin sat on the bleachers in the gym during lunchtime, the rhythmic thud of basketballs hitting the court filled the air, punctuated by the occasional cheer from the squad as they practice their routines. Your eyes involuntarily flicker towards the court, where Billy’s shirtless form glistens with sweat under the fluorescent lights of the gym, his green gym shorts leaving little to the imagination as he moves with fluid grace among his teammates.

Robin's incredulous tone breaks through your reverie, snapping you back to reality.

"Wait, you got paired up with Billy for a project?" Robin exclaims, her disbelief palpable as she tore her gaze away from the court to focus on you.

You couldn't help but chuckle at her reaction, the absurdity of the situation not lost on either of you.

"Yeah, tell me about it," you respond, taking a bite of your sandwich as you try to mask the unease that churns in your stomach. "I have no idea how I'm going to survive working with him for the rest of the year."

Caught in a moment of distraction, your eyes lock with Billy's across the expanse of the gym. Time comes to a stand still leaving only the two of you in a silent battle of uncertainty. For a fleeting moment, you found yourself captivated by the intensity of his gaze, the depths of his eyes holding a tantalizing promise of something unknown. It was a gaze that spoke volumes, conveying a myriad of emotions that stirs something deep and unexpected within you.

As if sensing the weight of your scrutiny, Billy's lips quirk into a knowing smirk, his eyes dancing with mischief as he holds your gaze with unwavering confidence. Before you could fully process the significance of the moment, the spell breaks as Billy turns his attention back to the game, seamlessly blending into the rhythm of the practice session as if the moment didn’t just happen.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of embarrassment coloring your cheeks as you focus once more on your conversation with Robin. But despite your best efforts to dismiss the encounter, the feeling of Billy's piercing gaze lingers in the back of your mind, a silent reminder of the unexpected allure of the boy who has unwittingly become a sudden constant in your life now.

Robin offers words of encouragement, her unwavering support a welcome balm to your frazzled nerves.

"Don't worry, Y/N," her voice a beacon of optimism in the darkness. "You're strong enough to handle anything that comes your way. Besides, who knows? Maybe working with Billy will be...interesting."

You couldn't suppress a snort of disbelief at her suggestion, the image of Billy's smug smirk and cocky attitude flashing through your mind.

"Yeah, interesting is one word for it," you remark dryly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Let's just hope I survive long enough to at least be there for graduation."

The town library stands as a quiet sanctuary amidst the bustling small town streets of Hawkins, its walls lined with rows upon rows of books that hold the promise of knowledge and adventure. As you step through the entrance, the familiar scent of old paper and ink washes over you, wrapping you in a comforting embrace as you sought out a secluded corner to await Billy's arrival.

Minutes tick by, each second stretching into an annoying eternity as you scan the quiet aisles for any sign of your partner. Just as you begin to resign yourself to the possibility of being stood up, a figure appears in the doorway, his presence commanding attention as he makes his way towards you with purposeful strides.

"Sorry I'm late," Billy greets, his tone apologetic as he approaches, a faint crease of worry marrying his brow. "Had to drop off my step-sister at home."

You nod understandingly, "No worries," offering him a reassuring smile as you gesture towards the table. "Let's get started."

Billy's expression softens at your words, a hint of gratitude shining in his eyes as you don’t try to pry. For a moment, the weight of his troubles seem to lift from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of camaraderie as you delve into the task at hand.

As you and Billy sift through the titles of various books, searching for the perfect one to base your project on, the atmosphere between you remains comfortably casual, the initial awkwardness of your partnership gradually melting away.

"So, any preferences on which book we should choose?" you ask, breaking the silence that has settled over the table.

"Not really," he replies with a casual shrug, his gaze flicking between the book covers with mild interest. "I'm good with whatever you want."

“Do you have a favorite book?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever really finished one before.” Billy admits.

“That’s quite sad to hear. What do you even do for fun?”

“You think this is fun? Holding old pieces of paper about fake people and worlds. Seems like a waste of time to me.”

You raise an eyebrow at Billy's dismissive remark, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Well, not everyone finds joy in reading, I suppose," you remark lightly, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted despite the underlying tension between you. "But there's something magical about getting lost in a good book, don't you think?"

Billy shrugs, his expression guarded as he leans back in his chair, his gaze fixes on the bookshelves before him.

"I guess," he replies with a noncommittal shrug, his tone tinged with a hint of defensiveness. "I've just never really seen the appeal, you know?"

You nod in understanding, sensing the reluctance in his voice as he skirts around the topic of his own interests.

"Well, what about movies or music?" you press, eager to draw him out of his shell and uncover the layers of complexity that lie beneath his tough exterior. "Surely there must be something you enjoy doing in your free time."

Billy hesitates for a moment, his features softening slightly as he considers your question.

"I don't know, I guess I like playing basketball," he admits, a faint glimmer of enthusiasm shining in his eyes. "And...uh, sometimes I'll mess around with drawing when I'm bored."

You smile at his admission, a flicker of curiosity igniting within you as you get to witness a glimpse of the person behind the tough facade.

"That's cool," you reply, genuine warmth coloring your voice as you lean in closer, the distance between you suddenly feeling much smaller. "I didn't know you drew. Maybe you could show me some another time?"

"Yeah, maybe," Billy replies, his tone gruff and defensive, a faint edge of defiance creeping back into his voice. "But don't get your hopes up. It’s not that great"

You sense the walls he's built around himself, the layers of protection he's carefully constructed to shield himself from vulnerability. But beneath the tough exterior, you know there’s something raw and real, a flicker of longing that hints at the depth of his hidden desires.

"That's okay," you reassure him with a smile, your voice gentle as you reach out to bridge the gap between you. "We all have to start somewhere, right?"

"Yeah," he murmurs softly, a rare vulnerability creeping into his voice. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

“So, what about you, little mouse? Any other hobbies besides reading old stories?” A spark of enthusiasm ignites within you, quite surprised at his continuing of the conversation.

"Yeah, actually," you begin, a smile spreading across your face as you lean forward, excitement bubbling within you. "I love photography. There's just something about capturing moments and memories with people and things I love that feels so special. I don’t know, I mostly do it for fun."

A mischievous glint sparks in Billy’s eyes as he leans in closer, his voice low and teasing. " I guess I'll have to watch out for those sneaky snapshots next time."

You can't help but roll your eyes at his playful banter, the Billy everyone around Hawkins knows showing back up.

"Please," you retort with a playful scoff, feigning indifference as you brush off his teasing with a wave of your hand. "Like you're worth wasting film on."

Billy chuckles at your response, a grin spreading across his face as he leans back in his chair, his gaze lingering on you with amusement.

"Ouch, that hurts, little mouse," he replies with mock indignation, his tone light and playful despite the underlying tension between you. "But hey, don't worry. I'll make sure to give you my best angle next time."

"Keep dreaming, Hargrove," you retort, a flicker of annoyance flashing in your eyes as you notice Billy building those tough walls back up, leaving you to the same mysteries as the rest of the town.

As the conversation fizzles out, you can't shake the feeling of disappointment lingering in the air. Despite the brief moment of connection, it seems that Billy's walls are too high to breach, leaving you with a sense of frustration at the missed opportunity for genuine connection. You can't help but wonder about the masks he wears so loudly, each one a cacophony of distractions meant to hide the vulnerability beneath. With a resigned sigh, you turn back to the task at hand, burying your disappointment as you focus on finding the perfect book not without stealing another glance at Billy as he picks up one of the books and rifles through the pages.

If these past two days have shown you anything, it’s how little time it takes for a stranger to become a big part of your life. It's unsettling how quickly he's managed to weave himself into the fabric of your daily existence with a persistence that both frustrates and intrigues you. You've always valued your privacy, cherished the solitude of your inner sanctuary, but now, in the wake of Billy's arrival, you find yourself craving his attention in a way you never thought possible.

Perhaps the greatest risk is not in letting someone new in, but in closing yourself off to the possibility of genuine connection. And even with the knowledge of Billy having a tangled labyrinth for a heart, perhaps he’s worth the risk after all.

Taglist: @msbillyhargrove @uselessbutinteresting @milestellergfs @periwinkle-quill @ghostcastaway

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irisintheafterglow · 5 months

Text

End Game #9 (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: during the final nationals match against kyoto, the captain wins a bet.

wc: 2.5k

cw/tags: mild angst/comfort, established relationship (pet name-angel), mostly just fluff and volleyball, swearing, more fluff and volleyball

note: HELLO VOLLEYBALL!GOJO NATION *crickets except for midi cheering alone at the back of the stadium* uh anyways i know it's been months since i updated this, but i wanted to give you all a gift for the new year starting with the series that brought me a lot of new friends at the beginning of my blog's creation! i can't thank you all enough for the support you've given this series and i hope you enjoy this last (official) iteration :))

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <33

“Looks like they’ve gotten better,” you observe in slight disbelief while the scorekeepers flip the board to show 25-23. By some miracle, Tokyo managed to rip the fourth set from Kyoto’s hands right when it seemed that all was lost. It still didn’t help the queasy feeling in your stomach. “A lot better.”

“Or, we’re becoming inferior,” Yaga growls with fiery determination burning under his sunglasses. You slide the basket of water bottles from under the bench and stand to grab the box of clean towels. Your coach inhales one more time to speak and you already know what his command will be. “Deal with Satoru.”

“I’ll do my best.” From the start of the fourth set, Kyoto had Tokyo on the run again. Despite their best efforts, Tokyo was struggling to hold up against the relentless pace set by their opponents, fighting to maintain their resolve and willing the other team to break first. Between the time of your first practice match and Nationals, Kyoto’s players significantly improved, much more than your team’s. Though they’d made steady progress over the past few months leading up to these crucial games, it seemed that the slope of Kyoto’s improvement was steeper. It also didn’t help that, wherever you looked, you were surrounded by the most prestigious volleyball recruiters in the world with their shiny reading glasses and slender fingers tapping away at their keyboards. Both teams were essentially under a microscope, none more than the third years that were at their wit’s end trying to prove that they were pro-material. And, whether people acknowledged it or not, all eyes were on your boyfriend and captain of the Tokyo team, Gojo Satoru.

“He’s overexerting himself to the point where he’s making mistakes,” Suguru says to you quietly when you hand him a bottle. You nod, both of you aware that he’s preaching to the choir. “To the point where I’m noticing, so that means they’re noticing.” He tilts his head up to the stands, where you catch a few Jujutsu Volleyball Society officials conversing with whom you could only assume were Olympic recruiters. The thought of them discussing Satoru’s abilities and reputation in blunt detail makes you wince.

“Have you talked to him about it?” The vice-captain shakes his head, eyeing his best friend warily.

“Haven’t had the chance to.” The corner of your mouth turns down and you follow his eyeline, recognizing the familiar fake smile and emotionless blue eyes while he charms some brave fans that pushed their way to the court’s barricades. “Even now, he isn’t taking a break.”

“Mmm, well, you know him,” you sigh. The group of lovestruck girls hand Satoru various items and printed photos for him to sign and he takes them, flicking a black marker over their surface with all the grace of an old Hollywood movie star. “It’s always about others, never himself.”

“Except when it comes to you, then he gets to be selfish,” Suguru reminds you and you shrug. Your casual response causes his eyebrows to draw in concern, like he was alarmed by your indifference. His tone is much more unsure when he asks for clarification. “Right?” You inhale deeply and shake your head again, gathering what little thoughts you could from the jumbled mess in your mind. “Did something happen between you two?”

“No, no. We’re fine…I think,” you half-heartedly reassure him, but the skeptical raise of his eyebrows tells you he isn’t convinced in the slightest. “He’s just been off, lately,” you admit. “I think the pressure that’s been building up for three years is finally getting to him.”

“Pretty inconvenient time to crack, don’t you think?”

“Burnout doesn’t wait for you to finish Nationals, Suguru,” you conclude, patting him on the back in farewell before you find Satoru. “Good luck in the last set. And, for the record, the evenness of your gameplay hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Recruiters can see how reliable you are. If they don’t, they need their eyes checked,” you joke before maneuvering between players to find Satoru on the bench, in Yaga’s spot. His eyes are dulled from exhaustion, no matter how much he was trying to hide it. His forehead is covered in sweat and you kneel in front of him to wipe his face with a dry towel. “When’s the last time you drank water?”

“The last time you asked me if I drank water,” he answers and you know he’s trying to force his sing-songy lilt into his voice, but it falls flat onto the court floor. “Thank you, angel,” he murmurs as you swipe the towel over his eyes, allowing him a brief second of relief from the blinding fluorescents above.

“Of course. I’ll let you get away with it this time, even though I miss those pretty blues,” you whisper and the smallest smile appears on his face. But he can’t bring himself to look at you, not when he’s on the brink of falling apart. It was killing him just as much as it was killing you, watching him stumble during the one moment where he needed to stand tall the most. The pressure was getting to him and his final appearance at Nationals was compounded by the scathing words of his father, the unimpressed stares of Jujutsu brass, and the intense scrutiny from the recruiters he was trying to win over. “Need anything else, captain?”

“A long fucking nap,” he groans and you hum in assent, letting his warm cheek rest in your freezing palm. “This’ll do, for now.”

“Alright, Atlas, but you’re gonna have to get back to holding up the world in about five minutes.”

“Holding up the world is fucking exhausting,” he mutters. “Being captain is exhausting.” Before you can come up with another comforting response, his eyes suddenly fly open and peer at you with more intensity than you’ve seen within the past few days. He pulls away from your hand and looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s come to some revelation. “You called me captain.”

“What?”

“You called me captain,” he echoes slowly, a dazzling grin breaking out over his face that you didn’t realize you’d missed so much. You’re speechless, startled by his newfound enthusiasm from just one word. “You actually did it.”

“I guess I did,” you respond with obvious confusion.

“Say it again,” he says with all the seriousness of announcing a death.

“Satoru–”

“Say it again,” he repeats and you don’t realize how close his face has gotten to yours, so close that you can smell the faint minty smell of the gum he’d stolen from your bag. “Please.”

“It’s good to see you back to normal, captain.” His smile grows even wider and suddenly he’s kissing you, with both hands on your cheeks and leaning over you while you continue to kneel on the floor in front of him. Your face is set on fire, keenly aware of the thousands of eyes that can see both of you and this display of affection. Satoru doesn’t seem to care, though, and the glittering brightness of his eyes is all you focus on when he pulls away.

“What can I say? You bring out a different side of me.”

“Cheesy lines too? You’re feeling better than I thought.”

“Nothing like winning a bet to light a fire in a man’s heart.”

“You know, if I’d known that was all it took to get you back, I’d have said it sooner,” you chuckle and his lips peck your nose until you gently push his face away. “I’ll ask about the change in behavior after you win. Now, go,” you giggle and he all but leaps from the bench, instantly in top-form and letting his voice boom through the building as he calls his team to him.

“It’s fifteen points,” he reminds them, who muster up all their energy to look more confident after noticing the shift in their captain’s behavior. “Fifteen points at Nationals for the first time in who knows how long, so make ‘em count. Don’t let me take all of them,” he taunts and real confidence appears in his players, dead set on snatching the points away from Kyoto. “Let’s go!”

And, just like during the practice match and the match at the beach, no one is safe from the sheer power of Gojo Satoru. It’s as if he’s woken from the dead, refreshed and wielding enough energy to elicit sparks from his fingers and flickering of the overhead lights. When you look at his eyes, they’re not the hollow pits they’ve been for the months leading up to Nationals. Instead, a dark shadow of unrelenting resolve covers his eyes and radiates from his body like an aura, sending shivers down the bodies of opposing players. In true Satoru fashion, he exploits every advantage he recognizes, whether that be a skill of his own team or the pitfall of the opposition. He knows you’re watching, too, and trusts your eyes like they were his own. Kyoto makes a mistake by calling a timeout when they’re down, 13-11, and Satoru makes a beeline for you; in hushed tones, you relay what you see before he can open his mouth.

“Todo’s hiding a limp on his right an–”

“Ankle, and Kamo’s primarily using his left hand to launch spikes. So, that means–”

“Something’s off with his right, maybe a jammed pointer finger or tweaked thumb. They’ll think you’re gonna take the final point of the game to show off to the recruiters, so if you fake a hit on the left edge, bait Todo and the front line to block you–”

“Suguru can blow past Kamo’s weakened right hand–”

“And the Tokyo Jujutsu team wins Nationals,” you conclude as the whistle blows, lightly swatting Satoru’s arm to urge him back onto the court. “Go, stupid. You’re almost there.”

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he calls, skipping onto the court and yanking Suguru by the back of his jersey, pulling him to the side to confirm the plan. He shoots you one last wink before broadcasting a hand signal to the rest of the team behind his back. With Nanami, Megumi, and Yuuji in the front row and Suguru, Satoru, and Inumaki in the back, it was the ideal rotation to shift leverage to Tokyo. A deafeningly powerful jump serve from Satoru immediately throws Kyoto off balance, and it doesn’t take much for Suguru to send Todo’s unsuccessful hit to Megumi, who pulls the same infuriating dump that he achieved during the practice match. “That was bold,” Satoru says to his protégé with pure admiration, “even for me.” Megumi shrugs, but stands a little taller from satisfaction with his point.

“Who do you think I learned it from?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know you think I’m awesome, even if you won’t admit it.”

“I was talking about Geto,” Megumi deadpans and Satoru’s face contorts into indignance that makes you laugh from your seat.

“He’s not even a setter!”

“I was kidding, captain. Let’s win already,” his student responds impatiently. And win, they did. The final play you discussed with Satoru pans out flawlessly, with all attention going to the captain of the Tokyo team in anticipation of the game-winning point, only to be sent to his right-hand man. The cacophony of cheering and cries of joy is eardrum-shattering, but you don’t care as the rest of the team rushes onto the court and buries Suguru in a dogpile. Your heart swells at the sight of the nods of approval from the recruiters given to Suguru and Satoru, whispering among themselves and writing down their contact information. Despite Yaga gripping his sunglasses so hard that the frames broke, it doesn’t seem to bother him as he slams his palm onto the players’ backs with pride. You even think you catch Todo teary-eyed from the other side of the net, yelling something about being happy for his best friend. Hours of celebration later, as you walk with your hand in Satoru’s down the quiet streets of your neighborhood, you finally get to ask him why calling him ‘captain’ had such a profound effect on his psyche.

“Being happy about winning the bet isn’t enough?” You look at him doubtfully and watch his cheeks turn a little pinker. “Alright, fine. But, you can’t make fun of me for this, okay?”

“I promise,” you say, making a big show of hooking your free pinky finger in his. “At least, I won’t make fun of you in public for it.”

“That’s enough for me,” he concedes with a smile. “It’s just…winning at Nationals wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve done this year, not even in all three years of high school.”

“What’s been the most difficult, then? You were literally on the verge of burnout today, so I don’t know any other circumstances where–”

“Winning you,” he murmurs, stopping you on the sidewalk and turning you to face him. The streetlights are dim enough to where the moon shines off of his hair and his face seems to glow like a statue carved from marble. “That was the hardest thing I’ve done.” You blink once, twice, and still don’t understand.

“What do you mean, ‘winning me?’ How am I harder to get than winning Nationals?”

“Nationals was my dad’s dream. It always was. I started caring about going to Nationals when we made that silly bet to get you to call me captain. But, I’ve cared about making you fall in love with me since you took a sip from my soda can during our first year.”

“I’m still not a fan of that fizzy sugar water,” you chuckle and he looks at you so fondly, so softly, that you’re glad his arms have found their way around your waist to hold you up and keep you standing. “You’ve loved me since our first year?”

“I loved you before I knew your name in class. And then, today, I figured if I could get you to fall in love with me when I thought it would take a lifetime, I could win some National volleyball title.” His pretty mouth breaks into that lopsided grin that you’d fallen for time and time again.

“‘Some National volleyball title,’” you echo, slightly delirious from how warm he made you feel. “As if I’m more important than that.”

“Because you are,” he vows with utmost devotion that makes you dizzy, kissing you under the spring moon like it was the first time he could finally see you clearly. “You’re more important than anything, and that’s the truth.”

He was infuriating, to say the least, but you’d found that you didn’t mind how much he irritated you as long as he loved you just as much.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader #satoru gojo #jjk volleyball au #jjk au

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boneblushed · 1 year

Text

Untouchable

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

synopsis It is crucial that the head boy and girl of Kildare Academy learn to work together. Too bad the head girl is you and the head boy is Rafe Cameron.

wc 3k

When Rafe walks into the library on Wednesday afternoon, he tries hard to act as though he didn’t mean to arrive on time. You’re already set up at that table near the back, the one that he knows you’re partial to — another fact he’ll pretend to forget. Sturdy oak bookshelves surround the study area, shielding your figure from prying eyes.

“Cameron,” you acknowledge as his footsteps near, keeping your gaze trained on the book in front of you. The words jumble. His overgrown locks, erring on the softer side of damp, drip thick water droplets onto the table as he halts just short of it.

“Y/L/N,” he responds, equally as formal. A little less as he takes a seat beside you, recognises your closeness. He’s a heady mix of chlorine and vetiver cologne, the body heat on his skin pressing over you in waves.

You blink. He isn’t late, like you’d expected him to be, so you find yourself grappling for another critique to fill the air. You and him have always preferred cutting jibes over menial pleasantries.

Well, mostly you. “Swim practice?” You ask, turning your head to face him.

“Small talk?” He returns, raising his eyebrows playfully. He doesn’t expect your eyes to widen the way they do before you look away again, almost as though the insinuation has you feeling a little abashed. It’s fleeting, but Rafe Cameron notices anyway. He wills himself not to read into it.

“You’re right,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm and clearing your throat in dissent. “No need to make this meeting any longer than it needs to be.”

“Not what I meant,” Rafe replies, leaning back in his chair until it’s balancing on its hind legs. “Just surprised that you’re being nice to me for once.”

You scoff. “That was hardly nice.”

“So you agree?” Rafe asks, cocking his head to one side. “You’re playing hard to get on purpose?”

“I’m not playing anything,” you respond irritatedly, your traitorous cheeks burning. “I just have zero interest in being your friend.”

Rafe rests his hands behind his head matter-of-factly, the posture change dropping your gaze to his broad torso. “Who said anything about friends?”

“Cameron,” you warn, bringing your eyes back up to his face.

“Colleagues,” he adds in lieu of an apology, raising his eyebrows. “Partners. Why? What’d you think I was implying?”

“You know what,” you accuse, not answer, folding your arms across your chest.

He grins at this, triumphant, which only makes you want to do the opposite. “And here I thought you were somehow immune to my flirting.”

“You call it flirting,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, “I call it harassment.”

Rafe falters. The hind legs of his chair hit the ground with a low thud, and he leans forward a little, the furrow in his brow evident. You aren’t used to him so sombre. Something in your stomach twists at the revelation.

“Damn,” he replies then, his voice lower now, gruffer. “That bad?”

Maybe it’s his sincerity that throws you. “I — okay, not quite,” you say, back-tracking without meaning to. “I don’t know. A little.”

Rafe combs his fingers through his damp hair, sheepish. Droplets of warm water fly onto your open notebook. “I thought you liked arguing with me.”

“I wouldn’t say —” you falter at his knowing expression, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth, “— okay, maybe a bit.”

“I thought it was our thing.”

You frown. “We don’t have a thing.”

“Shit, clearly,” Rafe replies defeatedly, dropping his hand back onto the table. “I… have you always felt like this?”

“Pretty much since that prank in sophomore year, yeah,” you mutter abashedly, a tell-tale heat creeping up your cheeks.

Rafe furrows his brow. “Prank?”

“Don’t make me repeat it, Cameron,” you say, the heat growing ten-fold.

“I don’t remember a prank, though,” he replies, frowning bemusedly. “You don’t mean that time I fucked with the light fixture before our math test, right?”

“No,” you pause, frowning in tandem. “Though to be fair, that was a major pain in everyone’s asses.”

“What then?”

“When you asked me out, you douchebag,” you reproach, reasonably incensed. “How can you not remember that? Yelling across the classroom with your little posse surrounding you?”

Rafe angles back in surprise, his blue eyes widening. “What? That wasn’t a prank.”

“Cameron,” you say, in an as if sort of tone.

“Y/L/N.” His voice is rougher, gravelly around the edges. Desperate sounding. “I mean,” he runs his fingers through his hair in a rush, “fair enough that you thought it was — not exactly my greatest moment. But you had to have known I had the biggest thing for you back then. I thought I made it so fucking obvious.”

“A thing for me?” You echo, warm cheeks becoming an overwhelmingly warm neck.

“Fuck,” he exhales, “clearly I didn’t though, huh? Shit, I’m sorry. This whole time you thought —”

“It’s fine,” you say abruptly. Talking about this is making your stomach hurt more. “I didn’t think anything, alright?”

“Let me make it up to you,” Rafe tries. “Stop with the silly comments.”

You don’t know how to tell him that will somehow make it worse. At least with his wayward flirting and cocky jibes, you always know exactly what to expect from him — nothing. You have a funny feeling a rogue Rafe Cameron will hurt you more than a predictable one. Be harder to keep at arms length, an ignorable distance away from you.

“You know how you can make it up to me?” You ask, pointing down at the notebook in front of you. “By pulling your own weight.”

“Pulling it? I mean… I can definitely bench it.” He tries not to grin when this earns a glare. “You’re right, sorry. Force of habit.”

You eye him warily before looking away, the half-filled page below you an obnoxious white. “I’m not interested in your excuses, Cameron.”

“No. Of course not.” Rafe nods agreeably, reaching into his bag and pulling out his Macbook. “You’re interested in a collaborative effort.”

“Actually,” you say, making a face. “That’s what Cromwell’s interested in.”

“My six-pack, then?”

“Cameron.”

“Sorry, shit, listen,” Rafe replies, grinning sheepishly. “Pulling my own weight, yeah? I’m already doing that Y/L/N.”

He opens up a half-written speech on his laptop, sliding it across the hardwood table toward you. His elbow grazes the side of your torso as he does so, nudging a bolt of static through your skin and into your ribcage.

You squint down at the document in front of you, the frown on your face acquiescing a smidge. “You did this?” A skeptical pause. “All on your own?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Rafe replies, leaning in to look over the script in tandem. His bicep feels warm as it presses into you, chlorine and musk, overwhelming body heat. “No way a jock could actually know that many words, huh?”

You roll your eyes at him, trying to hide your mirth. “You’ve missed more classes for Varsity crap than I can count on my fingers, Cameron.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, ducking his head closer. “Didn’t realise you kept tabs, Y/L/N.”

You realise then that Rafe has zero concept of personal space. “Because I don’t,” you say, clearly your throat awkwardly. “Let’s stay on topic.”

“Yes ma’am,” Rafe responds, his voice still low, a little rough. He pulls his laptop back toward him, glancing over the brainstorm scrawled over your notebook’s pages.

Slowly but surely, you manage to collate your ideas into a coherent opening speech. The fact that you share the same goals, a similar vision, definitely means that this process is far easier than you’d expected. It’s strange, agreeing on so much whilst being so different. Perhaps you didn’t expect him to care about the Academy as much as you do.

By the time your penultimate draft is typed up, the Autumn sun is beginning its descent into the horizon.

You lean over his forearm as the pair of you read over it, his neck bowed a little, dirty-blonde locks flopping over his forehead. Once damp, they’re fluffy with static, completely dry. Not to mention, his shoulder is paperweight heavy, a comfortable wall to rest on as you backspace or enter.

Too comfortable. The pair of you read over the last line in tandem, once, twice, three times, an excuse to linger against each other.

As your gaze drops to the bottom of the screen, it glosses over the time in the corner. 5.30pm — has it really been that long? You clear your throat abruptly, pushing away from him with a start.

“I think that’s good,” you say.

He regards you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’m pretty happy with it.”

“Well then.” You gather up your belongings and reach for your tote; it’s clear that you’re in a hurry, a revelation that makes Rafe��s chest feel funny. “I guess I’ll see you —”

“How’re you getting home?” Rafe interrupts.

“Walking?” You reply, sending him a funny look. “I don’t live very far.”

As you push back your chair and make to stand, Rafe’s hand on your shoulder demands a pause. It presses warm static into the skin underneath your blouse. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Cameron,” you huff, shaking him off reluctantly.

“Alright, well,” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, “you’ll be here early on Friday morning?”

You nod. “Of course I will.”

“Let me pick you up, then,” he says. “Save you the trouble of walking.”

“Walking isn’t a trouble.”

“It’s meant to rain on Friday,” Rafe lies.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I’ve got an umbrella.”

“And I’ve got a free seat in my car,” Rafe returns, throwing his laptop into his bag and standing up too. It forces your gaze to move up as he straightens to his full height, the evening sun creating a golden halo around his head. “C’mon. I’ll even let you play deep-cut Taylor Swift on the way.”

“And why,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes out of habit, “would you let me do that?”

“Because we’re friends,” Rafe answers simply.

“Partners,” you correct.

“Same difference, though, yeah?”

“Hm,” you say, turn around and beginning to walk away. “Is it, though?”

“I sure hope so.”

—

On Friday morning, Rafe Cameron breaks a record. He manages to elicit anger at an alarmingly early seven o’clock.

When you climb into his pick-up truck with worn-out limbs and a tired expression, you don’t expect to find an iced latte sitting in your cup holder.

You frown down at it reproachfully, sending him an accusatory look. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his own beverage already half-finished. “Who said it was for you?” He asks, his blue eyes full of mirth. “Maybe I need two coffees this early in the morning.”

“Cameron,” you groan.

“You’re allowed to say thank you, you know,” he replies, putting the car into drive. He nudges the drink expectantly before resting his hand back on the gearshift, his rough fingers flexing and relaxing intermittently.

“Thank you,” you mutter, accepting it begrudgingly.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs back, trying not to smile. “You’d think I was making you drink poison or something.”

You take a frustrated sip before responding to him. “I just — you didn’t have to do that, alright?” You repeat. “Next one’s on me.”

“This isn’t an IOU, Y/L/N, think my mom’d roll over in her grave if it was,” Rafe replies, and then he falters, as if he hadn’t meant to mention her so casually. “Partners buy each other coffees all the time, yeah? It isn’t a big deal.”

It’s a big deal to me, you think. You have a funny feeling partners will prove a slippery slope when it comes to him.

“Whatever,” you mutter, taking another pull of your coffee. Miraculously, it’s been made exactly the way you like it — with oat milk and a pump of vanilla, notes of brown sugar sweetening every sip. You try not to read into this.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” Rafe asks, evidently making small talk.

“None.” A pause. “You?”

“Kelce’s having a thing,” Rafe responds, glancing over at you fleetingly. “Saturday night. Meant to turn into a pretty big rager.”

“Right,” you say. “Cool.”

Rafe slows to a stop at the traffic light preceding the Academy, its brilliant turrets painted a sunrise ochre. “Come.”

“Are you asking or commanding, Cameron?” You return, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Neither,” he replies, grinning roguishly. “Begging, actually.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“None of my friends are going,” you answer simply, raising your eyebrows at him. His head is lolled to your side and yours to his, close enough in proximity to discern every handsome crease on his face.

“I’m going,” he replies, his gaze falling over your features, slow.

The light turns green, then, saving you from having to think of a response to his admission. You turn away from him and take another sip of your iced latte, waiting for him to pull into a park before promptly changing the subject.

“Straight to the assembly hall, you think?” You ask, unbuckling and getting out of his pick-up truck.

“Crommy’ll already be there, yeah,” Rafe responds, slurping down the last of his beverage before aiming it at the rubbish bin in the distance. When he propels his plastic cup towards it and misses, you can’t help the peal of laughter that bubbles out of you.

He turns his head toward you, pleasantly surprised by your mirth. It isn’t often that Rafe Cameron is on the receiving end of your pretty giggle.

“Damn, Cameron,” you say, polishing off your own drink before doing the same, your cup landing cleanly in the bin in juxtaposition. “Don’t you play, like, three different varsity sports?”

“And none of them involve shooting hoops,” he responds, faux-defensive. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“I got it in easy,” you say matter-of-factly

“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with your dad being the basketball coach,” Rafe returns, raising his eyebrows.

This brings a weighty pause. You know that he doesn’t mean to insinuate anything by it, but you always get defensive when your father is brought up. It’s no secret, really, that he’s the only reason you’re at the Academy; your family is middle-class at best, and you’d never have been able to afford the fees without his aforementioned employment benefits.

Perhaps it’s why you feel the overt need to prove yourself at every step.

You clear your throat awkwardly, breaking eye contact and pushing past him. “Let’s go.”

It takes a beat for Rafe to pick up his discarded up and throw it into the bin, another to grapple with your sudden change in demeanour. He locks his car over his shoulder and jogs forward to catch you up, his large shoulder nudging yours as he falls into your step.

“You good?” He asks tentatively, frowning down at you.

“More than,” you answer curtly, the handsome assembly hall looming overhead. “You ready?”

And just like that, your guard is up again. You exchange pleasantries with Mr Cromwell and take your designated seat on the stage, but Rafe can tell that the smile on your face isn’t genuine — there’s something hidden within it, something pained that makes him ache.

He needs to see your real smile again, bad. He takes a seat beside you and watches the student body file in, your proximity filling the air with vanilla and bergamot perfume. Your skin looks softer up close, as if that’s fucking possible, and your hands are clasped neatly in your lap as you look out into the crowd. Rafe is struck with the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and squeeze them.

Instead, he leans into your side and ducks his head, his lips at the shell of your ear. “You remember the head boy and girl when we were freshers?”

The gravelly timbre of his voice makes you shiver without meaning to. “Yeah, Lance and Peyton. Why?”

“Christ,” he murmurs, faux-wistful. “Peyton fucking Saunders. I remember walking into this hall for our first assembly and seeing her sitting up here just like you are right now. It was genuinely love at first right, y’know that?”

“Of course it was,” you huff, less indignant and more amused. “The whole school was obsessed with her, huh?”

He nods. “Reckon that’s what happening out there as we speak?”

“What d’you mean?” You murmur back, frowning bemusedly.

“All these scrawny kids heading in,” he whispers, his lips still at your ear, ever-present. “Reckon they’re all falling in love with you in this very moment?”

“Shut up,” you admonish, breathing out an exasperated laugh. “I am not Peyton Saunders.”

“It’s fucking tragic,” he adds lowly, ignoring you. “All the tiny hearts you’re going to break this year. I feel for them, really.”

“Cause you were so heart-broken when Peyton didn’t give you the time of day?” You muse.

“Still recovering, Y/L/N, show some compassion,” Rafe answers mock-reproachfully, shaking his head.

“For you, Cameron?” You ask, your true smile shining through now, a beam of golden light. “Never.”

Triumphant, Rafe simply grins in tandem, settling back in his chair as Headmaster Cromwell approaches the podium. His opening address, succeeded by the not-so-shocking announcement of his upcoming retirement, receives deafening applause, a teacher-led standing ovation.

Though it’s a tough act to follow, you and Rafe recite your speech beautifully. There’s harmony in the way that you divide it up between the pair of you; a togetherness that feels natural, almost as though you were born to be partners.

Near the back of the assembly hall, Kelce Smith shares a knowing look with his friend, Dalton Haynes.

“They’re definitely going to hook up before we get to winter break,” he whispers through the corner of his mouth.

Dalton thinks on this for a moment. “Winter break? No way. Have you met Y/N? Reckon it’ll take her until just before prom.”

“Yeah?” Kelce raises his eyebrows. “How much are you willing to bet on that?”

Dalton grins roguishly, sending a furtive glance around the assembly hall. “Hundred bucks?”

“You’ve got a deal, Haynes,” Kelce mutters under his breath, just as you and Rafe finish speaking.

As they shake on it, the room dissolves into applause. Winter break or prom, it appears that your togetherness is inevitable.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron fanfiction

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gabessquishytum · 6 months

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Penniless Artist Dream doesn't have a choice but to take a position as house staff/live-in tutor for Widower Hob's Robin/sell the last of his art supplies for the livery for the job, and while he knows he didn’t have a choice, working on anything not his art makes him very sad.

And he's convinced that Master Gadling (No, Dream is not going to call him Hob) only gave him the position out of pity - which Dream can't abide.

Hob thinks Dream is fantastic! A fantastic artist and person; and so good with Robin. Hob doesn't know how, but he's going to figure out a way for Dream to start doing his art again....Hob's okay if Robin becomes an artist. The finger paintings and hand turkeys that Dream has him making are so great! Hob has kept all of them.

I can't decide if this is Regency-y or Modern Times-y, because Robin+Dream Art would live in a place of honor on Hob's fridge; but Old Time-y Hob getting all the canvases framed at expense and put in places of honor all over the house,,,,,that's totally a thing too.

AND when Dream finally gets back to his art and does a best selling gallery series with Robin's little Gadling handprints all in them,,,Hob would give it to him soooooo good.

Omg. We absolutely need artist Dream with Hob as his patron!! And lil Robin as his biggest fan!! And hey, I cant resist a little regency au in my life *winks at @seiya-starsniper *

Dream is a good tutor, but Hob can see that he's an even better painter. He wants to see Dream thrive and flourish! And so he causally offers him a commission: he wants a painting of a particular view from one of his favourite spots on his estate. Dream is hesitant at first, but Hob persuades him gently. Robin is still quite little, so he doesn't need Dream to be teaching him all the time. Hob can take him out for rides and play with him while Dream works on his art! He's missed playing with his little man anyway, so really Dream will be doing him a huge favour. And so, mostly because the money is too good to resist, Dream gives in.

He paints a magnificent landscape and Hob gushes about how much he loves it. He hangs it in the most important place in the house and makes all his guests look at it. He offers Dream more commissions and Dream can't resist Hob’s puppyish enthusiasm. He paints and paints and teaches Robin at the same time, until the boy is quite the budding little artist. Hob is so proud!

He even suggests that they should send one of Dream’s pictures off to the royal exhibition in London. Dream is very hesitant but Hob is persuasive, and he's got nothing to lose: Hob is paying all the fees. Dream just has to wait and see. When they find out that Dream’s painting is going on display, Hob pulls Dream into his arms and squeezes him, practically lifting him off the ground! He can't wait to take Dream and Robin to see the exhibition! No doubt, he's got it bad for his artist.

They make love for the first night in Hob’s London home, trying to be quiet so nobody will hear. Dream puts his lovely slim fingers in Hob’s mouth and muffles his moans into Hob’s chest, both of them completely floating away on a wave of love and joy. Hob wakes in the morning to the sight of Dream, sketchbook in hand, drawing out his naked form. They're both covered in charcoal by the time they're finished.

Dream isn't exactly a roaring success in London, but he picks up a few commissions from those who saw his painting at the exhibition. It's a huge improvement on his former situation, and he has plenty of room to grow. Although it may be difficult to persuade Hob to let anyone else buy the paintings - he's a liiiiittle possessive. And he'll always worship everything Dream creates <3

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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flamebringer0 · 3 months

Text

[Image ID: Sketches of an original character, numbered from one to ten. He is a Nightwing, a kind of dragon from the Wings of Fire series. Each sketch depicts him posed differently. In the first sketch, he is using his forelegs to hold a spear while using his back legs and wings to walk. In the second, he is looking at his tail through his forelegs. In the third, he is sitting on a deck chair. In the fourth, he is standing normally and displaying the undersides of his wings. In the fifth, he is flying. In the sixth, he is standing on his back legs and looks uncomfortable, like he's about to fall over. In the seventh, he is standing on his forelegs and looks even more uncomfortable. In the eighth, he is laying on his stomach, looking away from the camera. In the ninth, he is standing with his forelegs braced against some kind of barrier, looking over the top of it. In the tenth, he is sitting on his haunches looking away from the camera. /.End ID]

Sketching random poses for practice.

Part [1] [2]

Some commentary:

1. Dragons in WOF are often described as moving around while holding objects like spears and scrolls. This usually looks weird to me in the graphic novels, where they mostly end up doing a strange three-legged walk that I imagine would get tiring after a while. There's also a part in The Lost Heir where Anemone apparently walks around with a lance jammed in her armpit... foreleg-pit... whatever. My headcanon is that this three-legged walk doesn't really happen, and instead the way to walk while holding something is to either hold it with your wing, or (as shown here) walk with your wings and hold it with your forefeet. I think this idea might sound weird and therefore not occur to people because they think that the wing is so thin that it must be too flimsy to walk on, but I feel that if it's strong enough to carry a dragon in flight it must be strong enough for this. Maybe. It makes sense to me anyway.

2. Originally this was sort of inspired by the pose at 0:34 in this video (cw for violence). I wasn't really satisfied with how my attempt looked so I changed the head to be doing something else. I still like that pose though and I might try it again.

3. This was inspired by Spyro sleeping on the deck chair in the remake of Spyro 2. I don't know if they have deck chairs in Pyrrhia. My friend told me the chair is about to get impaled and i guess he's correct. Maybe it's made of a very thick fabric.

4. This is how dragons T-pose.

5. What do dragons do with their legs in flight? This question bedevils me. When I was creating my Minecraft skin (this) I changed how the legs are posed during the flight animation several times, and I'm still not sure it really looks right.

6. Before I got into WOF I mostly only drew anthro characters, so something I want to understand better is how to draw a character standing on two legs without making it look like they have a human skeleton. My headcanon is that dragons can learn to stand and even walk like this, but most don't. You can tell an expert from an amateur because an expert will stand all the way up onto their toes, whereas an amateur will keep their heels on the ground. I think the main students of this technique are circus performers. If you do this in public you will be stared at. The only tribe where a lot of dragons can do it is Rainwings, because they think it's funny. The only major non-Rainwing character who can do it is Qibli.

7. Standing on your forelegs isn't really considered harder than standing on your hind legs, but it is considered a more advanced technique because you're much more likely to snap your neck if you fall over.

8. It's really hard for me to draw a tail curling away from the camera like this. I don't exactly understand what I'm doing wrong. The scales look weirdly skewed to me, like a Playstation game where the polygons are touching the edge of the screen. This happens regularly but I haven't figured out what to do about it.

9. Standing on two legs is a lot easier if you brace the other two up against the wall.

10. Wings look silly here. Wings are the hardest part of these sketches to make look naturalistic I think, probably because I conceptualise dragon bodies as like ... a dog with wings, as opposed to a bat with forelegs. Hopefully if I keep doing this I will be able to develop a holistic understanding of the anatomy of a body plan that does not exist. That's my ambition, anyway.

#wings of fire #wof #nightwing #wof nightwing #my art #wof oc #oc #original character #digital art #dragon

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iheartchv · 3 months

Note

could i ask for a matchup? also i hope your having a nice day/night/afternoon!! also, please excuse any bad grammar, english is not my first language.

im Cuban Puerto Rican, i speak both my mother tongue and English. kinda trying to get myself to learn German though. im a bit of an ambivert, i mostly enjoy spending time with those i know well.

im 5’2, i have a huge scar in my left leg due to an accident i had when i was younger. i have brown, nearly black eyes and i use glasses. i have a mole near my collarbone and another one just above. my hair is brown and medium sized with some side-tails.

currently studying with a forensic sciences major, a bit of a nerd.. i enjoy drawing, reading Sci-Fi and spending time with my pet snakes. (their ball pythons, they are super adorable…) i absolutely love heavy metal bands like Rammstein, korn, Slipknot, i listen to Type O Negative, Slaughter to Prevail from time to time aswell alongside jazz. i dress in a bit of a grunge way, it varies since i enjoy fashion a lot.

i enjoy watching true crimes series (Forensic Files being an all time favorite), watching Caso Cerrado, and documentaries regarding military history. i love the rainy weather and from time to time going to the beach. truly calming, really.

anyways, i really hope you are having a pleasant time, again. also i absolutely love your writing style!!

🤔I'll match you with...

Simon "Ghost" Riley 💀

I think Ghost would be your match

For this scenario, lets just say that Ghost was to keep an eye on you for a mission

You had shown potential that anyone working for the law would want you to work with them

You have an internship working for the police in your area, getting some practice for the field

You weren't bad, quite good actually

And because you were so good, you would also become a threat to any criminal facing charges for murder, etc.

One of such being Makarov and the Konni group

TF 141 got word that Makarov killed their spy that was sending feedback and intel

You were unfortunately the one looking over the said body of 141's spy; the FBI and CIA wanted to know exactly who done it

As Ghost continued to have constant vigil over you in the shadows, he didn't like the idea of seeing you make your way home alone

He finally decided to start blending in with people, and sometimes walking your way

It's just for the mission, he'd tell himself

🖤

At first, seeing his appearance was a little scary, intimidating

But you didn't sense no ill will coming from him, at least not toward you

You initiated conversations with him, and little by little he was talking more than just a word or a sentence

Over time he got to know you pretty well, as much as you allowed

He noticed how open you were to him, letting him know that you trusted him

You were just full of surprises;

One thing after another he learned so much about you besides what was in your personal records

He started to see you as you, not just another nameless target to protect

🖤

Even after the mission is complete, he comes back to see you...

Maybe stay for a while...

I can totally see you and Ghost going to the beach during times when there's no one around

Just you two

And rainy days?

He'd be all for it

A hot cup of tea and being with you is one of those perfect moments he feels at peace

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corazondebeskar-reads · 5 months

Text

you know you never stood a chance - deleted scene #2

you know you never stood a chance series

deleted scene #2: comfort in this run down place

series masterlist

Joel Miller x f!reader

Words: 2.6k

Summary: The first time you and Joel have anal sex. That's it, that's the fic.

set between chapters 3 and 4, but I see it taking place after the flashback from chapter 5.

Warnings: established situationship, free use agreement, enthusiastic consent but could be perceived as dub-con due to the power imbalance, anal sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), very quick mention of rimming, fingering, anal creampie, spit, makeshift lube, we ignore the practicalities of anal prep here but you should not do that irl, qz!joel is a menace

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Joel’s been down there for a while. You’ve no idea how long “a while” is because his relentless tongue has wrung any sense from you. He’s taking his sweet time about it, too, relishing in all the pretty little sounds he can drag from you.

He had come home cranky—it was, of course, a day ending in “y.” But not riled up, just tired. Enough that instead of fucking your face, he was content to sprawl on the sofa and let you indulge in sucking and savoring, basking in the heady musk and sweat of his hard day’s work.

It was languid and gentle, the way you sucked the soul from his cock. So he figures he can return the favor while he waits to get hard enough again to fuck you proper. And if it’s mostly selfish? What’re you gonna do, complain about getting eaten out?

He’s been generous, letting you come a few times, but mostly he just teases. Feather-light darts of his tongue between your folds. The trace of the tip of it around your clit. Sucking and kissing and fucking making out with your pussy.

His finger brushes the pucker of your asshole, and you jerk. It draws a low chuckle from him.

“Where ya goin’, sweetheart? You liked this well enough last time,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down your spine to watch you shiver. His thumb is rubbing circles around the rim now.

“M’not—oh,” you moan as his spit lands on your hole, and he rubs it around.

“Any of those pricks at the whorehouse fuck you here?” he asks before resuming licking into your pussy while working his thumb into your ass.

“N-no,” it comes out in a whine.

He licks up to your clit and pulls away, smirking as your hips try to follow. Instead, he ducks down to flick the tip of his tongue against where his thumb is stretching you open.

“Ya gonna let me?” His voice is low and rumbly, lust stretching out the twang.

You catch your bottom lip between grinding teeth, and he sits back on his haunches.

“Hey,” he says sternly.

You look up to see furrowed brows, most of his face obscured by his own shadows.

“I’m askin’ because I want a real answer. Ain’t gonna take this if you’re not lookin’ to give it.”

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Oh, you’re gonna. But we’ll go real slow, alright? Getcha nice and ready for me.”

You chew on your lip until a dry, chapped flake breaks off, and you’re forced to either swallow it or spit it out. You try to wipe it surreptitiously onto the back of your hand but end up sputtering as it clings.

Probably not very sexy, you think, but he’s gone back to eating you out anyway, so you don’t have to hold onto the thought for long. It, and all others, leave you with the rush of your orgasm.

“Okay,” you say on the first shaky breath you catch after.

“Yeah? Gonna let me have this all to myself, sweetheart?”

You nod, fingers still twined in the sheets.

He slaps your thigh. “Use your words.”

“Yes, s’yours,” you mumble.

He lets out a low and slow “fuck.” You lift onto your elbows to see him, watching where his thumb wiggles around, gently starting to open up but still squeezing tight around him.

He pulls it free. “Stay there,” he says and smacks your cunt for emphasis before disappearing into the other room.

When he comes back, he has a little jar. A clear, viscous substance is smeared around the inside of the glass, and there’s a small layer on the bottom.

“S’all I got left that ain’t for emergencies, so if ya do like this, we’ll have to wait until I can trade for more.”

“What is it?”

“Aloe. Straight from the plant. Got a connection with a solid medicinal garden.”

“No, what happened to not telling me anything? I don’t need to know that!”

He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, FEDRA will be really chompin’ for that tidbit. ‘He knows a guy who grows plants.’”

“Great, now I know it’s a guy.”

“Yeah. Wanna know his name?” It’s deadpan, and his eyes are rolling. “On your back or hands and knees?”

“Um,” a wave of self-consciousness heats your cheeks and squeezes your thighs together.

You can tell how bad he wants this because he’s handling you like a Fabergé egg. Or the apocalypse equivalent, which you figure might be a lightbulb.

Anyway. He sets a broad palm on your thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth.

“Just to prep ya. Got another idea for actually fuckin’. Want to just stay where you are?”

You nod, and he nods back before settling back onto his knees.

“Jus’ relax, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

It isn’t long before his slicked-up index finger rubs some of the aloe onto your asshole. You jerk away with a little yelp, and he pulls his hand back.

“That hurt?”

“No, it’s fucking cold,” you whine.

“Sorry, princess,” he taunts, but when he comes back with more, it’s warmer.

You peek down, and he’s nestled the little jar between his thighs.

He catches you looking. “Maybe I should stuff it in your cunt, instead. It’s a fuckin’ oven.”

“Oh, god,” you groan, and flop back on his mattress. You don’t think he’d really do it, and you’re sure it’d be dangerous, but something about the thought has your ears and face burning.

He doesn’t miss it, but he doesn’t call you out for it, either. He does, however, file that information away for another time. And another item.

It’s distracted you enough that he’s worked one finger in to the knuckle. You choke on a breath when he starts to pump it in and out.

“Y’okay?”

“I, um—“ your voice breaks. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Bad weird?”

“Neutral? Is neutral weird a thing?”

“Sure,” he murmurs, drawing the finger out to ease a second one alongside it.

You clench down involuntarily.

“Shh, darlin', you're okay,” his free hand rubs up and down your thigh.

You feel a little like a finicky horse being placated. You don’t get to be affronted for long, though.

“Here, let me help,” he says, sliding the hand over to stroke soft, loose circles around your clit.

He works you up to an orgasm, and after you finish falling apart on his fingers, you fall pliant. You don’t even notice right away, head still pounding and vision gone a little black at the edges, but he uses your lax bliss to work three thick fingers in.

He’s lubed his hand up well enough that there’s a quiet squelch as he pumps in and out. Coming off your high, it’s starting to feel nice.

And that’s all before he leans back over and licks into your cunt.

He doesn’t add any more fingers, but he works you over with the three buried in your ass while he eats you out. Instead, as you’re about to come, he pulls his mouth away and doubles his efforts with his fingers, making you stumble through the orgasm from the anal stimulation alone.

It works. When he takes them away, you whine and reach for him.

“What, ya want my fingers when you could be havin’ my cock?” He’s unzipping and tugging his jeans off while he speaks. He knows the answer.

You whine again anyway. “No, please.”

“You’re gonna get it, don’t worry. Roll over on your side.”

You do, but you crane your neck to watch as he shucks off his tee. Two fingers curl into the pot of aloe, scraping until they’ve gathered a glob of the remainder.

He coats his cock in it, eyes trailing along your body as he tugs. He sees you eyeing the bead of pre cum and smirks.

“Go on, then.”

You reach over and scoop it up, wrapping your lips around your finger, eyes fluttering closed.

“Fuckin’ hell. Didn’t get enough earlier when you sucked me dry?”

“No.” But you’re not really complaining, not after he spent so long with his head buried between your thighs.

“Greedy,” he scolds, slapping your ass and climbing onto the mattress behind you.

He manhandles you into place as usual until he’s pressed against you with his cock nudging against your ass.

“Ready for me, sweetheart?” He murmurs low and close to your ear.

You shudder and nod, before remembering his scolding from earlier. “Yeah, I think so.”

He’s got his head propped up with one hand and elbow. The other is wrapped around his cock as he notches it at your slick, puffy entrance.

He moves so slow. The gentle press is more agonizing than the stretch, the anticipation unbearable.

There’s a sharpness that knocks a gasp from you when the flared base of the head pops in.

You’re already trembling from how taut your whole body is, stuck that way out of fear of hurting yourself.

He holds still, bringing his hand up to rub up and down your side. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Worst part’s over, okay?”

You let out a shaky breath that nearly drowns out the little “okay.”

He reaches up around to cup a breast, kissing and sucking at the line of your neck as he pushes in the rest of the way.

It’s overwhelming. Your clit throbs from the earlier overstimulation, his hand is rubbing and pinching at your nipples, and the wet, hot touch of his lips setting your nerves alight. It’s so hot. Has it been this hot in here the whole time?

“You gotta relax,” he says, low and quiet at the nape of your neck. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“You’re sweaty. I miss air conditioning,” you say before you realize he was asking how you felt about his dick in your ass.

He heaves a heavy sigh, his warm breath flowing over your skin. It doesn’t help the situation.

“It’s uh, it’s good,” you say, wiggling a little. “But like… so full.” You clench down around him experimentally, and he forgets to be exasperated with you, groaning where you choke the neck of his cock. Likewise, you forget all about his oven of a body as he twitches inside of you, your moan mixing with his, salaciously in sync.

“M’gonna give you the rest now, sweetheart,” he says. His folded arm drops to squeeze beneath you as he takes a handful of tit so he can slide his top arm down between you and adjust a little.

You push your hips back as he shifts the angle just so, and he slips in another inch. The breath that punches out of you is wanton and shattered, which he takes as an invitation to shove deeper inside.

You give a little broken sob, one hand flying up to cling onto the meat of his forearm, muscle, and vein bulging under your nails.

“That’s it, I got ya,” he coos, pulling out just a little before pushing even further. His arm holds you tight to his chest, keeping your back from arching too far from him. The fingers strumming your clit are maddening, and when he pushes you over the edge, you jerk back onto his cock.

You cry out, broken and pleading, when his hand flies away from your clit, only to break into a moan when his fingernails dig into your hip, holding you in place.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Gimmie a second. Fuck, you’ve got a tight little ass.”

You want to grind back; you want to pull his hand down to where you’re aching, but he distracts you by pinching at your nipples until you squirm. He swats at your breast as he scolds you to hold still.

“Then stop that,” you say.

“Yeah? You want me to stop?” he says, the fucking menace, while his finger draws light circles around your nipple.

Your frustration sounds a little like a dying cat, to which he snorts a laugh and gives you what you want, bringing both hands to roll your nipples and tug gently.

“Want you to cum just like this,” he murmurs. “Full of me but nothin’ for your poor, achin’ pussy.”

“Can’t,” you whine, squirming. “Fuck me.”

“Nope,” he pops the “p” too close to your ear, but his words chase away your irritation. “You’re not gettin’ any more of my cock until you cream on it, sweetheart.”

Your fingers clench at him wherever you can reach, writhing a little as he overstimulates your breasts. It hurts, but it hurts so good. He gets a little rougher to alleviate the pain, the rough, dry skin of his fingertips pinching and twisting until you do actually cum.

It’s like someone pulled the cord to jumpstart a lawnmower, the way the pleasure is abruptly yanked from your body. He starts fucking into you while you’re still blanking out. This is how cubism got invented, you think. If you cum too hard, that’s just what the world feels like.

You could paint a gallery full of the way he makes you come alive on a metaphysical level.

He’s still taking it easy on you, and while your pride would normally prickle, you’re weirdly warmed by the notion. He knows how easy it would be to hurt you, and he’s… not. Not at all. There was the bit of bite at first, but you’re pleasantly stretched and lubed, and the foreign sensation of his heavy, velvety cock dragging inside you is a soothing hum.

You can already feel another orgasm starting to boil over at the base of your spine, and he must feel it, too, because he chuckles. It’s dark and heady, your back arching a little at the sound.

“Keep giving ‘em to me,” he says.

He’s thankfully abandoned your swollen nipples, and he brings one hand to your neck, wrapping firmly around to squeeze at the sides.

Fuck, he knows your body so well now. The instant you feel the constriction, you fall apart, gasping and hips jerking. He’s rolled you somewhat onto your stomach, twisted at the waist, pounding you down into the bed.

“That’s it,” he gasps, biting wherever he can sink his teeth. He lets up on your neck but drives himself harder, faster. “Fucking take it, that’s it. Good girl,” he moans.

Each orgasm blends with the next. Every time you think you’re going to come down from it, going to be able to catch your breath, he takes another. His hands and mouth never leave you, greedily gathering your desperation.

“Gonna fill you up,” he warns. It’s not really much of a warning, since his hips stutter as soon as the words leave his lips.

It burns. Not because it hurts when he spills inside, but because it rends you into fragments. It’s so good, it’s otherworldly. He cums and cums, cock pulsing and driving you off the brink of another orgasm as he pins you to the bed.

He’s holding himself up by the fists, now, crowded over you with barely half an inch between your bodies. Your back burns where his chest hair had rubbed you raw, and you’re soaked in sweat. A bone-deep weariness settles over you like a blanket.

Oh, wait. No, that’s actually a blanket. But you are tired, and you follow the cue before it even registers that he tucked you in.

When you wake up in the morning, he’s already in the kitchen. But the signs are all there. Not only did he let you fall asleep in his bed, not only did you stay there all night, there’s a very clear Joel-shaped indent in the shitty old mattress. Your waist tingles with the phantom ache of his arm. You can’t prove it, you’ll never bring it up, never speak of it, but you know.

He held you.

*title from "Writing on the Walls" by Underoath

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic #tlou smut #the last of us fic #the last of us smut #you know you never stood a chance series #fic: you know you never stood a chance

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deeppink-man · 7 months

Text

The story of my childhood fondness for Silent Hill

※ Because English is not my native language, sentences can be awkward. Mostly aided by translators.

When I was about 12~13 years old (14 years old in Korea), I was attending an art academy, and one day, my teacher saying today is a special day and played a horror movie with snacks.

The horror movie was Silent Hill, and I was very impressed with it because I loved horror movies and horror games.

Now that I think about it, it wasn't a movie for children, but I was really into it at the time anyway, and I came to love it so much that I asked my teacher what the title of the movie was and wrote it down.

I searched about the movie and found out that it was made based on the game.

The first thing that caught my eye was the overwhelming design of Pyramid Head.

I drew pyramid heads using basic paint tools that existed one by one on my computer at the time, and I became a Silent Hill fan by posting them on my blog.

I started studying about every series and got hooked on the story of the game, looking up the story of the series one by one.

I was a student and young. So I couldn't know the money to buy the original game, nor the route to get it, so playing the game myself was close to impossible, but nevertheless I wanted to know all the information from every series.

The first thing I started liking was Silent Hill's monster design, but more and more I started to love the main characters as well.

(Unusually, my favorite monster was the Butcher who came out of Silent Hill Origin, not Pyramid Head. (IDK Why))

Anyway, I got to like all the main characters in Silent Hill, and I enjoyed drawing them. But as a student, it was difficult for me to draw them perfectly, which is why I practice drawing them in a cute way.

It's a little embarrassing, but it's a painting from my student days.

Back then, I couldn't speak English much better than now, but I still drew cartoons in English and drew a lot of fan art.

If you look at my childhood drawing notes, most of the hard-working paintings were Silent Hill fan art. (And I don't know why, but I used to draw both versions of Harry.(SH1 and SH SM) I accepted two versions of Harry as different personalities.)

It's been a long time, and I'm old enough to interpret and judge Silent Hill objectively. And my drawing skills have improved that much. Since I couldn't play the game myself and tended to rely on the fan art of the fandom and the interpretation of the fans, there was a different interpretation from the original.

Silent Hill is a great memory for me. I even draw cartoons about Silent Hill in my notes, and I also had a dedicated painting style that I practiced to draw Silent Hill fan art. This game means this to me.

So, this fan art means a lot to me. It's because these fan art are things that I draw while looking back on my old memories in a long time ago. It may sound strange, but I grew up with Silent Hill. Remembering them, imagining their stories, drawing them is a pleasure for me.

The conclusion of the story is, I started drawing them again after a long time, and it reminded me of old memories. Recently, I rarely drew fan art because I had to work on a webtoon project. However, it sounds pleasant to me that after working for a long time, I return to my hobby and that someone else likes it. Thank you!

I'm glad there are still so many Silent Hill fans. I still love this game, and I'm waiting for a new reboot. I hope reboot back a good way.

#silent hill #my story

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 7 months

Note

For the Touches ask game:

Some combination of 46 from hand holding, 9 from hand holding and/or 50 from touching for Christopher Pike please and thank you 💕

Send me a touch prompt!

Of course Elen!! I hope you're having a lovely weekend :)

Prompts: holding hands across the table; secretly holding hands under the table ; putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up Warnings: Power imbalance; early relationship dynamics; mostly fluff

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” You shook your head, expression washing with confusion as Christopher took hold of your hands across the small table. He smiled, shaking his head a little.

“It shouldn’t have taken us so long to go out properly.”

You shook your head again, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.

“That’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Still—”

“Should I apologize for you for not making the time in our off-hours?”

His brows furrowed, head shaking a bit as he offered, “No, of course not.”

“Exactly. So why is the onus on you?” You tipped your head to the side a touch, watching as Christopher smiled bashfully, ducking his head. “We got here, that’s all that matters. It’s more difficult when we’re on duty. Shore leave is a convenient relief.”

“I’ll say.”

“Captain!”

The call of Uhura’s voice made you yank your hands back from his on instinct. You shot him an apologetic look before you turned to give Uhura a wide smile. It faltered as you saw her trailing through the restaurant with Chapel and Ortegas in tow.

“So much for a quiet afternoon,” Christopher muttered.

“Maybe they’re just coming to say ‘hi’.”

But your hypothesis was thwarted when the three of them began to pull up chairs. Erica began to tut about not being able to look out over the star’s landscape, and Christopher was quick to get up, taking up the empty seat beside you.

“I don’t mind,” He insisted, settling in. You bit your cheek to fight back a smile as he took hold of your hand beneath the table, out of view of your crew mates. You thrilled at the hidden touch, intertwining your fingers as you fell into conversation with Chapel. It was only a few moments before Christopher fell into conversation with Uhura and Ortegas.

“How did you find this place, anyway?” You heard, and before you could stop yourself, you yanked your hand out of Christopher’s, slapping your hand over his mouth. The entire table fell silent as you felt everyone turn to look at you. You forced a bright smile on your face, offering, “We should get appetizers!”

“That was subtle.”

The meal that you'd shared with your crew members was still heavy in your stomach as you and Christopher walked away from the restaurant together.

“What was?” You grumbled. You didn’t want to delve into it, even with Christopher’s fingers intertwined with yours. He tugged you to a stop, drawing you into an alley, out of view.

“...I panicked,” You admitted softly, leaning back against the wall. He stepped closer, casting a wary glance around the corner before crowding closer.

“I did a bit, too,” He reassured.

“I’m sorry—”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“Chris,” You sighed softly, lowering your gaze to your feet. He stepped closer, gently nuzzling your temple.

“I just mean that I understand,” He insisted softly. You nodded, sighting off the swelling nerves in your belly.

“I know.”

Christopher rested his forehead against yours, and you couldn’t help the swell of your smile at the feeling of him so close.

“We should get back to the ship,” You murmured.

“In a minute.”

“And what’s going to happen in a minute?”

“Well, I could show you—”

“Or?”

“Or I could tell you, but I think a practical explanation should be more efficient.”

“Oh?” You raised your brows. “How practical?”

“A little hands on, if you’ve no objection.”

“None whatsoever.”

#Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike/Reader #Christopher Pike/YOu #Christopher Pike fic #Christopher Pike imagine #asks #replies #requests #Elen tag

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benny-the-spaceman · 28 days

Text

one of these days im going to release my tlm drafting headcanons from my notes app purgatory and that day is Today.

HERE'S HOW I THINK LEGO MOVIE CHARACTERS WOULD PREPARE AND MAKE DRAFTS

...under the cut

Batman

• Fairly good at drawing. Somehow able to draw straight lines without a ruler perfectly fine every single time but otherwise nothing super noteworthy (he does brag about this constantly however)

• Drafts in white and yellow posca pen??? will use white colored pencil for finer detail however, specifically one of those mechanical colored pencils

• Drafts on black paper because he thinks it makes his designs cooler (it doesn't)

• Dimensions in imperial and would be annoyed if you dare even *insinuate* he use metric. no justification here

• Doodles around his drafts, specifically likes to doodle bats and himself because he, once again, thanks it makes his drafts cooler (the bats kinda do)

• Refuses to leave notes on his designs. you either know what to do or you don't

• Does however write his drawing title obnoxiously large

• Used autocad for like a day, hated it, switched to solidworks and never went back

• Buys autodesk licenses for the rest of the masterbuilders. unwillingly, mind you, wyldstyle just knows his credit card information and abuses it

Benny

• Good at drawing exclusively spaceships. big shock i know

• The king of eyeballing a line or an angle and then labelling it however the fuck he wants. proper measurements take time he could spend drafting or making more spaceships, he'll save measuring and straightedges for drafts he deems important enough

• Uses blueprinting paper. there's no practical purpose for this, he just digs it

• Drafts with whatever writing utensil is on hand

• He gets inspired quite often so he usually keeps a drafting notepad on him just in case

• Leaves a *lot* of notes. Most of them are completely unnecessary and are a funny contrast to his haphazard dimensioning

• Pretty dang good at autocad! Usually reserves it for projects that require a lot more collaboration however

• Usually drafts in metric, can dimension in imperial but prefers not to

• 100% sets autocad to the light background like a monster

• Do not give him any 3d modelling software, he might blow up the computer

Emmet

• Either really good or really bad at drawings (obvs leaning towards bad. we remember the break in plans)

• Dimensions in imperial. I cant justify this one he just does. god bless america or something idk

• Owns a couple drafting pencils but rarely uses them, most of the time he drafts in marker or pen much to the chagrin of anyone who needs to read his drafts (or delight if you're unikitty)

• Started learning how to use autocad after taco tuesday and he's actually pretty good at it! he does use an architectural dimstyle for everything though which is particularly annoying when he's quite often not drafting buildings now

• Has labelled and colored layers 👍 enough said

• Uses disgustingly thick lineweights. horrible.

• Rarely if ever 3d models so he's not good at it, he mostly works on things that 2d conveys better anyways

• Although he's not the best drafter of the master builders, his construction background makes him the best at reading drafts, give him a unikitty draft and he can decipher it like it's nothing

Metalbeard

• Probably the best at drafting of the master builders, he's got the age advantage and lots of practice from making ships

• Drafts in pencil, quill, or charcoal depending

• Who needs straightedges or angle stencils when youre basically a pirate cyborg, expect robot like precision

• Doesn't use standard measuring conventions, instead opts to use the dumbest things possible. The Sea cow's units of measurement were seagulls. It isnt that he cant do normal units of measurement, he just prefers his made up ones

• Makes his drafting paper by himself

• Pretty good with 2d and 3d modelling surprisingly. He doesn't like either, however, he much prefers drafting on paper

• Leaves an average amount of notes on his drafts but has the most disgustingly fancy cursive and writes in his piratey english. Often a nightmare to read if you aren't used to his writing

• Will sometimes do blueprint swaps with Benny wherein they critique each other's work. not sure when they started doing it, but it's become a weekly activity for them

Unikitty

• Worst drafter of the main masterbuilder crew. Most people think it's because she's a cat but no she just doesnt take drafting seriously in the slightest

• Drafts like she's making an arts and crafts project. She has put several bottles of glitter on singular drafts and she will do it again

• Dimensions in rainbows, no knows what this means other than emmet

• Gives the longest, most complicated titles possible

• No such thing as straight lines

• Is entirely capable of drafting properly, just refuses to

• Leaves notes that are entirely unrelated to the draft. she wont tell you how youre supposed to connect two objects but she *will* tell you about the sandwich she ate while making the draft

• Doesnt use autocad, looks too boring

• Didnt use any 3d modelling softwares until she realized you can change the appearance of materials. that was a game changer. still much prefers drafting on paper though

• Likes drafting with emmet sometimes since he seems to be the only person who understands her drawings. to this day no one understands how he does it

Vitruvius

• Going blind has, surprisingly, not made him much worse at drafting, just changed his process a bit

• Drafts in pencil

• Probably the person who least frequently drafts of the main masterbuilders. On account of just not needing to and also on account of being dead

• Dimensions in the old anglo-saxon units of measurement

• Doesn't title his drafts and doesnt see a point in doing so

• Leaves the most vague, utterly confusing notes on his drawings. theyre still related to the drawings unlike unikitty's notes, but theyre very odd

• Doesn't use autocad or 3d modelling softwares, partially because he wouldnt really be able to on account of being blind but also partially because he doesn't really know what they are

• There isnt really much to say about his drafting skills he's about as normal of a drafter as a masterbuilder can be

Wyldstyle

• An engineering teacher's dream student. She may not have the amount of experience metalbeard has but she's still very skilled

• Doesn't like drafting on paper and won't if she doesn't have to

• When she does draft on paper she uses a drafting mechanical pencils. she also 100% collects them

• dimensions in metric to exactly 3 decimal places

• leaves very few if any notes (always very concise ones if included)

• has a case of staedtler stencils that she bought 4 years ago and never uses

• picked up a habit of doodling on drafts from batman but will never admit she got the habit from him

• Autocad PRO. Also really damn good at solidworks and fusion. Give this girl a computer and she'll give you a motorcycle assembly within the hour

• Specializes in automotives

• Spends time with Emmet on the weekends teaching him how to use digital drafting softwares (this process was incredibly frusturating at first but gets easier with time)

#this has been rotting in my drafts and i needed to set it free #live laugh love kind of boring headcanons and combining your interests #the lego movie #lego movie

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