puppyguppy

[puppyguppy]

ENOUGH “submissive and breedable”. what about “bloody, eyes glinting with resentful rage, and breedable” huh. what about that.

[puppyguppy]

"When we get out of here, we'll find each other again, right?"

"Right! We're friends, aren't we?"

#slutty and sappy #that fuckin' middle panel SLAPS tho #loved watching this happen

[puppyguppy]

Love is a Monster page 6

#don't mind me just gonna slip in between the obscene squish of their boobies #gonna be a good cleaner shrimp and make sure there's no blood left between Dabi's teeth too #this angle is forever insane and I love staring at it

[puppyguppy]

THE CAVIAR COIN POUCH??? PLEASE

My salmon bag I finished last night, wanted to make something for myself for once. This is what I came up with.

Enjoy!

[puppyguppy]

New page Wednesday

[puppyguppy]

This is so stupid LOL

#this place about to BLOW - OH -

[puppyguppy]

As a warning, I do not have these prints yet, I should be getting them on Mon-Wed. This will give me some time to make some special doodles. Please specify what sticker you want at checkout (optional)

#boosting the bestie!!!

[puppyguppy]

Thinking about Pickled Shigaraki. That Jank Juice Brine. Thinking about how he went in a scrunkly cute cucumber, but then came out JUICY. Came out ZESTY. CRUNCHY AND CUNTY. Boy is one of those fat gas station pickles. The kind you get on road trips. The kind that make you salivate on sight. I'm salivating. I'm snapping him in half and throwing back that unfiltered jank juice like a shot --

[puppyguppy]

Tomura bimbofication

#SCREAMING #WHEEZING #the good ol' shigaraki bend and snap

[puppyguppy]

“Grab one of those jars for me.” Shouta further instructs, and though you would've listened to him before, you're definitely not going to ignore him now. Not with such a knife – a weapon – in his other hand. So you reach for a jar and pass it to him, once he lets go of your hand. And you're not even paying attention to the bees anymore. Thus far, they've been relatively harmless. And what's a sting when compared to a slice? You’d prefer not to know. 

“This hive is mostly fed on lavender. And the season hasn't been too wet, yet. Which makes for some thicker, sweeter honey. It’ll be a tad floral, but should pair nicely with the lemon you put in your tea.”  Okay, so he’s not planning to kill you. At least, not until you've had your tea. As far as murderers go, you might’ve just lucked out. Shouta just might be the nicest one. Leave it to your aunt to hire a farmhand with a lowkey kink for killing. The jar ends up next to your glass of tea, since Shouta needs the one hand free again to reach into the busy box and pull out a slide. And then in a move just as reckless as, well – all the rest, Shouta hands you that blade. Presses the warm, somewhat slippery handle into your palm until you grip it proper. You had no reason to trust him with the thing, but now he’s trusting you?  Then again, it's not such an awful assumption on his part. To assume you know just about as much when it comes to knives as you do when it comes to bees. “Stand in front of me but face away from me.” Ah, so maybe he’s going to make this murder look like a suicide. Well.  Won't know unless you move.  However, he’s not happy with the rather healthy amount of space you leave between the two of you, so he promptly maneuvers you himself, one hand short of a real manhandle. When settled, your back is flush to his front, and the knot of his coveralls digs into the base of your spine. Neat! When you giggle, anxious and flustered, your shoulderblades brush up and down against his pecs. As always, he’s unbothered. But is he unaffected?  “Now let me guide you.”  His voice vibrates down your back, the sound and feeling of it reminiscent of your ear against the hivebox. Behind you, you hear the ice in your glass melt and shift some more, and something about it makes you shiver. Or maybe it's something about Shouta, and the bubble that hasn't burst yet. With his free hand, he grabs both yours and the blade, before using his feet to slowly turn the both of you to face that other box, the glass and the jar. One of his legs seems a little stiffer than the other, but the observation is swiftly shoved to the side when he helps you hold up that slide of honeycomb he’d pulled out. It's heavy, and slowly dripping down into the grass, not that Shouta’s pressed about it. Not nearly as pressed as he is up against you, anyway.  And together, you glide that blade not through your flesh, but through comb – and smoother than butter. It forces a few waxy chunks free to fall and plop into that jar below, which is steadily filling up with the sweet, semisolid gold. All the while Shouta’s whispering to you like he whispers to his bees, things like slowly…steady…careful…when the jar almost overflows, he moves your hands to hover over the glass of iced tea instead, where they then stay, until a couple tablespoons worth of honey drizzle down into what ice is left.  The bubble bursts when he abruptly lets go of you, taking the knife, slide, and sweat with him. As if you weren't just bumping clothed uglies in the middle of a sweet swarm of bees. Suddenly, you're parched. Suffering metaphorical whiplash, and probably, very literally, burned. But instead of reaching for your drink, you reach for Shouta instead. He stops tidying up to blink his one, warm soil eye at you. “Do you need anything?” He asks, just like he had that very first day.  You shake your head no, because you don't need anything. But you damn sure do want something.

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

“I thought you said you gossip.”

Shouta chuckles and turns to fully face you, and this is officially the closest you’ve ever been to him. A couple of bees buzz between the two of you, the inches between the two of you, not just because he’s close, but because he’s tall. “Oh, we do.” He reassures. “But more importantly, they let me know the state of the hives. How sweet the honey will be, if any of them are unwell, if the Queen is dying – you can learn a lot by simply listening to them. They have a surprising amount to say.” You’re pretty sure bugs can’t actually talk. You might be from the city, but you’re not that stupid. Shouta seems confident though, and you are…intrigued. Enough to side-eye the busiest box next to you; the very same one Shouta had been searching through earlier. At the moment, there’s not too many bees on top of it, so you suppose it’s your chance. Your chance to cautiously bend over the box and press your ear down against it, just like you’d seen Shouta do the first day you’d met. Before you hear anything, you feel it, the vibration of life from deep inside. But then you close your eyes, and you concentrate.  They're definitely not talking to you. But, if you strain, you think you can hear a few different frequencies. Like a buzz or two are just out of tune with the rest of the hive. Is that what Shouta means? What he hears? You open your eyes, but for a few seconds, you're utterly blind. Not only is it hot out, but it's bright out, at least until Shouta steps in between you and the sun, and his shadow falls blissfully across your face like a solar eclipse.  “Hear it?” He asks. You nod against the box before slowly standing back up. “Good. Now go listen to that one.” He points to the box your forgotten glass of iced tea sits atop, surely something closer to lukewarm by now. There’s an obvious decrease in activity around that hive, more dots in your eyes than bees in the sky, and when you reposition yourself both above and against that one, just like before, you can easily hear that same difference. The box still vibrates, though less intense, and the bees that buzz inside sound…they sound sluggish.  “Oh.” “There you go.” The way Shouta says it sounds like praise, and you realize now that you know the secrets. You’re not fucking fluent in beespeaking, but you understand. Never once would you have ever considered having to learn a whole new language just for a bug hobby.  Before you can push yourself up again to stand, the touch of a few fingers against the side of your face keeps you still. Not only is Shouta talking to, teaching you, but now he’s also touching you. Brushing some stray hairs out of your eyes, and tucking them just shy of ticklish behind your ear. The tips of his fingers are worn rough and work tough, but gentle in their pressure as they slip down and around the nape of your neck. If he presses just a little harder, he’ll probably feel your pulse; the damn thing suddenly buzzing just as hard as some of the bees around you. Some of his bees. Fleetingly, you wonder if this makes you his.  And to think, you’d thought of him as uninterested. “Come on,” Shouta retreats, but only so far as to give you the room to stand up. “Let’s sweeten that tea for you.”  Eyebrow cocked, you stand back up, but your poor heart isn't even given a chance, when next thing you know, Shouta has your hand in one of his, and that blade in the other. Fleetingly, you wonder if this is how you die. 

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

Embarrassingly, in your haste to obey, you damn near dump your coffee all over your lap. Not really your fault – can't help but hurry with such a curiosity now lighting a fire up under your feet. You hope he didn't see that; hope he’d turned his attention back to his bees while you poured your coffee out in the firepit and scurried back into the house. It's no quick task, pouring up that glass, no sugar. First you have to brew a new batch, then cool that batch with ice, and even after you pop the pitcher into the fridge, you have to find a lemon laying around to slice, because iced tea without lemon is just a sin – but! Eventually, you have yourself a nice, cool, fresh glass of unsweetened iced tea with lemon in it, already condensating in your hand as you head back outside. 

The temperature is already much more manageable just with that glass in hand. You don't even make it down off the deck before a bee takes interest in you. Flies on over to check you out, and it’s not that you’re afraid of bees, per say, just what bees can do. So you stop and stiffen up, and barely even breathe as you wait for the thing to finish its investigation and hopefully buzz its way over to Shouta. It is his bee, after all. Alas, the bee lands on you. Wriggles its tiny fuzzy butt from the spot it's chosen on your forearm, and gets comfortable. So, you’re stuck there, now. Great. “It’s not going to bite.” You shoot Shouta a glare as best you can while not moving. Or breathing. “Not with its mouth, no. But bees have teeth on their butts.” Shouta rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, and for a split second, you completely forget about the bee, distracted by the damp bulge of his biceps as he crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s not going to sting you. Not unless you give it a reason to.” You huff, and then remember that you kind of have to breathe, bee be damned. You do so very carefully though, and by counts. “What if it just doesn’t like me?” “If it didn’t like you, it wouldn’t be using you as a perch. Now get over here.” His tone leaves room for no argument, since it’s the same tone you’ve heard him use with the animals. That – has you feeling some kind of way. Like it irritates you, but it also, begrudgingly, encourages you. Gives you the same sort of bravery it’d took to even strike up the conversation of the day. So you move, albeit slowly so, doing your best to ignore not only the bee that’s still on your arm, but every other bee that bumps into and buzzes about you along the way. “Okay,” you do not wheeze as you finally step up beside Shouta. You do not. “I’m here.” “So you are,” he hums, soft and warm, and you have no idea what to expect from here, but it’s certainly not for Shouta to take the glass from your hand. He puts it down on top of one of the other boxes, so you can only assume that box isn’t yet ready. The glass shimmers in the sunlight as the ice shifts and settles, just as sweaty as Shouta. Just as sweaty as you’ll be, soon enough. “You still want to know what we talk about?” The bee on your arm twitches, then takes off. You should feel relieved, but in the end, it’d been easy to forget about. And now you’re standing right in the middle of them, the eye of the storm – so to speak. Right next to their hive, their home, more of a stranger to them than Shouta, and yet. They take to you all the same. Like just another flower. Like a friend. The air over here is so much different than the air on the porch. It’s fragrant, thick and sweet; tangy with sweat, and sticky humid. It’s still hot of course, but it’s a slow heat. And it almost feels like a different world, a different realm. Like Shouta had somehow lifted a veil, or brought you into a bubble. It’s hard to breathe, but only in a way that makes you a little dizzy. Like a drug. A brunch and bake with bees.

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

One bucket is the cleaning bucket, full of water and something sudsy. Shouta washes his hands in it frequently, then dries his hands off on the tea towel, before dabbing away some presentation from his forehead and eyes. Sometimes the tea towel ends up slapped over a shoulder while he works; while he swaps secrets with his bees and carefully checks slides of wax and honeycomb for, well. Honey, you presume. You have no idea what the blade is for, he’s yet to use it, but you're pretty sure the jars are for that same honey he’s searching the crates for. 

Your coffee is still steaming, so maybe that's what sparks the sudden surge of bravery on you. Your drink is too hot to drink, you're starting to sweat in your loungewear, and you're just a little bit…bored, antsy – you’re bothered. Hot and bothered. And so for the first time that morning, you speak up, and try not to think of it as shooting your shot. “What do you talk about?” You ask. And then you clear your throat to clarify. “You and the bees.”  He doesn't answer right away, too busy admiring a rather saturated, soggy looking slide; the honeycomb swollen with a deep, rich, golden-brown liquid. It glows like amber in the sun, and drips down off the slide (and onto Shouta’s hands) like resin. He says something about it, not to you but to his bees, and the bugs bop and buzz around him, bump into him and even land on him, but not once do they sting him. They don't even appear aggravated by his presence, by his hands all up in their homes and shit. If anything, they’re sweet on him, taking to him like he’s just another one of the goddamn flowers they go out and pollinate.  When he does finally respond, it's after sliding that tray back down delicately into the wooden box, and all without looking at you. “Local gossip, mostly.” You start to laugh – a snort bubbling up from the back of your throat – which promptly dies upon realizing just how serious he is. Like, completely serious.  “I tell them about the town, and they tell me about the hive. There’s a surprising amount of drama that happens inside the hierarchy of a hive.”  Dead serious, even. At least, you think he’s serious. He sounds serious, but when he eventually turns to look at you, the corners of his mouth are lopsided. Oh. He’s smirking at you. Your cheeks burn, but hopefully that can be blamed on the ever increasing heat of the day. It gets hot in the city, sure, but you were never outside for all that long there; never that far away from shade or air conditioning. You hide your flush by testing your coffee with another sip and ah, fuck! Ow. Still too hot, stupid. “More of an iced tea kind of day, don't you think?”  Oh, he’s talkative today.  You roll your scorched tongue up against the roof of your mouth, trying to soothe it for a few seconds before putting it back to use with speech again. “Damn, that hindsight of yours seems pretty good, considering.” Was that low? Was that mean? Yeah, maybe. You're basically still strangers. But it makes him laugh. And it's the kind of laugh that's more like a bark, the kind that throws his head back and shakes his shoulders as he catches his breath. The sweat sticking his shirt to his body makes the clench of his abdominals noticeable through the sound, the bounce of his pecs – and then, even without the fabric, the bobbing glint of his Adam’s apple. He settles back down quickly, but the grin that he gives you… Makes you feel like you swallowed a bee.  Is that a good feeling? Well, you don't think it's a bad one. “How about this,” Shouta says, which continues to pleasantly shock you. “Go back inside and fix yourself up a glass, no sugar. Then come back out here and I’ll show you something.”  Oh, this is new.  This is new.  It was one thing for Shouta to be randomly so receptive and responsive to conversation, but he’s never wanted to show you something. 

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

Those crates are actually, technically, part of Shouta’s own personal apiary. Not that he calls himself an apiarist or anything, since that’s a profession and this is just for fun – not that you see any fun in such an activity. Apiculture, of all things? Beekeeping? Sure, it's a job that must be done by someone – after all, who doesn’t love a good ol’ spoonful of honey, but…you just think of all the bee stings. You’re allergic to bees on one side of your family. And wasps the other. You've never been stung by either, so you don't yet know if you're allergic at all yourself. But you'd hate to find out now, the hard way. 

Not that Shouta seems to be getting stung by any of the bees. Or if he is, he’s not even so much as flinching from the pain. Maybe they are stinging him, and he’s just used to it. Unbothered by it, just like he’s unbothered by you're staring, and unbothered by the sun. Unbothered, but not unaffected, since he’s got his hair tied up. It’s pulled back into a sloppy sort of bun, slightly slicked with sweat, though not damp enough to flatten some of the wavy strands that still fall down around his face, and the back of his neck. He’s still wearing his usual, dark olive and distressed coveralls, with the legs tucked into his black boots. But today, he’s got the top half of the coveralls folded down around his waist, with the sleeves knotted securely right above his crotch. Which leaves the rest of him – Almost exposed. That more or less visually coming back to bite you in the ass. His torso is covered by a tight black tank top, the fabric just a little strained up around his chest and shoulders, but a little wrinkled down closer to his hips. And just like his hair, there’s patches dampened darker. Even without the fabric, it’s still quite obvious just how hot he is out there. Literally, as in his body temperature, from the sun, and the wind that feels like the lowest setting in a convection oven. You can see the sweat beading on his face, down his neck…collecting in the dips of his clavicles…leaving glistening tracks down his arms that shine like the tails of shooting stars, typically not visible at this time of day. He’s undeniably pretty, but you swear to yourself it’s not in the kind of way that’s a problem. Certainly not in the kind of way that keeps you up at night, sometimes; fingers working a graveyard shift amidst the sheets while your thoughts are somewhere further away, scattered amongst the hayloft and mixing with the shadows there. His shadow. It’s such a cliche, such a cheesy, corny fantasy, but it’s the best your horny, city-slicker heart can (but shouldn’t) come up with. Why? Because he’s your aunt’s farmhand. And at least a few years older than you (you’re guessing somewhere between five and eight, which isn’t actually all that bad, but –). He’s clearly not interested, or at least hasn’t shown any interest, which is a good thing, since you shouldn’t even be interested. Because you came here for you. Not for him. You hadn’t even known about him. You didn’t come here for friendship, or romance, or even the sex that tends to happen in between those two – you came here for you. And besides… He talks to his bees. You know he does, because you see him do it. Never loud enough for you to make out the words from wherever you opt to sit and watch from the porch, because of course not, but you can just discern the rumble of his voice from the buzz of the bees. It’s kind of reckless, you think, how he does all this without any proper protection. Not that you know all that much about beekeeping, but don't they usually wear suits? And helmets, or hats, or something? The big ones with the netting? Or gloves, at the very least? He’s not wearing any of that. Hardly anything, really, up top. He doesn't even have one of those fancy cans of smoke you’ve seen pest control use when moving hives back home. What he does have is…a knife. Though maybe it's more like a blade. So. He has a blade, two buckets, a tea towel, and then a collection of small glass mason jars. And that's it.

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

Despite having longer hair, he doesn't often tie it up away from his face. Not unless the task at hand requires it. You think he's hot – that he'd get hot, under all that hair, and the stubble, and the coveralls, and the boots he usually wears, but he must just be used to it. 

Just like he's used to being started at, he teases, on one of his more talkative days. That's why it doesn't bother him, apparently. The way you watch him. He compares it – you – to the livestock he works with. Apparently the horse, Midnight, likes to stare, too. Not so much the cow, though, which you learn is technically a bull. A bull that goes by the name Endeavor, who had originally, accidentally, been sold to your aunt as a female. Then there's the pig, which goes by Gum, and acts as the farm’s garbage disposal, and one of the chickens running around the farm is hilariously, adorably, named Hawks. There’s also a barncat.  At least, you think it's a barncat. The poor thing kind of looks like it's on its last life. Scraggly, though not mangey. Its fur is just too long for such an occupation, so constantly matted; tangled up with straw and feathers and flowers. From a distance, it looks like a dust bunny. It never lets you get close, not without hissing and running away, but you think it has a couple of scars, too. And some bent whiskers.  Shouta’s fairly fond of it. And you know this not because he's told you, but because you’ve seen enough to draw such a deduction yourself. The cat tends to follow him around, oftentimes weaving and rubbing up between his boots. Shouta will give it a little scritch, a little pet, then sometimes even pick it up. Which is surprising, since you figured the feline to be mostly feral. But the damn thing will curl up in the sun for a catnap with Shouta.  You're just a little jealous. Of Shouta, of course. Currently, you're the one curled up in the mid-morning sun, with a cup of coffee you're kind of regretting, what with how warm it is outside. You hadn't expected that – it'd been a nice day yesterday, with a cool breeze and some clouds. The breeze stuck around, but now it's almost hot, and without a single cloud in sight. It's just another thing to get used to around here, though. Warmfronts. And coldfronts. Droughts, monsoons, and the possible, occasional tornado. Outside of a little rain, the range of weather back in the city was apparently pretty narrow. At least the back porch is partially shaded. Should've traded the coffee for some sun screen. Even Shouta, for the first time since you’d moved in, seems affected by the random spike in heat. Not enough to not work, of course, though what he’s busy with at the moment is something he'd brought up on himself. And not really part of the job your aunt had given him, but a hobby instead. He’s back over by those stacks of crates you’d first met him at, crates you now know to be full of life. Full of bugs. Full of bees. His bees.

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

No hi or hello or hey how are you?  He doesn't sound like he's trying to be rude. Like, it sounds like he might actually care if you do need something, maybe, but…you don't. At least, you don't think you do. Which, admittedly, feels wrong. It feels like you should need something. Like saying no is the wrong answer. Like you're a silly little kid, nervous in a classroom.

He isn't even looking at you, but you shake your head. You feel like he knows, anyway. Just like he knew you were here. In general, but also on the porch. He nods his own head, just once, and grunts in return. But that's it. Before he starts to quietly walk away to go and do god knows what else still needs to be done around the farm while there’s still daylight. In a sudden, strange panic, you shout after him. Though you don't know his name, so it's just a – “Hey, wait!” And that's just the thing. When he stops, he throws a look over his shoulder with just one eye. Like that's all your worth. But, it's the first time you make eye contact, so you swallow down the nerves.  “Your name,” you start. “My aunt never gave me your name.” “Ah,” he replies, but then pauses long enough for you to think that…that might be it. Not his name, but all that he's going to say to you. Then – “And you think I’m just going to give it to you?” Again, that could've been taken as something rather rude to say, but you can hear something akin to amusement in his voice. He's messing with you.  He starts to walk away again, but not without giving it to you. His name. All the while not bothering to look back. He just speaks loud enough to be heard, before slipping round to the back of the barn. “Shouta.” He doesn't ask for your name, so you wash it down off your tongue with some wine. It's delicious, more bitter than sweet, and you wonder if it's made from fruit grown here on the farm. Or, a farm nearby. And you wonder if he, the farmhand, Shouta, lives out behind the barn. And you wonder if he already knows it. Your name. Just like he already knew you were here. It’s a little weird, as the week goes on. But not unpleasant.  The way he doesn’t exactly ignore you, but doesn’t pay any purposeful attention to you. You never seem to startle him, nor get in his way; it’s as if he treats you as just another fixture of the farm. Not one that needs any tending to our taking care of, but. He offers you no more than a glance and grunt in greeting and goodbye, usually, and that’s…fine. At least, you tell yourself that it's fine. You remind yourself. Of just why you're here. Not to make any acquaintances, but to focus on yourself. To figure out just what the fuck is wrong with you. But honestly? That's just…not nearly as interesting or entertaining as focusing on him.  And he knows you watch him. Knows you sometimes stare. From all those windows in the house, or from the steps on the front porch, or from the swing on the deck outback. It's not like you're trying to be creepy, but it's also not like he talks to you. So, you're just learning what you can through sight. He wears an eye patch, so he's either blind in that eye or missing that eye. He's tall, and thicker than some of the trees around the property, but you suppose that just comes with the…job.  It feels weird calling it that. Even though your aunt still pays him some for the trouble, outside of just letting him live there, it's more of a lifestyle. One that suits him well. 

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide

[puppyguppy]

Not that you go looking for him or anything, not when you’ve got shit to do. Shit like finding the little set of keys your aunt stashed around the front porch – under rugs and amidst potted plants. Shit like unpacking, showering, settling. Shit like removing and shaking out all the sheets that covered the furniture. Shit like checking just how stocked the cabinets, fridge, and freezer are, and making a list of things you hope are available at the local market. Needless to say, you’re pretty busy.

But, you know you aren’t alone. You catch sight of him a few times. The farmhand. From the corner of your eye, through the various windows you’ve opened around the house. He flutters past your vision like the mild breeze through the curtains, and stills sometimes in certain spots, dark, like a shadow. Over by the barn, over in the garden, over by the greenhouse – you’ve yet to spot the trailer you were told he lives in. But again, it’s not like you were looking. You’ve got to hand it to him, though; he’s one hell of a farmhand. Though you don’t exactly have anyone else to compare him to – the house is old, but so far, seems in need of little to no repair. The garden you’ve glimpsed looks weeded, watered, and pruned. There’s silhouettes of several different plants most likely flourishing out in the green house. Your aunt said there’s a handful of animals scattered about the property, such as a horse, a cow, some chickens and a pig, all serving different purposes, but you can hardly even smell the evidence of them. And to top it off, the lawns are mowed, and there’s fruit on the fruit trees. It’s hard to believe it’s all tended by just one person, just some guy your aunt had taken a shine to. She hadn’t even bothered to give you his name. You honestly wonder if he even knows you’re there. You get your answer later, just as the sun’s starting to set, when you decide to head out onto the back porch with a glass of wine and your phone. You planned to take some pretty pictures; post it up online as proof of your spur-of-the-moment decision, and to let everyone know that you’d arrived safe and sound. Even if the sun sets ugly, the deck and property make for just as pretty a picture. There’s an old porch swing with some comfy looking cushions, more potted plants, one of those papasan chairs that look like a little nest. There’s a couple of little tables littered with little knick-knacks and decorations, like crystals and rocks and – dragon figurines? And there’s also what looks like a little firepit. And a windchime, almost moving enough to make a tune – with another dainty, stained glass dragon motif. You’re about to sit down, pondering whether it’s your aunt or your aunt’s ‘best friend’ that has an obsession with such mythical creatures, when a sound catches your attention. That’s something you’re going to have to get used to. The noises here. And the lack thereof. Your place back in the city wasn’t loud, but it also wasn’t quiet enough to hear the gentle tapping of a hand against a weird wooden crate from several feet away, either. Which is exactly what you’re hearing. And what you’re seeing. Down in the grass, between the deck and the barn, the farmhand stands amidst several stacks of wooden crates. The stacks vary in height and color, sort of haphazardly so, and the farmhand stands next to the tallest one, hunched over with what seems to be his ear pressed down against it. It’s hard to be sure, though, since his back is towards you. Does he know you’re there? Outside right now, or at all? Is there something in that crate? You don't want to startle him… And you don’t. Even as your phone chimes in one of your hands, he doesn't even flinch. So you stop holding your breath (since apparently you were doing that), but before you can get a single word out, he holds up his hand and straightens up. You watch, then, as he pats the top of that crate again with a gentleness you can't help but compare to affection.  “Do you need anything?” He asks. The question zips through you like lightning, making you still save for the blinking of your eyes.

You cough and wave dust away from your face, eyes watering as you fish for the folded up letter you’d previously shoved into your back pocket. The man that’d picked you up from the bus stop was kind, but you couldn’t tell which was older; him, or the spluttering truck he drove. It made for difficult, hardly held conversation. Not because you’re shy or weren’t curious, but because the truck had been loud, and the man a bit hard of hearing. He’d had a warm smile as he waved goodbye to you though, tinged with a little red. However, before you could ask, or even so much as thank the guy, his truck was off down the road, kicking up dirt.

His barely held together tailgate read, in bold but faded white letters, “Plus Ultra!” When you can see and breathe clearly again, you unfold the paper in your hands and double check the address you’d been given. You’d been to the property before, of course, but a long, long time ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago – your childhood. Even then, you can’t really remember the place beyond a couple of random, core memories. Like falling asleep on both the way there and the way back, safe and comfortable, lulled unconscious by the quiet conversation of your parents and the rhythmic rocking of the car. You could’ve made more memories there – here. You’d been invited well into your teen years, for holidays and summer breaks and special occasions. And it’s not that you didn’t love your aunt, the one who used to live here; her and her ‘best friend’ though everyone in the family knew better. You still love her, love them. Hard not to with just how crazy they could be – like the two of them buying a farm out in the middle of nowhere, and thinking they could keep up with it. They’d done surprisingly well, up until randomly deciding to travel the world before permanently settling down. You’re pretty sure they eloped. You’re like, ninety-nine percent positive that they’re currently on their honeymoon. Just best friend things. You probably could’ve been closer to them, if you’d just given them the chance. But, you were young. You had classes and friends and hobbies at the time that you’d just considered too cool to pass up. Now all gone, for one reason or another, which is why you’re even here. Why you’d reached out to your aunt in the first place. It was the perfect opportunity. They’d more or less left the property abandoned, and you were in desperate need of an escape. A reset. That all depends on that more or less, though. Apparently, your aunt had hired a farmhand at some point. And, said farmhand still lived there. Here. Not in the house or anything, but in his own little trailer, supposedly. Parked somewhere rather permanently on the property. In the letter, your aunt had described him as ‘a bit standoffish’ but with ‘a heart of gold’. Then followed that up by saying that if you didn’t like him, well. ‘Tough shit. Leave.’ Whether you liked him or not didn’t really matter. You didn’t come here to make friends. You didn’t come here to get to know anyone else other than yourself. So, you figure, as long as he stays out of your way, you’ll do your best to stay out of his. Which… Ends up being almost eerily easy.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa #not based on a tiktok but something so much worse #Blame it on The Bestie #Bugs #Bees #Insects #Beekeeping #Apiculture #Apiarist Aizawa #Farm AU #TW: Murder #TW: Suicide