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#his fashion sense is mostly awful but at least he’s pretty
alittleposhtoad · 1 year
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a handsome stranger on a cold autumn day (pt 4)
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Price x f!Reader
Synopsis: You’re about to go on a date with John Price, so you do what anyone would in this situation and try to look him up on the internet.
Tags: extreme fluff, fluff without plot, slice of life, easily embarrassed reader, life in a small town, slightly nosy internet searches, brief description of grilling questionable meat
Wordcount: 1.6k
a/n 1: so I wrote over 1k words about the build up, execution, and conclusion of a google search. Is this dumb – maybe. Actually no, I refuse to be ashamed of it. You are a librarian after all.
Cod Masterlist | Part 5
“What do you know about him?”
It’s the first thing your sister asks once you arrive home.
“He’s a friend of the Laswells.” This was, of course, a partial truth. Which Laswell is the pertinent qualifier, and one you conveniently leave unclarified.
“We mostly talked about the town,” and me. You had a sense he just enjoyed hearing you ramble about things. Although this felt embarrassing to admit - you probably should have asked something about him. “Honestly, the way he talked; I think he misses home—maybe he’s lonely?" You shrug.
She stops to heave one of the 20 kg salt bags against her shoulder, and you follow her around uselessly to the metal bin they’re stored in, like a good sibling.
“Wonder why he’s here then, and not there?” She grunts while dropping the bag into its new home.
Recovery. The word snakes through your thoughts, unbidden. Why that word?
There were previous things said in passing, observed expressions.
“Needed … to get away.”
“She suggested staying here.”
Tightening eyes, lips pressed together in a thin line.
It was a moment you tried not to put much stock in. You shake the idea away; it was only a private guess.
“Vacation, I’m pretty sure.”
“Here?” The idea leaves her dumbstruck.
“You know, the whole ‘get away from it all’?”
She huffs under the weight of the second bag of salt. You’re pretty sure she mutters the words city people under her breath.
“Checked his socials?”
Your face heats despite the chill in the air. What an obvious and normal thing to do, yet until now, the thought hasn’t graced your mind. You were so taken with the man—apparently your senses took leave as well. You don't answer, but she reads your expression clear as day.
“Fuck me, aren’t you a librarian? Do some damn research, girl.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, so the internet is useful now, is it?” You jab back. Your sister has the occasional luddite tendency.
She slams the lid down and looks at you with an exaggerated critical eye. “You really like this guy, huh.”
You shrug.
“A guy you just met.”
You sigh in dramatic fashion. It’s not that serious, you think. A casual interest between people with nothing better to do, you’re sure of it. Well. It’s easier to convince yourself of this with a clear head, and far from his presence.
She tries again. “I haven’t seen you this flustered over a man … ever.” Her expression softens. “You’re sure about this?”
“Noooo,” you draw the word out as you lean back against the truck. “But-there’s nothing to be sure about, right? He’ll eventually go back home, I’ll never see him again, no worries.” There isn’t an ounce of conviction in your voice.
“Aw, sweetheart.” She squeezes your face between her gloved hands. “That’s the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”
You smack the gloves away; they reek of wet cow.
"Please, for my own sanity, look him up. Make sure he isn't a weirdo."
"Fine. For your sanity."
~~~
Later, safe in your bed, in your pajamas, snuggled into a cocoon of blankets, you stare at your laptop. You’re thinking of your sister’s words and deliberating the next step.
On one hand, you feel a little weird for snooping on him like this, on the other hand—if you plan to visit someone at their isolated cabin, wouldn’t the responsible thing be to at least check the random stuff they post online?
At Naomi’s, he made some vague reference to living in the Herefordshire area at some point in his life. That and a name was all you had to search for a single person amongst the billions sending their personal details out into the void.
You begin with the popular sites, slowly cursing the thousands of John Prices that exist in the world. Still, you scroll through the names and end up wasting forty-five minutes watching a cheerful elderly man named John Price out of Worcester, craft model replicas of real-life lighthouses. They’re actually quite good. You end up following him.
After striking out so thoroughly, you arm yourself with your knowledge of Boolean logic, and hit the world wide web.
Another fifteen minutes of unsuccessful searching passes. You’re about to give up, a disgrace to the research profession, when you flip over to image search. There, a familiar face greets you; his distinct mutton chops act as a beacon, something to pick him out from a sea of digital faces. A thumbnail shows him standing at the shoulder of a younger man. Both are in what appear to be military dress. It’s a candid photo, shot at a bit of a distance. John looks at the other man with a hint of pride in his eyes. The other man, sharp and beautiful in his uniform, is in the midst of adjusting his own jacket while looking at a medal pinned to his chest.
You click on the link and wipe sweaty palms across your shirt. Big bold font announces the word ARMY, and the revelation has your attention pin-balling around the page, unable to focus on anything in particular. Words like “commendation”, “bravery”, “sergeant”, “captain”, wedge themselves into your consciousness, and your eyes finally settle onto the picture’s caption.
Sergeant Kyle Garrick, recipient of the Queen’s Commendation for Bravery, and Captain John Price.
You feel odd finding this out behind his back.
But a captain in the army?
What’s that thing people say about soldiers? Something about not falling in love with them—all you’ll get is a cold and broken heart. Or was that just something your bitter old gran said? 
No worries, gran. There was no intention of falling in love.
Lord. You could, though. You cover your face and fall back into your pillows with a groan. Silly little intrusive thoughts, poking around your head. You have it bad for this man.
Captain, captain, captain, captain.
The word runs circles in your mind. It feels important—no one is casually a captain in the army. Wouldn’t it be the first thing to mention? You couldn’t help but overthink all your previous interactions with this new tidbit of information. Had you done or said anything to embarrass yourself, considering? And what did he mean when he said he was between things at the moment?
After a moment of spiraling, you sit back up and look at the picture. Oh, but he’s handsome in that dress uniform.
In for a penny, in for a pound. You open a new tab and update your query to include both John Price and Kyle Garrick. There’s a twinge of guilt buried deep underneath your rabid curiosity. In fact, you’re about to close out of all windows when a profile pops up in the search results. The username is gylekarrick, first letters reversed for whatever reason. You should stop snooping; you should leave it alone. But like a woman possessed, you keep going. There’s no bio, no details, and it’s mostly pictures of desert vistas. There’s a single video with that other man’s face—this Kyle Garrick–taking up most of the frame. Sweat and sand covered his warm brown skin, and he had draped a wet scarf or handkerchief across his head, presumedly to keep cool. You press play.
“Eh lads, when Cap promised you a congratulatory dinner, is this what you got, because I think I’m gettin’ cheated of the ambience.” He’s walking as he talks, eyes moving from the camera to something ahead of him.
The video stutters as the point of view changes. Whatever you were expecting, nothing in this world could prepare you for shirtless John Price gracing your screen. Your hand flutters to your chest and you sit without breathing, staring at the man.
Short sweat-matted hair covers a broad chest; a chain with two tags hangs between the muscled curve of his pectorals. You blink rapidly as your body attempts to catch up with what your eyes are witnessing. A bucket hat is secured low over his eyes, offering protection from the blistering sun, and his teeth chomp down on a cigar as he stands over what looks to be a makeshift grill.
You remind yourself to breathe and your chest flutters. You pause the video. No, bad idea. Now his body is just there, staring back at you. You flip back to the other tab.
It feels like watching something you aren't supposed to. Like a private thing had fallen into your lap. But surely this is what you started out to find? Surely it wouldn't hurt to finish watching?
You nod. With a stabilizing breath, you return to the video. It resumes.
John takes the cigar out of his mouth and smiles. The same kind, crinkly smile that endeared him to you so quickly, spreads across his face.
“I’m a man of my word. I promise the lads dinner, they’re getting a dinner.” Despite his rough voice, his tone was affable. “Pass me the MRE, it’ll have something we can use.”
The video stuttered again as the point of view switched back to Kyle. “We don’t even know what animal the meat is from.” He shakes his head in put-on disappointment. He looks over the camera. “If this kills me, I’m haunting your beard til the day you die.”
The video ends. Your eye catches the comments on the side of the screen.
[user2073521: give a warning, price’s tits nearly gave my nana a stroke]
[gylekarrick: wtf is your nan looking at my posts for]
You power down your laptop and flop back onto your bed.
Same, user2073521’s nana. Same.
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spotaus · 9 days
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*It seems you managed to stumble across a unique trio...
Decided to do a silly lil doodle of my favorite Dopple-trio! :D on the surface I feel like this'd be a daily occurrence. Kale is the most normal of the 3 of them, but I wanted to draw her and Paps having a cute lil conversation. (More ideas below the cut!!!)
Pretender regularly interacts with humans (his disguise slowly recovers, and he continues to mostly abstain from his old habits) and usually appears as "human" as long as he's out. Sometimes in public I feel like ppl would be willing to talk to him, and he's always quick to make it clear that to get to his family people would have to get past him. (Also I think in their neighborhood/town everyone gets increasingly confused because he regularly goes, "Yeah, that's my Kid" some days abd other days he's like, "That's my little sibling" and it's just that he's her guardian and the terms are kinda interchangeable because it's easier to use them than explain the whole situation lol)
Pretender also has no sense of fashion. He's always so close to a neat outfit then takes the wrong turn before he exits his closet lol.
Paps stays in skeleton form (at least for the first few years) even tho it's dangerous, because his human disguise is awful and makes K uncomfortable. Instead he trains genuinely with Undyne and Tender to properly figure out a human shape over about 4 years. Eventually he does have a human disguise, but he's contented in his monster form too.
K I can't say a lot for (beloved @oodlesndoodles is who designed/owns her!) But I'm pretty certain that she'd probably still wear her one monster-style outfit sometimes if only to show her solidarity with her family, or just to mess with people on the streets 🙏
Also:
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I love the idea that someone talking to them would take in this info and be like ???????
Last Notes: Human!Pretender is one of my favorite blorbos ever to doodle! His hair texture is probably the most satisfying thing ever! Paps keeps miraculously looking good for this AU??? I've never been able to draw Papyrus before??? Idk what changed, but I love him! And KALE! K my beloved I have struggled so hard to doodle her well and usually fail but I think I did it!!! I love her sm...
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cityandking · 7 months
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1, 21, 40, D for Eniko and Minah
aw the rogues :') // uncommon questions
1. What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?
ENIKO — ages. hours and hours. all night if he has to. he's perfected his ability to hunker down somewhere and let time drip past. it took a lot of practice but it was part of his education and it (like most of his lessons) paid off MINAH — she gets a little fidgety, but she can zone out for a while when she needs to. she's been stuck backstage for a good chunk of a run, or staking out a house to burgle, or hiding from the guards, and left to marinate for a bit, and that's okay. I'd say a couple hours is when she starts getting all buzzy and anxious with nothing to distract her (she's pretty good at distracting herself tho)
21. Why do they get up in the morning? 
ENIKO — a clawing, desperate desire to make something more of his life than what he has right now. he can't stop. he just can't. MINAH — she gets itchy if she stops moving for too long. there's a constant fear nudging at the back of her head that says she has to get up, keep going, never let her guard down.
40. How sensitive are they to their own flaws?
ENIKO — not particularly. unless they're impeding him from achieving his goals, he really doesn't care what flaws he may or may not be sporting. it's all about getting the work done, and as long as he can do that, nothing else matters. MINAH — pretty sensitive. she's keenly aware of them, if nothing else. but she's also put years of effort into ignoring and downplaying them, so, y'know. conceal don't feel etc.
D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?
ENIKO — he's changed a lot over the years! originally he was very pale, with a really stark black-and-white color scheme (he's half moon elf). then I learned that the human population of the campaign's setting was mostly dark-skinned, so he got darker. his color scheme has also trended a little more towards grey/heather/purple over the years. he softened, pretty much. (still with the same fashion sense and the sharpness, though—that's always been the same) MINAH — I just looked at the Q&A I did for her pre-campaign and she was originally strawberry blonde and much taller, kind of a beanpole. obviously that didn't stick—I shortened her by a good six inches and changed her hair. I think I'd also like to go back and adjust her (non-warden) look/armor—I had a hard time trying to find the balance between thief, archer, close-quarters combatant and traveling performer, and I'd like to have another crack at it. her color scheme (sort of maroon/red/gold) has stayed the same, at least
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livehexmoments · 9 months
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hi besties its me with another hc list <3  Anyway here’s Mr. Chef (OP) Bryce himself DSAFEG
To me, he’s basically the most positive and optimistic one. Realistically speaking, of course, but still tries to keep everyone in good spirits.
Someone can correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think Cooking Granny and him were biologically related? Either way, he always admired her and looked up to her. 
So he feels extremely guilty about it and does not like talking about it (or even hearing news about how she’s doing now. It would make him pretty depressed)
One of the few people who likes both Reggie and Jeremiah. He has no ill will towards both of them. 
They did provide a cooking job and shelter for him. Even if it was for the plan, the fact that they did it made him really appreciate it. 
Him and Reggie tend to not take their “Boss/worker dynamic” seriously and even joke about it (“What do I pay you for?” “Hah! You’re not paying me!”)
He honestly sees Reggie as a semi grandpa figure but the kind that tends to be stubborn, a bit old fashioned yet still has a good sense of humor
Jeremiah, while distant and cold, still treats Bryce with respect and offers help when he can (mostly cleaning up the kitchen, even when Bryce insists he can do it by himself)
I am a chandrelle and Bryce bestie supporter. These two understand each other pretty well and honestly? Bryce is one of the few people she would trust with anything (other than Lazarus)
He likes to teach her baking and stuff to ease her clear anger issues and to get to know her better
To repeat from Weasel’s list: Him and Bryce get along fine! I think Byrce feels bad for the kid and wants to help him out. At the very least, he wants to try and set a good example for him. Unfortunately, this is Super goddamn Weasel Kid and he can be just as stubborn as Lionel.
And again, Weasel is banned from the kitchen. Byrce kept noticing certain stuff being stolen and it all lead back to him
Oh to talk briefly about this: Bryce absolutely has the authority to ban people from the kitchen. Since everything, it is his kitchen and his rules there. Unless you want to face the wrath of an annoyed chief, then you will be banned from entering (unless emergencies of course)
Fucking he even banned Reginald from his own kitchen for a week because the old guy is stubborn and not that great of a cook but constantly denies it (just imagining him wheeling a very pissed off Reggie out of his own kitchen after Reggie kept fucking with Bryce’s stuff)
Since he’s besties with Chandrelle, he tries his best to get along with Lazarus too. It’s a bit uncomfortable because Lazarus is not good with getting along with new people, but they manage. 
Bryce was very distrustful of him (and Rust too) due to how he looks and apparent war stories, but honestly? He realized he’s a sweetheart. 
Although he still hates fighting, he does like to train with Lazarus from time to time. It gives a good workout and Lazarus is a decent conversationalist.
While he enjoys Lazarus’s company, He does not trust him with any type of cooking because good lord it’s awful (i’ll explain more when we get to Lazarus)
He is so worried about Rust. Rust is someone who is awful at taking care of himself, so Bryce makes it his duty to remind Rust to eat every once in a while
Bryce used to think he’s a freak and weird old guy who probably killed people (that part is true). But when Rust finally told people about what happened to him, Bryce instantly felt awful.
He even apologized to Rust for being kind of mean to him during the whole murder thing was going on 
FPP and Bryce are also besties!! I think Bryce would teach FPP some cooking and baking skills while FPP would teach Bryce about some new art techniques they found (I wont get into it too much but I hc FPP getting into making art and stuff)
Bryce does have a bit of a temper. Not too bad and he has found ways to manage it very well, but on bad days, it can be hard to contain it. He had one even before his fighting days, but being a fighter did make it worse
It especially comes out when he’s arguing with someone, sometimes he’ll be composed, but sometimes he’ll yell back. One time he punched someone and felt super guilty about it. 
He’s actually pretty protective of his new found family. He already lost a family member when he punched granny and the possible friends he could have made during Combat Arena X. These guys are the closest he’ll ever get to having people who get it. He does not want to lose that.
Overall, he’s pretty much the optimistic and ‘normal’ one in this weird family. Although he has a small temper and can be distrustful of people, he is always there for them and will throw hands if necessary to ensure everyone is safe. 
AY I GOT ONE MORE: Bryce is a very hugs type of a guy and yet forgets that he’s pretty strong. So sometimes if hes really happy or excited, he’ll hug one of them and almost break their back by accident HWHSBW
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sweetcloverheart · 2 years
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Unpopular Opinion Time
I feel like Marinette’s status as both the underdog and Chloe’s rival/victim in the first season isn’t given the proper weight it should have in the story proper
Like, Chloe’s awful to Marinette, no doubt about that, and the stuff she does to her (stealing her diary, trying to pass off her hat as her own, everything in season 3 and onward, etc.) is very cruel and standard bullying fair - but it doesn’t really have an impact (or at least not as much) as a narrative device because aside from making Marinette feel embarrassed for a bit or hindering her confession attempts to Adrien, Chloe’s bullying Marinette doesn’t effect her place as a student in a meaningful way. Even when she schemes to make her look bad/miserable, everyone in the class continues to like and adore Marinette, while hating or finding Chloe annoying because of the bullying and her being an overall jerk (hell, they immediately jump in to defend the former from the latter a good third of the time). For all we’re told about how terrifying it is for Chloe to go throwing her parents weight around against anyone who stands up to her, the students don’t necessarily act that way, and aside from her nigh-constant skirting away from responsibility for her actions (which is more of a consequence of the teachers at Dupont not doing their jobs), Chloe never really displays that actual status in all it’s terror or unfair popularity. The only real negative impact she’s had is with the Akumas, and that gets solved pretty easy thanks to Labybug and Chat. It’s honestly part of the reason I felt Lila was the better bully antagonist- even if she gets rarely used and is mostly build-up that goes nowhere, she actually did caused a negative impact to Marinette and her life with her actions, short lived (and requiring so much narrative bending) as they were. Chloe’s bullying, particularly after season 3, just comes off very superficial and artificial, especially since she never even succeeds in her goal of impeding Marinette half the time.
If Marinette was supposed to be the underdog, then wouldn’t it make more sense for the class to like Chloe while ignoring her, or at least trying to get on Chloe’s goodside more? Even if she is “evil” and an unpleasant person to be around, her father is still mayor/owner of a multimillion famous hotel-chain and her mother is the head of a famous international fashion magazine. Chloe should be lousy with fans/followers/hanger-ons who want to get a piece of that privilege pie and would be totally willing to isolate/unfriend Marinette because of it. It would also help if Chloe was actually involved in fashion as a designer - have the two have some proper parallels in how they create and present their clothes, like Marinette preferring to make artsy and colorful outfits while Chloe trends towards overly-chic monochromatics. Heck, you can even still have Chloe be a big fat cheater via bribing judges and sabotaging her opponents. It would make Marinette’s eventual successes and progress as a designer hit much more deeper if we saw her actually having someone to compete against in the fashion side of things and triumph against Chloe’s attempts to snuff out her brand. It would also make her eventually becoming the “Classroom Ladybug” fit better.
There’s also the issue with how her relationship with Adrien is portrayed. The two of them are childhood friends with Chloe harboring a very large and long standing crush (or infatuation at least), yet Adrien treats her like a stranger half the time despite her being his “only” friend in his friendless background, and is clearly uncomfortable with her clinging so closely all the time. If she’s suppose to be an obstacle to the Adrienette ship, then wouldn’t having Adrien liking/wanting to hang out with her more be the better option? Having him actually look comfortable/happy when she clings to him since he’s so used to her/knows it’s her way of showing affection to him while also acting as litmus for Marinette on where her current status with her relationship with Adrien lies and what she needs to do to get on the same level Chloe’s at? Or, if we need to stick with the “Haha Chloe likes Adrien but he’s obviously uncomfortable with her!” shtick, make it a serious issue and treat it with the gravity that level of discomfort Adrien displays deserves - have him, after bonding with Mari and the rest more, admit he hates Chloe touching him all the time but puts up with it since “we’re friends” and he’s told to be nice to her since Gabriel owes Audrey for helping him get his foot in the door to the fashion industry. They can then tell him that what Chloe’s doing is wrong and encourage him to stand up for himself and make her stop, and that he shouldn’t have to put up with a situation he’s not comfortable with for anyone’s sake.
And you know what - the same goes for Lila. She should have also been a designer or artist. You could play up the liar theme by having it be revealed that she rips off other designers for her clothes or plagiarizes work from people by befriending and convincing them she’s helping get their names out there. Once Marinette exposed her, she jumps to modeling (or cooking even) under the claim that the situation made her “realize the error of her ways” and want to turn over a new leaf by starting anew in a different field, but she’s still doing the same old same old - she’s just better at hiding it now. 
tldr; “Chameleon” should of been what was happening all of season 1 with Chloe, Marinette, and the class minus the lies.
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queenlua · 2 years
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Rules: tag 9 people you’d like to know/catch-up with:
Tagged by @zencribnotes (hi, yay, ty for the tag!)
Last show:
I watched season 1 of Columbo, mostly on the basis of “the creator of Phoenix Wright loved it,” and, man!  What a fun series.  There’s something relentlessly compelling about Columbo’s persistent aw-shucks demeanor combined with how his relentless undercurrent of “I’ve sunk my teeth in and will not let go”; the villains are generally compelling and smart with just a dash of the fatal arrogance/doth-protest-too-much that will be their undoing; I’m now weirdly entranced by 70s fashion; the slower pacing is pretty refreshing compared to modern shows; it’s good stuff.
The whole procedural-drama format is a genre didn’t really “click” for me until this past year or so, and it’s been a ton of fun exploring what the genre has to offer.
Currently watching:
I’ve been rewatching The Boondocks a bit, which is kind of a trip—like, mostly I just needed a fun sitcom to watch during dinner, and I remembered watching it on late-night TV as a kiddo—and it is fun, but it’s also from such a specific moment/era in comedy, yaknow?  Parts of it are acerbic on-point satire; other parts really miss the mark or, uh, haven’t aged well, let’s say.  The highs are still crazy-high, though.
Currently reading:
Reaganland: America's Right Turn 1976-1980 by Rick Perlstein.  Hilariously, I impulse-bought the ebook of this after listening to an interview with the author, thinking to myself, “this will be a good way to learn more about the Reagan era, which I’ve been meaning to learn about!”  So I started reading, and reading, and reading… and when I was 25% of the way in, I was like, “jfc, we’re STILL in 1976, when are we going to get to Reagan’s presidency?”  Which is when I (1) looked at the page count for the first time (“oh my god this is over a thousand pages”), and (2) looked at the subtitle for the first time (“oh we just. don’t even. get. to his presidency. oops”), and…. lol.
BUT AT THAT POINT I was already having a good time and pretty committed, so, whatever :P  It’s an interesting if intermittently-frustrating read.  So much of e.g. the US dems’ fundamental dysfunction, inability to grow a bench, weird flat-footedness in the face of obvious threats, etc, are just… there!  All the way back in 1976!  Time is a flat circle and I guess we’ll just have the same problems for decades and decades, sigh.
And wrt eg the feminist movement particularly (and also the movement for gay rights, and other social-progress-y movements), there’s such a palpable sense of what was already being lost, even before the New Right revolution had fully taken hold.  There was a moment of broad bipartisan consensus on a lot of important issues, and then… there wasn’t, lol.  Also there’s just a sense of dynamism/fearlessness you get from e.g. the book’s profile of Bella Abzug that, ironically, it feels like it’d be hard for a female politician to get away with nowadays—at least not while being as popular as she was at her height.
(I’m hoping to do a more in-depth writeup of this one on my Dreamwidth when I’m finished with it, but it’ll be a bit.)
Nonfiction:  See above.  Did I mention long book is long?  I may as well give a pitch for Matt Stoller’s newsletter, who does interesting deep-dives on how monopolies have distorted various sectors of the economy; I first found him via his writeup on the truck driver shortage, and while he’s hit-or-miss he’s more hit than misses imo
Last book: If we’re willing to count novella as book-length, it’d be “Beggars in Spain” by Nancy Kress, a smart lil scifi novella that won the Hugo/Nebula in the 90s.  I’ve been meaning to write a proper review of it, but to give an idea: after finishing, I read that the author wrote it in response to both Ursula Le Guin’s The Dispossessed and Ayn Rand’s work—I can see both those in the result, quite clearly, though the result feels more Le Guin-ish overall, and also the author wisely grounds the narrative in a very human conflict between sisters that lent it the emotional heft/realism it needed.
(If we’re going with Only Actual Books Allowed, it’s this silly lil mystery novel I read while on vacation; very much the kind of light entertainment one reads with beer in hand after a long day of birdwatching :P)
Tagging: if I follow you consider yourself tagged.  or don’t, whatever, only if you feel like it :P
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banqdanfnfic · 3 years
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which, as they kiss, consume | jjk
you just wanted to get a tattoo from your boyfriend
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pairing: tattoo artist!jk x reader
genre: established relationships au, tattoo artist au, smut
word count: 4k
warnings: unprotected sex, biting, making out, grinding, licking, nipple play, jk has a lip ring, oral (f receiving), fingering, shy jk and oc, sexual tension, slight choking, slight aftercare
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♫ : Streets by Doja Cat, Candy by Doja Cat
♡ Aesthetics: Playlist | Moodboard
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He visibly chokes on his glass of beer as he almost snaps his neck to meet your gaze. He could say that you were awfully drunk and hence the sudden confession out of the blue, but behind your heavy lidded eyes, Jungkook could sense that you were serious.
“You what?”, he gulps abruptly, moving closer to your face, doe eyes pleading to repeat yourself.
“Yes Kook. I want that tattoo on my breasts. I’ve decided”.
It’s not that Jungkook didn’t have experience in his career with inking on different parts of a human body. He just had never given a tattoo to someone who is romantically associated with him and the thought of seeing you half naked made him chuck down the rest of his drink in one go.
The most physical he had ever gotten with you was a kiss shared occasionally since it’s only been over two weeks you had started dating. Okay maybe you made out once in his car but that’s it. It never got to the point of shedding clothes or anything intense.
“Are you sure?”
You giggle at the sudden hoarseness in his voice and nod positive. Ironic how his aura never matched his personality. His inked skin, athletic body proportions covered in black monochrome bad boy outfits gave out default energy that he is a local heartthrob with multiple chicks wrapped around his finger each night and a heavy demeanor to carry in his smirk.
You were one of those believers until Jungkook asked you out in the most hopeless romantic way possible after constantly visiting the café you work in, a few shops besides his parlor. He was a gentleman with respectful boundaries, warm hands to hold yours and sweet sensual kisses though you are pretty sure he probably has a good game.
For any outsider it looked like those cliché bad boy and shy girl love stories, but for real both of you were a good percentage of introverts.
Jungkook runs his tongue around his lip ring while he is stressfully ruffling his dark locks into a mess. He is trying to explain his reasons to postpone your decision considering how shy he got at this point. But then that’s exactly why you were requesting him with soft eyes, it would be so uncomfortable to be shirtless in front of anybody else. Or maybe it’s your way of saying the relationship is open for higher levels of physical affection.
After debating around in vain, he finally hums and clears one of his slots for his beloved client.
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Friday approaches way quicker than you assumed and now your heart is beating in your throat. Right after you are done cleaning the tables, you have to make it to Jungkook’s parlor for your appointment.
Running on three hours of sleep, black under eyes even after a decent amount of makeup, you groan as you check yourself out in the mirror. You opted for a simple shirt and skirt (also known as the outfit you bought for occasions with Jungkook), light beach waves resting on your shoulders. Hoping that a few cups of coffee will save you, you stride across the street to stop before the infamous parlor he worked in. Hopefully the full body shave and chocolate body butter has kept its excellence on your skin below the clothing.
The door chimes as it opens with a dragged creak on the musky wooden flooring. It felt like an otherworld where air smelled like men’s perfume and faint tint of cigarettes. In other words, intoxicating.
You ask the first person you meet at the reception, one of Jungkook’s companions at the shop and he assists you to his cabin located at a comfortably remote location.
His space is hidden with a simple black curtain. You are met with Jungkook’s back facing you, working determinately on a client’s arm and cares to spare a glance only when the guy with you is informing him about your presence.
“This will be over in a few”, he grins to your face and goes back to focusing his coil on the skin of a woman in her late twenties laying down his chair. The vibration from his inking machine fills in the silence and you excuse yourself to sit on a small black couch beside them.
This was the first time watching him at work and now you can understand why people rumored so much about his attitude because damn it is intimidating.
Brows knit together and inked muscles flex as he drags the needles around for finishing touches. Meanwhile you can pretty much smell the drool from the woman who is shamelessly checking out your boyfriend. Though you are pretty sure Jungkook gets such glances more than he can count every day, you can’t help but feel jealous. Partly because of the childish possessiveness and partly because you want to be the reason behind his dark eyes and intricate concentration, in profession or not.
To stop from mentally throwing daggers on the client’s way, you grab a random fashion magazine from the side table and flip through pages, though other four senses are inclined on your man. With a close attention to his low sigh you conclude that he is done.
The customer with now a fresh tattoo on her arm is discussing random useless topics to get him to talk, a very vain job realizing how Jungkook doesn’t bat a friendly lash at anybody, especially to those who hit on him. To be honest a large part of the ink business was linked with the obsession to attractive people who worked here, even if it meant trading an area of your skin. You grip the edges of the magazine a bit hard, not able to contain the sanity particularly at the high pitch voice she mumbles in before finally leaving his cabin.
A little excited and a lot nervous, you stand up as Jungkook bids goodbye to the third person.
He is quick to notice your discomfort, though not sure if it was the woman or the thought of finally getting the tattoo, he knew you were nervous and surviving in several cups of espresso by the dark circles slowly showing through the faded layers of your concealer. But nothing pulls down the opinion he has about you, beautiful and simple, no dramatics attached.
“Hey are you okay?”
You nod as soon as you sit down on the black tattoo chair, shifting a little to find a comfortable position. He is taking out a box full of equipment and fine needles, already making you break a sweat at the side of your forehead.
But more than that, it’s the way he is sharp and professional that catches your attention more.
You have never seen Jungkook this serious before. The choice of his vetiver perfume digging through your nostrils was driving you insane. If he doesn’t smile soon, you are going to melt into a puddle at his gaze.
“Are you nervous?”, he smirks this time, a newfound reason for your worsening gut health.
It’s mostly going in cycles at this point. Every bit of his skilled motion causes a vigorous hormonal reaction which initiates his next set of effortless teasing.
“I’m a little nervous”, you say, fiddling with your freshly painted nude nails.
“Me too”
It’s something you least expect to come out of his mouth observing how confident he looks right now. He basically has you cornered with his gaze. But whenever he had been truthful about his emotions it felt like a hug.
“I can take off my shirt too, so that we are even. Is that okay?”
He said it so softly like he is handling a child and the duality of the situation had your mind fogged and limbs frozen for a few minutes.
“Yeah it’s okay” It’s far beyond than okay. It’s great actually.
Jeon Jungkook is ripped, a Greek God sculptured masterpiece covered in self designed artwork you are more than happy to wake up to every morning. He hears you gulp at the feast before your eyes while he discards his black t-shirt to a nearby chair.
Now you don’t know if this whole thing is supposed to warm your heart or make you play several erotic fantasies like a movie before your eyes.
Both of you share a small smile while his long fingers are tugging at the hem of your shirt and pulling it up over your head.
He almost wishes you don’t opt to wear a bra but he is met with lacy black, a-bit-over your-usual-budget fabric hugging the roundness of your breasts.
It seemed like you were way too competitive about today. Anything less than complete awe from Jungkook for you was straight disappointment, you don't want anything less.
Well it seems like it did from how blown his pupils were at this point. He peels his gaze off your chest with a sharp gulp to look at your eyes suddenly devoid of any fear and staring back at him with all ease. He is filled with an exapnse of warmth and he isn't sure why does spending just a little amount of time with you had such a grip on him. He can’t wait to propose the idea of getting a couple tattoo together soon and as far as you know how Jungkook is, he is very serious with his body art so apparently he does trust you a lot already.
“Where exactly are you trying to get it?”, his voice is a lot deeper suddenly as he waits for your fingers to guide to his canvas.
You softly trace the spot at the upper circumference of your right boob, “Here”.
You suck a breath through your nose as his own fingers are mimicking your gesture, lightly pulling down the lace to inspect the fitting of the design at hand.
These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
Jungkook traces each word on your burning skin, now leaning dangerously close which was questioning your control to put your palms flat on his pecs. He doesn’t notice that though, his mind is busy creating his own fantasies about the women under him.
After two minutes and twenty four second long of inspection and mutual thirst, Jungkook is selecting a bunch of needles to set into the rotary machine. Five fine sharp like a painter's brush moves in and out at a set regularity as Jungkook tests it out.
The next of his actions had you flushed into a pool of crimson. He gently lifts up your resting torso with one hand while the other is unclasping the hook of your bra, making you half naked for the sake of the tattoo.
"I'm going to start", he says shyly.
You still have time to save yourself from the growing phobia for the object, but another unlogical part of your brain says it's a piece of cake considering you have a whole distracting full course meal in front of you.
It stings at first. Well, okay it hurts like hell but your face is devoid of any indication, except your right hand is gripping on the rim of the chair for dear life.
Jungkook on the other hand had never felt this much diversion of mind during his work. He knows that you are probably hurting very badly, especially for a first timer. He is biting into his lip ring, trying to get this over with for the well-being of your pain and his hormones.
After he had scribed one word into your dermis, you are no longer able to contain the ache so you give out a small squeak out of your glossed lips and the vibration of the machine at his hands stops as he looks at you.
"You want me to stop? ", he is relaxing his face as he cups yours with one hand. You don't want to answer that question, but the drumroll of the current situation is making your heart flutter and everything about the little burn on your chest is forgotten.
"No. It does hurt but I'll be fine I guess", you whisper. His breath is mixing with yours slowly as he is leaning more towards your face. If it isn't for a kiss then you are likely to be disappointed.
"It'll be over before you know it. I'll make it quick", and then he kisses you, a small act to get off the pressure of sexual tension between your bare upper bodies.
Before you think of any tongue in the act, he is breaking off the contact and returns to his position on your chest. He misses the pout that forms on your mouth but right now both of your heads are in cloud nine.
The pain starts again, only this time you are busy reliving how his lips felt in yours; soft, firm and controlled.
You gasp when you feel one of his hands cupping your right breast to further his design but it's lowkey an act empowered by lust which is straining behind the so called professional eyes.
You just sit there flustered out of your mind and then Jungkook is suddenly squeezing, full palm hiding your breasts like it's a protected treasure, but he isn't showing the slightest facial expression other than determined eyes and his lower lip caught between his teeth.
Fuck you can't take it anymore. Jungkook can feel your nipples harden against his hand and his brain isn't helping much to concentrate on the design. But by the grace of some positive karma left on his side, he makes it through the long text and when he is letting go of your chest and standing tall, your skin is popping out with redness on the places the text lays embedded.
He fishes out a mirror for you to look.
"It looks beautiful thank you Jungkook", you smile.
"Can I give you one more tattoo on your left one?", he asks while you are contemplating whether going through the pain is worth it, not to mention you really want to get back at a private space with Jungkook as soon as possible.
"It won't hurt I promise", and then he is kissing you a lot filthier than before; all tongue and teeth, while his hands are grazing on the skin of your waist, pressing a little firmer than before.
The coldness of his lip ring rivaled around your mouth, and you try sucking on it to which Jungkook responds with a growl and pushes his body adamantly against yours.
Skin to skin, you are lost in euphoria of everything happening and finally, you roam your eager hands around his body, to his pecs and the definition of abs.
As your fingers scraped against his scalp, Jungkook is biting eagerly down your jawline to your collarbone and continues his ministrations at a particular spot which is bringing out melodic moan variation from you.
He is going down your skin, licking on your left boob before he starts planting violet tattoos as he had promised. As if it couldn't get better, he is massaging the right breast, in a way to soothe pain.
He loses it when you stutter his name, but he is just a fucking tease when it comes to making love and doing anything in a public space is the last thing he wants to do. There isn't much room for all that he wants right now.
"Why did you choose this particular tattoo Y/n?", he rasps while he is planting small pecks on his artwork, and you reply when he is finally eye level with you
"I just felt like it's a good one", your breaths are uneven and mostly caught in your neck. He pecks your lips before speaking, "Those are lines from Romeo and Juliet".
He takes your hands to trace over a line of text among the many designs on his chest.
which, as they kiss, consume
"We pretty much have a couple tattoo now Y/n", his breath is matched with your pace and you are not very sure how to respond to this new knowledge.
"That's… hot"
You break into giggles along with him, he just can't stop dragging his lips around your skin, but he isn't able to word his feelings right now either.
"I have some aftercare healing ointment for the tattoo at my place, wanna come over?" Now that may be a little lame of an excuse to get his little friend out of his pants but you are too unfazed to analyse any of that.
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His hands find place on your ass under the skirt as soon as the door to his apartment closes, and before you know it, you are in his bedroom, sitting on the soft mattress and tongue lost devouring each other.
While eagerly getting rid of every article of clothing, Jungkook notices that you don't have your bra on beneath the shirt, so it's probably back at the parlour, but none of you have the slightest care for it, might as well make an excuse with it later to fuck you in his cabin.
He is pushing you farther towards the headboard, him on top, grinding sensenslesy while your lips mould with his. Though he has his whole body pressed against you, you can't seem to feel his weight at the slightest, every one of his actions were just balanced and perfect.
As Jungkook goes down on you, his smile is evident against your skin, finally able to find out how every one of those scenarios in his head will come to look like. He lets out a satisfied hum being finally able to suck on your tits, your fingers finding place on his hair, twisting it out of stimulation.
His pelvis is flushed harshly against yours, grinding and rubbing against your pussy for as long as he is rejoicing the feeling of moving his tongue around both the nipples.
He stops rubbing after some point and you whimper at the loss but his fingers are soon to meet your core as a quick apology. All your later moans are muffled on his mouth once again.
Feeling the controlled movements of his fingers on your clit, you dig your nails down on his toned shoulders. It's becoming impossible to reciprocate his lewd movements of tongue on your lips at this point as the excitement between your thighs is growing every passing second.
Your mouth remains slightly parted as he removes his face to watch you squirm underneath, lips swollen, deep red and glossy from all the saliva.
He pecks at the shell of your ear before going down past your navel.
You haven't had much heads in the twenty years of your life, most of the guys being completely against the idea which made you feel insecure to bring up the topic in bed, but Jungkook does it like his life depends on it.
He growls at the sight of you dripping into his sheets and he seems to enjoy the idea of being the influence behind it. But none is going through your head at the moment, not the metal on his lips grazing against your folds, or the fact that Jungkook is grinning each time you cry his name, it feels unreal to feel something like this.
His mouth is wrapping against your entrance and he is balancing your lower body on his palms to help him reach the right depths inside you. While all you can muster up is the strength to grope the bedsheets in your fist and close your eyes at the pleasure.
Jungkook brings his head higher to give some attention to the throbbing clit, catching it between his teeth and triggering the bundle of nerves just the perfect dose to have your hips jolting up to his face.
He can't take it himself when you are now whining and chasing for your release, so he is slightly humping against the bed to get some friction.
He licks a slow stripe up till your abdomen and slowly raises to your face, already fucked out and dishevelled to keep up with his dominant orbs.
He swears he had never felt so much warmth and care for sex with any of his previous partners, in relationship or not, all he could think is how good can he treat the pleading eyes underneath him.
"Is there something you like that you want me to do?", he says, fingers grazing once again to your crotch to not deny you from his contact. Only this time he is exploring the tightness of your pretty cunt with two skillful fingers.
Is there? You are not sure. Or in other words you are too caught up at the sense of him fingering you. It's not like you had enough experience or people who cared enough to ask that question. It astounds you that never in this entire foreplay he asked for any favor for himself.
"I'm not sure…", you whisper and then maybe you have something on your mind " um I guess I would like to be choked" Okay this felt embarrassing.
He smiles before sliding his free hand from your lips to your neck, and applies slight force, careful to not hurt you in the slightest bit.
"Is that fine?"
"Yeah", you muffle through the decreasing course of air.
He pulls up your face by the throat to attach lips once more. He just can't seem to get enough of kissing you senseless. Then, the tip of his long ignored cock is teasing the length of your pussy twice before it's stretching you out to the brim.
Bodies flushed and hot, his pace is deep and slow, making sure to kiss the cervix every time he is inside.
He watches as your eyes close shut and flutters around whenever he is grazing against your sweet spot. Both of your ears lost and eager for the moans looming out of each other, his more like what he sounds at the gym. Nice observation Y/n.
In this span of sexual energy you shared, you can make some obvious conclusions. Sex with him was surreal, both in terms of domination and the care he had. Rocking against him and keeping up with his hips was attainable— Compared to the intense eye contact he tries to hold, or the way he cups the side of your face and rubs the pad of his thumb on your cheeks while he kisses you during sinking back in, or the way his eyes glow at the beauty of your body open for him. It makes you feel special and it's difficult to respond to these gestures when you never felt this way before.
Jungkook could tell that from your face, but he hopes he lasts with you enough to help you know the worth you hold. You couldn't think too much about anything when you are busy squeezing around his length and coming twice in the first ten minutes.
By the third orgasm Jungkook is nearing his own and he pulls out to pump a few times before coming on your stomach.
"Was it okay?", his voice is all over the place, still balancing his body on his arms while you are amazed by his strength.
"It was amazing Jungkook", you smile. You have known a lot about Jungkook over the few dates you spent with him. That he likes literature, classics and philosophy, designs tattoos as a subconscious thing, that his game is A-1, and he likes working out almost three hours a day. Good for you. But it wasn't until now you know him to be gentle, like he is afraid to crush you under a feather touch. You don't know him as someone who is staring deep into your face after a good fuck, speaks nothing, smiles widely, and plants a peck on your forehead before getting off the bed.
He does the honors of cleaning both of your bodies with a towel, it's not like you have any strength left in you anyway. And then pulls out an ointment from the bedside table and plops next to your body.
"There. You need this to protect the tattoo", he takes off the nozzle and applies a required amount against the words on your chest and massages against them.
"Now go to sleep Juliet", he mocks, pulling up the sheets over you both "good night".
You snuggle against his hard chest, kissing his pecs before resting on it, "Good night Romeo".
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thank you so much for reading!! please leave a feedback!!
★ taglist: @pjmochii (dm, ask or comment to enter the tl!)
★ credits: @/rainbeary on spotify : songs that'll make you feel everything's in slow motion playlist
★ banner & boards: by me :)
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a/n: this is my first time writing smut and i basically died of second hand embarrassment during the process. pardon for my untalented ass, i tried this wip continuously for a week and i seriously don't think it could get anything better though it's probably not much.
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© banqdanfnfic 2021, all rights reserved. do not modify, translate, or repost my works. modification, translations, and/or redistribution of my works on any platform is strictly prohibited.
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titan-fodder · 3 years
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Prima Vista Part I
Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.7k Warnings: dubious consent (because of alcohol), just copious amounts of sex, oral, squirting, 69ing, college shenanigans, obnoxious frat boys, terrible fashion choices A/N: At long last, here we have the beginning. Massive thanks to @pleasantanathema and @whats-her-quirk​ who have been cheering for me since I told them I wanted to right a “little college AU” for a “little collab” June and I have been planning for a while. Also, I don’t know where I’d be without Lauren’s fraternity knowledge, so extra thanks for that, babe. I hope everyone has as much fun with this fic as I did.
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God, you hate frat boys. 
Their sense of entitlement, all their fucking house pride. Brother this, brother that. It's annoying. Add in the factors of being an athlete on top of it, and they're downright insufferable. 
So it makes absolutely no sense that you're at a fucking Pi Kappa Alpha party. 
Your friend, Hitch, dragged you here (naturally), and it wasn't like you could really object considering she's the only real friend you have on campus. You study together and switch off between dorms to watch movies and bitch about classes. She's the complete opposite of you in many different ways, but you soul-bonded over biology and that was that. 
Unfortunately, Hitch decided she would leave you to your own devices almost immediately, opting to skip over to a game of beer pong and flirt with a boy in her statistics class. You have no idea why considering he has a fucking bowl cut, but she's been talking about him for weeks now. 
The party is filled with loud music and too many people with red solo cups. There's no way they're all of age, so you're already paranoid that the cops are gonna raid the place, but there's nothing you can do besides leave. It's a tempting thought. 
Before you can, though, there's an uproar in the kitchen, and curiosity gets the best of you. Moving from your place against the wall, you make your way over to peek in and see what's going on. A large group of frat boys, what you think are sorority girls, and whoever else wants to join are raising their cups to cheer. An especially loud voice rings out above the rest, "One win down, eleven more to go!" 
Claps and supportive shouts are nearly deafening. 
"I think we can do it! Do you think we can do it?" 
More cheers, more hollers. 
"Let's hear it for UC lacrosse!" 
You have to cover your ears this time. Should have known this party was to celebrate the win earlier that day. 
When the crowd parts, you see the ringleader, Erwin Smith who is very well-known on campus for three reasons: he will talk your ear off about history if given the chance, he's irritatingly gorgeous, and he will fuck any pretty girl with a pulse. 
Again—you fucking hate frat boys. 
To ease your bad mood and possibly encourage you to have some semblance of a good time, you shuffle further into the kitchen to grab a drink. You feel a little exposed, not dressed like many of the other girls who are either in rompers or the classic sorority chick outfit (giant college shirts that cover their shorts). You are in a crop top, torn shorts, and a floral cardigan. Not your best outfit, not your worst. 
There's no way you're touching any of the pre-poured cups or the jungle juice, opting for an unopened can of mediocre beer. 
You feel someone approach you from behind, glance over your shoulder to see nothing but a broad chest covered by a fucking hawaiian shirt. 
Craning your neck, you're met with another familiar face, one Mike Zacharias known as 1) Erwin's best friend, 2) one of the tallest guys on campus, and 3) the best lacrosse player on the team. 
You haven't spoken a single word to him but that doesn't stop him from grinning at you, flipping shaggy hair from his face, and chanting a low, "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!" 
"Are you god damn joking me?" You ask with a raised eyebrow. 
"Hell no!" 
"I have shotgunned a beer literally once in my life, and at least half of it ended up on my shirt."
"That's alright," Mike's smile shrinks to a smirk. "We're all about getting chicks wet in Pike." 
Face falling, you scoff, "Yeah, okay, I'm leaving." 
You sidestep him, cracking open the beer, but he follows close behind you. It makes a little bit of fear spike in your gut—everyone knows the horror stories that accompany many fraternities—but you're mostly just annoyed. 
"Hey, what's your name again?"
Again. As if you've actually formally met before.
"Why do you care?" 
Mike does not hesitate when he answers, "'Cause you look like you're having a shit time here, and I'd like to change that."
You roll your eyes, let your head loll over your shoulder to look at him again. If you're being honest with yourself, he's kind of extremely hot with his undercut and flippy hair, not to mention the stubble that's grown out just enough to make you think thoughts for a split second.  
"A noble cause," you quip. "Truly." 
He chuckles, watching too closely as you take a sip of your beer. 
"So? Name?"
After too big of a swallow, you answer him, and light green eyes brighten a little. 
"Oh, you're Hitch's friend, right?" 
Of course that would be your only identifier on campus. Hitch is insanely pretty and very outgoing. It makes sense that people just know you as her tag-along. 
It doesn't stop you from feeling slightly offended, though. 
"Yeah, and you're Erwin's friend, right?" 
"Among other things," he snorts. "Mike Zacharias." He holds out a massive hand that you eye before taking, figure you shouldn't be too much of a bitch and make a bad impression on the most highly regarded frat at the college.  
"I know who you are, dude. Not many people don't."
"Aw, flatterer." 
That grin is back on his face, lopsided and far too charming, and you definitely need to get away from him before you down a couple more beers. 
"Freshman?" He pries, and somehow you wind up at the staircase, leaning against the wall and praying he'll just stand beside you instead of caging you in. 
He does, and you let out a breath of relief. 
"Sophomore."
His eyebrows shoot up for a second. "Fuck, you've made it through a whole year flying under my radar?" 
You give him a wholly unimpressed look. "Wow, you really know what to say to a girl, don't you?" 
"That came off as shitty, sorry. I just mean, like, you're super cute. Feel like I would have committed you to memory if I'd seen you."
Your face heats up probably more than it ever has in your life, but you still snap, "We haven't had a single class together, I never go to your games, and this is the first Pike party I've been to."
Mike nods. "Ah, that explains it. Just haven't given anyone a chance to notice you." 
"Sure, let's go with that."
Another several sips. You hiss at the taste, and Mike laughs. 
"Can't handle beer?"
"Can't handle shitty beer."
"Ouch. Want me to grab you something else?"
He really doesn't seem to understand the warnings all girls have heard over the years. That, or he just doesn't care. You don't know him well enough to pass that kind of judgement.
"Uh, no. I always make my own drinks at parties."
"That's understandable." Except it isn't. He doesn't have a clue. 
"Well, you can go grab one, and I'll just finish this one for you. Don't want it to go to waste."
It's your turn to smirk now. "That desperate to swap spit, Zacharias?" 
"Like this?" He laughs through his nose. "Nah. But I can think of other ways."
"We've been talking for literally two minutes."
"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions in two minutes."
"Not any good ones obviously."
Tilting his head, Mike thinks out loud, "Can't tell if that's an insult aimed at me or yourself." 
"Take it however you want. I don't really care."
His eyes glint with amusement. There's no way you're escaping this any time soon. 
Long, thick fingers close around the top of your can, and he gently tugs it out of your hand then keeps those eyes locked with yours as he takes a sip. 
"Gross." You try to keep the teasing tone from your voice. 
"Just go get another drink."
You actually listen, mostly to get away from him but also because you could go for something easier to stomach. 
A game of King's Cup is going on in the kitchen, a five obviously being drawn because everyone suddenly pantomimes holding a steering wheel. It's surprisingly fun to watch, so you post up next to the counter after mixing orange and pineapple juice with rum. 
"Four's whores!"
"Categories! Different beers!"
"Seven heaven!" 
"Ayyy, waterfall!" 
You shake your head as everyone drinks for way too long. Some people are already swaying in circles where they're sitting. Others are simply red-faced. 
"Wanna play?"
"Jesus! You came outta nowhere."
Mike looks too smug for your liking, but doesn't say anything, just crushes the empty can in his hand and throws it into the trashcan next to the back door, all gooseneck and perfect arch. 
"Let me guess—you're reigning champ at beer pong."
"Nah," he waves you off. "That's Erwin and Nile. King's Cup however…"
"King's Cup isn't even a competition. It's just flipping cards and getting fucked up." 
"Well, yeah, but it's still fun."
You let out a heavy sigh, eyes still trained on the game going on, then concede, "Once this one is over, I'll play. Just to get you off my back." And because he won't have the chance to talk to you for the duration of the game. 
"Excellent."
You manage to finish your drink by the time the round ends, have to rush to make another as Mike strides over to the table and steals the two seats that have been vacated. They're right across from each other. You don't know if you'd prefer that or just sitting next to him so he can't stare at you.
Sauntering over, you plop down and place your drink in front of you. The guy to your right is quick to introduce himself with hooded eyes and a self-assured smile. You give him basically the same treatment that you've been giving Mike, making him pout and turn away as a freckled girl deals out the cards. 
It's fast paced, and you find yourself drinking more than you'd planned. Mike picks you as his buddy (of course), and the guy next to you makes everyone drink for nearly thirty seconds straight when he pulls an ace. 
Still, you find yourself laughing as people scream and curse. You catch eyes with Mike often, and as you finish your second drink, he begins looking very attractive. More attractive than before. So attractive that you allow him to pour your third cup. 
"If you roofied this, I'm gonna be real upset with you," you tell him just before taking a sip. He added more rum than you did, but that doesn't surprise you. 
"Hey, one of Pike's virtues is being a gentleman."
As soon as he says it, about seven people around the table shout, "Pi Kappa Alpha!" like some kind of sports team, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts. 
You're drunk after this game. And, then you make another drink and get plastered. Meandering around the rest of the party, bodies begin to blur together, the music fades in and out, and you barely know what you're saying to Mike anymore as he follows you close behind in the same state. For every drink you've had, he's had two, and now he's walking around with a cup full of jungle juice nodding at his brothers, smiling at all the girls who look at him.
His room is downstairs unlike most of the others, right at the end of the hallway. It makes it far too easy to end up inside, but as soon as the door closes and his huge hands find your hips, your world disappears entirely. 
*
The first thing you feel when you wake up is a nauseating pounding in your head. The second is a very large body behind you. 
God dammit, you think, trying to recall the events of the night before. 
Pi Kappa Alpha. Hitch left you, so you hung out with… Mike Zacharias? From the lacrosse team? 
Frowning, you try to look over your shoulder, but all you can really see is a head of hair. However, you can feel the coarseness of his beard against your bare shoulder, and that's enough to solidify that it is indeed Mike behind you. 
Shifting some brings more of your physical state to your attention—your naked chest under the blanket, the way your legs are pressed together, your pussy between your thighs… swollen? Jesus, what did he do to you last night? You can also feel something dry and crusty on your stomach which is both disgusting and relieving. At least he had enough sense to pull out. 
Luckily, his arm isn't wrapped around you which makes it much easier to sit up on your elbow. It takes you a while to locate your clothes around the room from where you are, and even then, all you can find are your shorts, shoes, and bra. You peer around, trying not to groan at the headache threatening to make you black the fuck out all over again, but that pounding as well as the nauseating churning of your stomach is making it difficult. 
You slide out of the bed, basically crawling to the little pile of discarded clothes. As you fumble with fastening your bra, you glance around one more time in search of your shirt and cardigan, but it’s no use. What you do see, however, is the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt  Mike had been wearing the night before, and well… You’d rather not leave the Pike house topless, so…
Snatching it off the floor, you slip your arms through the giant sleeves and somehow manage to button up about half of it. Then, you’re flying out the door, desperate to be in your own dorm, curled over your own toilet, in your own clothes. 
Oh, thank god his room wasn’t upstairs, you praise, trying to remember the way to the front door. There are numerous bodies and tipped over cups to navigate through, and you cringe at the various odors that assault your senses. 
You see the door from across the room, so close and getting closer as you try not to trip over anything, but as you pass the kitchen, you hear a smooth, familiar voice greet, “Good morning,” in a smug way. 
Erwin is leaning against a counter, smirking over a steaming cup of coffee. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair is a little mussed, and for a split second, you understand why he pulls so many girls. 
Still, you roll your eyes and continue moving—a classic DNE situation, but the frat boy doesn’t seem to get the message, instead calling out, “Nice shirt!”
“Fuck off, Smith,” is the only thing you utter before leaving, slamming the door behind you. 
*
Mike easily catches the frisbee that spins directly at his face then quickly throws it back to try and catch Nile off guard. It works, and the brunet curses and has to go running after the flying disc. 
A few girls watching from the nearby fountain clap and yell his name, wriggling fingers in a wave as if he can actually see that far away. Mike gives one wave of his own hand then turns back to the grass where Nile is jogging back to his place.
“You did that on purpose, you asshole!” He spits.
Mike shrugs his shoulders, yells back, “Get better at frisbee, and you won’t have this problem!”
Nile throws the plastic so hard that it flies off toward the fountain, making all those girls scream and dive for cover. 
“Yeah, I’m not getting that,” Mike shakes his head. Nile drags his fingers down his angular face before setting off on yet another trek, apologizing profusely then standing around to flirt like usual.
Blowing hair out of his face, Mike considers joining his brother, but before he can, he sees a familiar figure turning on the sidewalk, about to pass the fountain and head toward Hartley Hall. 
His feet are moving before he really registers it, glad his long legs can carry him quickly even at a walk. Mike calls out when he’s a couple yards away, and you turn to him, eyes growing wide before you start to move faster. 
He can just barely make out the words, “Nope. Not doing this,” and chuckles, catching up the rest of the way.
“Hey, chill, I just wanna talk.”
You turn to look at him, head tilted up, squinting against the sun, and Mike has never been more thankful for his height because you look so god damn cute all small and irritated with him. 
“What is there to talk about? I don’t even remember anything.”
“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, lacing fingers together behind his head. “Shame.”
“Whatever.”
Mike tries and fails to hide a snort, nods at Nile as you both pass him and the gaggle of girls surrounding him. Mike has no doubt his friend will get at least one phone number out of it, if not all of them. 
“Did you at least have a good time before you blacked out?” He ventures.
You shrug your shoulders, hitch your backpack up a little higher. “Maybe. But, if I was just around you the whole time, probably not.”
“Aw, come on! What did I ever do to you?”
“You need a list?”
Mike nods. “Would probably help.”
“For brevity's sake, I’ll just say that you started the night trying to get a literal stranger to shotgun a beer and ended the night fucking said stranger and… Not holding back, apparently.” Mike frowns, about to ask what you mean by that, but you elaborate before he can. Voice dropping, you question, “Do you have any idea how fucking sore I’ve been for the last few days? What the fuck do you even have hidden in those stupid shorts?”
“I’d be happy to show you again.” He grins sideways, and when you shoot him a venomous look, he figures it’s time to change the subject. “Anyway, I may have done that and more, but you’re the thief.”
“Excuse me?”
Mike tries to sound nonchalant as he accuses, “Stole my shirt and everything." Honestly, he's a little upset that he didn’t actually get to see you wearing it. 
“I—”
“That’s my favorite shirt, you know?”
You laugh. Finally. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“That shirt is fucking heinous, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t burn it.”
“Does that mean I can have it back?”
You make a little noise in your throat, something between a grumble and a growl, but you check your phone and tell him, “Fine. My next class isn’t for another couple of hours, so just…Follow me.”
It takes immense effort to not skip to your dorm like a little kid, but Mike is excited. He’s not gonna try anything weird, but just seeing your space? He’ll be able to get a better feel for you. So far, all he knows is that you live and breathe sarcasm and can’t handle your liquor well. It’s enough to get him a little more than interested, but it’s not enough to go off of.
The two of you gain a few looks as you make your way through the shared study space of the dormitory, heads turning, eyebrows raising in recognition. No one should be all that surprised; it’s not like Mike and Erwin haven’t frequented a lot of these rooms. 
You lead him down a hallway, and Mike looks at all the little dry-erase intro boards hanging outside of every door. He’s a little surprised to see that the one by yours isn’t blank. Your name is written in bubble letters, surrounded by little hearts, and when you catch him looking at it, you’re quick to tell him, “Hitch.”
“Ah. Of course.”
He follows you inside, staying by the door to not invade too much of your space, but he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he looks around the small room. Pennant for the college hung up over a cork bulletin board that’s a mess of photos and sticky notes. Cluttered desk with just enough of it cleared to fit a laptop. Tiny succulents on the window sill. Double bed covered in a quilt. And there, in the open closet, Mike catches sight of his shirt—pastel pink and littered with palm trees. 
After dropping your backpack on your bed, you step over to the hanging clothes and grab it, muttering, “Ridiculous,” as you hand it over.
Mike laughs as he slings it over his shoulder. “You know what’ll make you hate it even more?” You quirk an eyebrow, probably doubting that anything could, but your entire face falls when he informs you, “I have matching shorts to go with it.”
“No you do not.”
“Definitely do.”
“That should be a crime. You should be arrested.”
He chuckles, has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something catches his eye—a bookshelf tucked away in the corner by your bed overflowing with novels and knick-knacks. Mike sees a particularly thick paperback, recognizing the black background and small desert picture on the spine.
“Bro!” He walks over, plants a hand in the middle of your mattress, and reaches for it. “Is this fucking Dune?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“This is, like, my favorite book, dude.”
“Seriously?” You sound just as disbelieving as you do disinterested. 
Mike begins flipping through it, scanning over highlighted passages as he nods. “I have the whole series back home, but I only brought this one and Messiah with me to college.”
He straightens up but keeps a knee on the edge of the bed, and you plop down to sit on it, watching him closely as he continues to look over the notes scribbled in the margins. 
“I had to read it in high school," you tell him. "Then my cousin gave me a lot of the books after I talked with him about it one time. I haven’t gotten around to reading them, though.”
“You really should,” Mike urges. “I mean, I know you probably have a shit ton of reading for classes, but if you ever get the chance, you should at least read the next two.”
“You some kind of closet nerd, Zacharias?”
“Kinda,” he admits, putting the book back on the shelf only to grab a worn copy of Fellowship of the Ring. “I mean, Erwin and a few others are well aware, but I don’t really broadcast it.”
“Not good for the cool guy image?” 
“Nah, people are just more interested in other things,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the tiny print.
“Mike Zacharias,” his gaze flicks to you as you laugh quietly. “Lacrosse god and big fucking geek.”
He closes the book and uses it to lightly hit you on the top of the head with it. You half-heartedly smack him right in his abs only to push against the muscle harder and ask, “Jesus Christ, what do you have under there?”
“You know, that’s the second time you’ve asked what I have under my clothes,” he points out, a little too satisfied. “Better watch out, or I’m gonna start getting ideas.”
You huff, but your hand is definitely still on his stomach, unmoving but warm through his shirt. Mike told himself he wouldn’t do anything weird once he got here, but you’re already on the bed and touching him, and he’d kind of really like to have this particular experience while sober, so he very slowly takes your wrist and moves it away. 
It makes you look up at him, a question dancing in your eyes as your lips part. Mike makes sure his own stare conveys everything he’s thinking, wishes he could just transplant his thoughts into your brain so that he can put you a little more at ease around him. 
You’re onto him, though, tugging your hand from his grip and blinking a few times. He figures you’re about to point to the door and tell him to take his fucking Hawaiian shirt and leave. 
Instead, you pull on the fabric covering his ribs so that he loses his balance and has to catch himself before crashing into you. It puts his face level with yours, and you take the opportunity to kiss him—hard, desperate, and a little confused judging by the way you’re frowning. 
Mike grunts, holding himself up with the arm on the side of your hips then uses the other to slide under the thigh closest to him and pull you further onto the bed. He’s straddling you in no time, up on his knees so that he doesn’t crush you. 
Hearing the sound of shoes hitting the ground, he tugs his shirt off over his head, and then he’s curling over you again. Your mouths grow slick with spit. He slides his tongue past your lips, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair. Mike pushes you back down so that he can strip you down to your bra and panties then takes the time to rid himself of his shoes and shorts.
“Oh, fuck,” he hears you breathe, and when he glances up at you, he finds you staring at what he knows is an intimidatingly large bulge under his boxer briefs. “It makes sense now—the soreness.”
Mike chuckles, slots his forearms on either side of your head and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that.”
You lick his lips and he bites yours, bodies clashing together as he grinds himself against your covered pussy. Eventually Mike is able to snake a hand down your body, making sure to brush over your ribs so that you squirm beneath him. Fuck, he already loves the way you squirm. And, when he moves your panties to the side and teases your little hole, already wet just from making out, Mike discovers that he loves the way you moan too. 
He’s slow as he pushes a finger in, groaning when you clench around it. Pumping it in and out, he gently works you open and wonders if he was courteous enough to do this the other night. He hopes he was. 
You spread your legs for him, start bucking into his hand, especially when he hits that special spot inside you. 
“Fuck, fuck, fu—” You grab his face, bringing it close to yours again so that you can muffle curses against his lips. 
When Mike adds a second finger, your jaw drops, and you start to tremble. 
“Too much?” He asks.
You shake your head, stutter a breathy, “N-no. Just—ah—slow. Go slow.”
He moves to suck on your neck, promising, ���I will.”
Mike waits until you’re dripping into his palm and spread about as widely as you can be underneath him. Then, and only then does he shimmy out of his underwear and question, “Condom?”
“Bookshelf,” you huff. “In the jewelry box.”
When he opens it, a little ballerina spins, and Mike has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s twisted.”
“Shut up.”
He grabs one of the gold packages and tears it open, then rolls the latex over his cock and discards the wrapper somewhere. 
Mike only gives you his tip first, sits right inside your entrance so that you can squeeze him and get used to the feeling before he pushes in any more. You barely shift your hips back and forth, like an experiment. It’s just enough for Mike to see slick coating the end of the condom, and he nearly starts drooling.
He presses in a little more, appreciates the way your eyes roll into the back of your head, then adds one more inch.
“Jesus Christ.” Your breaths are coming in short gasps, words slurring together. He’s not even halfway in, and you’re already fucked out. 
Your cunt is spasming around him, and Mike tries to get you to relax more by lightly rubbing your clit with the pad of his thumb. 
You leak around him, pussy slowly but surely opening up a little more so that he can slide in further. He gives a few shallow thrusts that make you whine, then reaches up to grab one of your pillows which only sends him deeper. 
“God dam—”
Mike lifts you and shoves the pillow under your hips, smiles in a way he’s pretty sure you hate, then jokes, “Better to fuck you with, my dear.”
“In...sufferable…” The annoyed tone is lost when you cry out. Mike buries himself as far as he can without hurting you. He isn’t quite balls deep, but you feel so fucking good that he doesn’t even mind. 
Starting a steady rhythm that has every upthrust dragging over your g-spot, Mike watches through foggy eyes as your mouth opens and closes, chest rising with stuttering breaths before you exhale and moan. He dips his thumb between your folds to gather a little bit of slick and return it to your clit. The circular motion makes you arch again, and Mike abandons the little bud for just a moment so that he can unclasp your bra and pull it off. The sight of your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts almost does him in, but he holds back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself.
You’re just clamping around him so perfectly, pussy drooling and creaming on his cock, and Mike is not a quickshot, but for you—
He pulls out all at once, flips you so that you’re on hands and knees, then spreads you open to lick into you from behind. 
“Holy—” 
Mike’s cock is throbbing where it bobs against his stomach, but he can ignore it for the most part, focused on eating you out, sucking at your messy lips then dragging the flat of his tongue over your hole. He moves his face back and forth, wants to leave his mark on you in the form of stubble burn between your legs. 
“Mike, Mike, fuck, please.”
He’s positive you can’t actually hear him when he teases, “Please what?” right into the crevice of your ass. 
You growl, push against him, and swallow enough pride to beg, “Please fuck me.”
Biting his lip, Mike straightens up enough to watch his fingers disappear into your pussy. One, two, then a third that makes your messy entrance stretch for him. He lowers his face again, feather light licks around your sensitive hole, and when he twists his wrist so that he can tap on your spot, you come immediately. 
A mixture of slick and squirt drips from your cunt and soaks into your quilt. Mike pushes more out as he continues to finger fuck you, humming at the way your arms give out and you fall against the mattress. 
This is the perfect position for him. He replaces his wet fingers with his cock and ruts into you quickly, chasing after his own impending orgasm. Pretty little whimpers fall from your lips, fuck drunk as you babble, “Oh, god, Mike, Mike, fuck…”
He’s gripping your hips too tightly, pulling you back against him, shoving his cock deeper and deeper until he finally comes with a shudder and a low groan. 
Mike pants for a few seconds, then leans down to press a few kisses to your spine, but instead of the usual happy sighs he gets from most girls, you just roll your shoulders and mutter, “Stop that.”
He does, then pulls out, takes a second to stare at your pussy—worked open from his size and still dripping. It would make a very pretty picture, but Mike wouldn’t dare try that with you. 
You roll onto your back, a huff of air leaving your lungs as you scrub a hand over your face then tilt your head to him. It looks like you have something to say, but you just chew on your bottom lip, eyes moving from Mike to the door.
And, he can take a hint. You don’t have to say it. 
With a self-deprecating snort, he pulls the condom off, tying it then tossing it into the trashcan by your bed. 
“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Let me just…” Mike tugs his clothes back on, kindly tosses you your top so that you can cover yourself like you obviously want to. 
He makes sure to grab the Hawaiian shirt that brought him here in the first place, tossing it over his shoulder then striding to the door. 
Chancing one more glance at you, you force a smile and try to pad his bruised ego. “Don’t worry, it was good. You were good. It’s just not gonna happen again.”
Mike fights a smirk, raises a hand in a wave, then steps out.
Not gonna happen again, he chuckles to himself. Yeah, right.
*
You don't understand how this keeps happening, how you keep ending up in bed with Mike fucking Zacharias. 
This time you had gone to the disgusting bar right off campus, got one whole drink in your system before the familiar trio walked in. They were all in khakis and pastels—Erwin in blue, Nile in yellow, Mike in pink. Again. 
You actually slammed your head down on the bartop because despite how basic he looked in his light polo, Mike was still hot. 
Is still hot. 
Back at the Pi Kappa Alpha house, you're a mess of limbs on his bed. You take immense pleasure in tugging his shirt off, and once his arms are free again, he's lifting the hem of your little skirt and mouthing over your thong. 
You're more than tipsy after a couple more drinks but nowhere near as drunk as you were the first night. It hadn't taken much convincing from Erwin for you and Hitch to play pool with them, and when Mike had come up behind you to help you line up your shot, you knew you were a goner. 
While he's busy between your legs, you take off your shirt and bra. Green eyes flick up as soon as you toss both articles on to the floor, and without any hesitation, Mike reaches up to grope your tits. 
He's clumsy and distracted as he tongues over the warmth pooling in your underwear, squeezing plump flesh and pinching your nipple so that you whine and push your hips further into his face. 
Mike groans, just as drunk if not more so. He's messy as he kisses your thighs, nearly rips your thong when he pulls it off of you. 
His tongue feels good, too fucking good as he laves over your entrance, soothing an ache that isn't quite there anymore but definitely was a few days ago. 
"Taste so fucking good," he grumbles, slurping and sucking and making you squeeze your thighs around his head. 
"Okay," you pant. "Okay, okay." You grab him by the hair and lift his head from you, stomach flipping at the sight of the bottom half of his face absolutely covered in slick. 
God dammit, why is he so sexy? 
Your mouth waters, and the thought of possibly giving him head this time crosses your mind. You're just inebriated enough to stay relaxed, didn't drink to the point of throwing up, and he has gone down on you the last two times so... 
Lizard brain taking over, you sit up, tell him to flip over, then start making your way down his body. 
Mike grabs you before you can turn to face him, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling you down to sit on his face. 
"Fucking—I'm trying to blow you, for Christ's sake."
He moves his head just enough to tell you, "So? You can do that while I do this."
And, he's not wrong. It just means that you're gonna get distracted. 
For a while, all you can really do is control your breathing and undulate on top of him, but eventually you fall to your elbows and lick up his shaft from base to tip. 
Mike really does have a nice cock—a beautiful cock—bigger than you've ever taken in terms of both length and girth, and veiny in the perfect way. Even his balls make your pussy throb, large and round, the right just slightly bigger than the left and now dripping with saliva as you lower your mouth further and further onto his cock. 
The feeling of his tongue buried in your cunt is making you delirious, eyes rolling, muscles going slack as you gurgle around the tip hitting the back of your throat. 
Mike groans into you, his legs starting to shake, and you assume in your half aware state that he's trying to not just skull fuck you into oblivion. 
You know you're making a mess, both on his face and on his cock. The fingertips that have been holding you open shift, one of them slipping into your clenching hole, and your hips begin to move on their own volition, riding what he'll give you while moving your tongue back and forth. 
You've only taken about half of him, doubt you can take any more. He's hot and heavy in your mouth, and when you pull off to breathe, you can taste pre cum on the back of your tongue. 
It triggers something in you, makes you raise up and clumsily turn around so that you can work him inside of you. 
Mike groans a long, "Fuuuck," and immediately starts thrusting upward. 
You're lucky you're as wet as you are, but the burn that comes with getting so stretched out still makes you hiss. You brace yourself on his broad chest, feeling the dampness of sweat forming a sheen on him, and your own body starts to feel too hot. 
You had wanted to ride him to feel in control of the situation for once, but you quickly realize it's not gonna happen, Mike gripping your hips and moving you how he sees fit. 
He's raw this time, a thought that should scare you, but he feels so good even through the discomfort. Every vein and ridge hits all the sweet spots inside of you, the flared head of his cock smooth as it presses just where you need it to. 
You're squirting again—he just seems to be able to fuck it out of you. It's not the high you're looking for, but the release in pressure still feels divine. 
Mike seems to enjoy it too because he looks down at where you're connected, swears at the way you gush on his cock, then starts swiping fingers over your clit so quickly it almost hurts. 
More fluid leaks from you, and Mike breathes a low, "Come on, baby, come on, 'm gonna fuck you dry tonight." 
Hearing him talk like that—his hand rubbing over your overstimulated clit, his thick cock threatening to split you in two—causes heat to travel up your legs and down your arms until it settles in your stomach and floods you. 
You cry out, stars and tears behind your eyes as Mike keeps going, taking everything he can from you until he's laying in a huge wet spot in his bed. 
He lifts you just in time to shoot cum upward on your chest, white splattering then dripping down in strands to pool on his stomach. 
You stare down at him, mouth hanging open and find him looking up at you with the same expression. 
It's hands down the best sex you've ever had, but you're not about to tell him that. Instead, you dismount him like the fucking horse he is and stand on weak legs, actually have to lean on the bed for support. 
"Just stay the night." His voice is deep and full of gravel. It's entirely too hot. 
"Absolutely not." You shake your head, grab your shirt and his boxers then ask, "Where's the nearest bathroom?" 
"Down the hall on the right, but you don't have to sneak out the window or anything. Just use the front door if you're tryin’ to run away."
You can't help but snort. Stupid. "I'm not trying to escape, dummy. I just need to pee." 
"Oh. Right."
You slip out of the room, hoping it's late enough for everyone to be asleep, but you have no such luck as the door to the bathroom opens and fucking Erwin steps out. 
He hums, looking you over for a moment as his lips lift on one side. 
"Don't say anything," you grit through your teeth. 
He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckles, acting all innocent. "Wasn't going to."
You squint, not believing him for a second, then move around him to get to the bathroom. Before you can shut the door, you hear him mutter, "Another one bites the dust," and consider running out and strangling him.
*
"Please please please come with me to this game," Hitch begs, her hands clasped together, imploring eyes wide and doe-like. 
"No. You have plenty of other friends to go with. You don't need me there."
"But, I want you to be there. It's gonna be such a good match. Rival schools and all that."
You roll your eyes. "Hitch, in all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me give a single fuck about sports?" 
"No, but you'll finally get to see Mike and Erwin and Nile play."
"All the more reason not to go."
"Do you not like them or something? Why wouldn't you like them? Everybody likes them!" 
She doesn't know, and you don't want her to. She had been too caught up with that Marlowe kid at the party, then was kept busy playing pool with Nile to see you and Mike slip out of the bar together. 
It's the only secret you've ever wanted to keep from her. You will take it to the grave. 
"I just… I just don't, okay? I get a… Sleazy vibe from all of them."
You really don't. Not exactly. You're not a big fan of the 'fuck-every-chick-on-capus' mentality, but most college boys think like that. Only difference is these three can actually achieve it. 
Hitch crosses her arms over her chest and gives you a look you've seen on your mother's face many times, usually when she has a point to prove. 
"You know I'm just gonna keep bothering you until you come to one, so why not just get it outta the way?" 
And, there's that point. 
"Ugh." You know she's right, and you really can't put up with this all semester. "Fine, but I'm gonna bitch the entire time."
Hitch squeals and claps, bouncing where she stands. "Yes! Wouldn't have it any other way."
You dress in school colors, put your hair up so that it won't be on your neck as the sun beats down, then take Hitch's little hatchback to the field. You try to talk her into sitting toward the back of the crowd that's gathered on the bleachers, but she just pulls you to the front without acknowledging your request. 
Even with the helmets, you can easily make out who's who, mostly because of their size. Mike and Erwin are doing some kind of pregame ritual where they hit their sticks together, shout something, and chest bump. It's the most alpha thing you've ever fucking seen and makes you question why you ever thought screwing one of them was a good idea. 
To be fair, you never really did think it was a good idea. It just kind of happened. Three times. 
But, it needs to stop. 
You repeat that thought to yourself as you watch Mike sprint across the field and launch the ball into the goal several times. You repeat it as he dances around his opponents with ease, quick footwork until he can throw them off. You repeat it as he stands on the sidelines and takes his helmet off to shake out sweaty hair and squirt water into his mouth. 
And, none of it really helps. Mike is pretty incredible on the field, especially with Erwin and Nile backing him up. Everyone in the stands is screaming, yelling their names and chanting. It's a little contagious, you have to admit. You get as far as clapping but refuse to actually cheer. 
At some point, Erwin jogs over to the bleachers and waves his arms for everyone to get louder, and they sure do. Even through his helmet, you can see his sparkling white smile, and your own lips curl up as you shake your head at him. Unbelievable. He has all these people at his beck and call. 
Erwin has to get back on the field, though, fueled by the crowd like the other nine players. They end up pulling ahead of the other team and finishing the game eleven to seven. 
Naturally, Erwin announces a party at the Pike house, and naturally, Hitch drags you to it. 
This one is even bigger than the last. It offends every one of your senses—too loud, alcohol permeating the air, bad drinks, worse dancing, and strangers rubbing against you as you pass them. 
You give up on your beer before you’re even halfway through with it, just set the can on one of the counters and start milling around. You’d rather be anywhere else but here. Your head hurts from the game earlier, baking in the sun and not drinking enough water. Should’ve taken an Advil… And some Benadryl. Hitch wouldn’t have been able to bring you here if you’d been unconscious. 
All of the lacrosse team is there, flanked with guys who won’t stop slapping them on their backs and girls who won’t stop batting their eyes and squeezing their biceps. It’s comical, really, the fairweather trend. There’s no way this would be happening if they’d lost their last three games. Instead, the team would be getting harassed and pestered, not so subtle comments about practicing more and replacing members. You’ve seen it all before. 
Leaning against a wall, you watch it all unfold. It’s probably the most entertaining thing at the party other than the group of sorority girls dancing on a table. Things are getting out of hand already, and you would prefer not be here for the aftermath, but just as you're about to leave, Mike breaks away from the group and strides over to you.
“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” He takes a sip from his cup, smiling around the rim.
You use your usual excuse: “Hitch,” and he nods. 
“Right. Did you watch the game today?”
Crossing your arms, you mumble a, “Yes,” that Mike can’t hear but can definitely see.
He beams then asks, “You gonna tell me I played well? ‘Cause I did.” He’s all cocksure and giddy, and it makes your body run hot in a few different ways.
“I don’t think you need anyone else fawning over you,” you say with a condescending laugh.
“You mean you don’t want me to flex for you?”
“I’m leaving. Right now." When you push past him a little too roughly, it causes him to drop his cup, and your shirt is suddenly plastered to your chest and stomach. The white isn’t discolored, which leads you to believe, “Fuck, is this just straight vodka?”
“No, Christ,” he cringes at your wet state, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s just water. Sorry.”
You scrunch your top up to wring it out, wondering what he’s doing drinking water instead of liquor, but you’re not about to pick on him for staying hydrated. 
“It’s fine. I was about to leave anyway.”
He’s quick to stop you with a, “No, don’t. Just… change into one of my shirts or something."
Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate how many ways this can go wrong, how much you should not allow this, and even go as far as accusing, "You're just trying to get me in your room again."
"You wanna stay in a wet shirt?" Not really. "Come on."
He jerks his head toward the hallway, and you end up following him, grumbling the whole time because you swear to God if you end up on your back for him again, you're going to be very upset with yourself. 
Mike beelines it for his dresser as soon as you're in the room, much quieter than the rager outside. He digs around in it, flipping all the way to the bottom then pulls out a heather gray tee. 
"It'll probably still be a little big, but it's from high school, so you shouldn't drown in it."
He tosses it to you then, to your surprise, turns back to the wall to give you the privacy to change. You eye him the whole time, peeling off your top as well as your bra since it soaked through. His shirt still covers your little shorts, and you assume you look a lot like one of those sorority girls, but it's good enough, has that super soft feeling from being worn too much. 
"Thanks. You can, uh… You can turn around now."
Mike looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure you're decent, then turns around fully. 
"I was trying to get outta there anyway. Spilling a drink on you was a good excuse."
You open your mouth, choking on a scoff, then ask, "Did you do that on purpose?" 
"No! It really was an accident. I'm glad it was just water, but I still feel bad."
You're squinting at him, but now you're curious about something else.
"Why'd you wanna get away from the party?" 
Sighing, Mike shows a tired smile. "Honestly, I'm still worn out from the game. I'm already sore and covered in these god damn bruises. I just wanna relax."
"If you're covered in bruises, I can't imagine how the other team feels. You smacked the shit outta some of 'em."
"So, you were watching."
"I may have glanced up once or twice," you lie. "Anyway, why don't you just hide out in here?" 
He shrugs his shoulders. "Erwin insisted I show my face, and I didn't want him to give me shit about being a recluse."
You can relate. It's why Hitch drags you everywhere. You wouldn't even leave your dorm for classes if you didn't have to. 
Still. "Dude. You're definitely not a recluse. You're fucking everywhere. All the time."
"So? I can get tired too."
He's got a point. 
"Can we just chill in here for a while?" He asks you. 
"Why do you need me to chill? You basically just said you needed a break from social interaction."
"Yeah, but not all social interaction," he corrects with a small grin. "Please? I've got movies and video games, Zelda and shit."
Again, the contemplation kicks in, all the pros and cons. You know very well what this can (will) lead to, but you also want to escape the party. And, if Hitch whines about you leaving, you can tell her you were there the whole time. Not like it's a lie. 
"Fine, but I have some stipulations."
"Oh, do you?" 
"I do."
Mike waves a hand for you to go on. "Let's hear 'em then."
Holding up one finger, you tell him, "You have to let me snoop around your room—" he laughs. You lift another finger, "—and we are not, under any circumstances, having sex."
"Deal." 
You tilt your head, taken aback at how quick he is to agree. "Wait, seriously?" 
"Seriously. Go ahead. I'll pull up Hulu."
You hum, still suspicious, but start making your rounds, taking in photos from what you assume to be the high school soccer team he played on, then a fishing trip with Erwin, a middle-aged couple with a dog, and some pinned up tickets to sporting events he's attended. 
He has a bookshelf against a wall, textbooks at eye level, but the top and bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi and fantasy novels that make you smile. His TV is fairly large, big enough to see the picture from his bed which is also sizable and draped with a plush comforter. The last thing that catches your eye is his closet, halfway open and full of jerseys and Polos. A few different pairs of shoes sit at the bottom, but pushed all the way in the corner are a few boxes of fucking Magic the Gathering cards. 
"Oh, man. You really are a closet nerd. Like, literally."
"Huh?" Mike looks over at where you're kneeling, realizes what you're looking at and actually sounds self-conscious when he admits, "Yeah, uh, I wasn't joking the other day." 
"I've never played—too technical for me—but my friends in high school did."
"There are baseball cards back there too if that makes me any cooler."
"It doesn't," you say bluntly before straightening up and reaching to shut the door to his room. Plopping down on the floor next to him (where he was smart enough to sit), you add, "But even I can admit it's kind of endearing."
"Oh yeah?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, that stupid lopsided grin on his too-handsome face. 
"Don't get cocky, Zacharias." 
"You wouldn't let me if I wanted to."
Both of you agree to a Batman movie, and you make yourself comfortable, kicking your sandals off and leaning against the bed behind you. You're a little too aware of Mike's body beside yours, but you're able to ignore it for the most part, keeping a few inches between your arms and legs. Of course, he still brushes against you when the movie ends and he takes the time to stretch. His shoulders roll, making his shirt strain over his back, and when he holds his arms out, linked at his fingers, you can't help but take a quick look at his bulging biceps. 
"Fuck, I'm gonna feel like garbage tomorrow," he complains. You can see the bruises littering his arms, some of them thick lines while others are almost perfectly circular from where he was hit with the end of a lacrosse stick. 
"You have any classes?" You ask. 
"Just my ten o'clock and three o'clock."
You make a noise of acknowledgement then fall silent. You're not sure how to hold a conversation with him that isn't sarcastic or snippy since you haven't actually done a lot of talking in the first place. 
"Sucks," is all you can come up with. 
"It's alright. I've probably dealt with worse."
"Probably?" 
"Well, nothing really comes to mind, but I'm sure I have."
You should get going. It's late, and you have a nine AM tomorrow. Plus, the longer you sit next to Mike, the more ideas pop up in your head. Dirty ideas. Ideas that will leave you disappointed in yourself. 
"Well, I'm gonna head back. This has been…" You're unsure of what word to use, don't want to get his hopes up by saying 'fun'. 
Mike figures you out and offers, "Tolerable?" 
"Yeah, we can go with that. I'll get your shirt back to you sometime soon."
Mike chuckles and gets to his feet. "Just whenever you can." He grabs your wet top from the ground and holds it out to you, then reaches for the door as you slip on your sandals. 
You feel him close behind you, close enough for his chest to push against your back when you straighten up. His arm is pressing into your side, hand curled around the knob and twisting it, but he's unable to open the door as you let your head fall against it. 
"God dammit." 
"Hm?" You can tell he's leaning down because his breath falls just over your ear. 
"I said we weren't—"
He cuts you off, "But, you want to."
He's too hot and too smooth, and you can’t stop yourself from turning around and breathing, "Yeah, I want to." 
It's different tonight. Mike takes his time undressing you, kissing and sucking your neck, your collarbone, your nipples that pebble against his tongue. It's unnerving even as you squirm and moan. 
He eats you out lazily, flattening his tongue against your folds then dipping into your slit so that he can slip into your twitching hole. 
When he adds a finger, you immediately grind down on it, silently begging him to work you open enough to take his cock, but he doesn't move any faster, apparently content to just drive you insane. 
You're nearly begging by the time he turns you on your side and moves to lay behind you, hiking your leg up and pushing most of his length inside of you in one faultless motion that makes you choke and sob his name. 
That stretch is back, delicious as it is painful as he splits you open. His thrusts are the same slow pace, cock dragging against gummy walls as he drapes an arm over you to toy with your swollen clit. 
It takes you both longer than usual to come, but when you do, your whole body trembles against him, and you have to suck in several deep breaths until you feel like your lungs start actually filling with air. 
Mike paints your back with warm cum, groaning right in your ear as he rubs against you, his cock sliding easily up and down your skin and making more of a mess. 
That unnerving feeling blooms in your chest again, crawls up into your throat. 
Tonight had been too casual, too natural. The way you hung out and watched a movie was already a little strange. Him fucking you from behind, holding you tight against his body, was too tender. And, now, after he leaves to grab a wet towel and uses it to clean your back, you find yourself searching for words again only to come up with passionate—intimate. 
And, words like that scare you.
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[ n e x t ]
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alltooreid · 3 years
Text
I Think He Knows
Y/N has a huge crush on Spencer Reid, so huge she embarrasses herself every time she tries to talk to him. She is convinced he is aware to all her pathetic attempts at flirting and just chooses to ignore it, but turns out Spencer may be a little more clueless than she thought.
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A/N: Hope yall enjoy this cute fluffy fic! I’ve been having a rough couple of days so writing a fun fluff like this was really comforting :) yes it is inspired by the t swift song, but you don’t need to know the song to read and enjoy! also my requests are open so let me know what you want to see! (also sorry if this is kind of short, but i’ve been super busy and wanted to put something out :)))
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader
Type: a cute pining fluff fic
Word Count: 2.3K
Content Warnings: mentions of alcohol, otherwise none.
“He got that boyish look that I like in a man I am an architect, I'm drawing up the plans It's like I'm seventeen, nobody understands No one understands”
“He has to know Penelope, I’m not exactly subtle.”
You and Penelope spent the majority of your lunch breaks in her office, discussing anything and everything. Recently however, the point of contention had been a certain young genius. One who you had a huge crush on.
“Spencer Reid may be a genius, and one of the best profilers I have ever seen but he most certainly does not know,” she said, as she drizzled more dressing on her salad.
“He has to, it feels like everyone knows. . . Do you think everyone knows?”
She shrugged, “They might, I know my Chocolate Thunder hasn’t picked up on it yet.”
“You haven’t told him? It’s already been a week since I’ve told you! How did you keep it a secret for so long?”
“You asked me very nicely not to tell anyone! Plus this one seems really important to you. I don’t want to go around telling people and for Reid to hear it in office gossip.”
You smiled, “Well you Penelope Garcia are the best, best friend ever.”
“You know it, now I know you desperately want to repay me for my services, and you can by giving me those exact ranch packets you have in your bag,” she said.
“They’re all yours, now let’s discuss something other than my pathetic schoolgirl crush. Like how stupid Kevin’s sweater was today.”
“Kevin? The other internal affairs technical analyst? Yeah what the heck was he wearing?”
“You know, I’m tired of having to carry the weight of the brains, looks and fashion sense out of the two of us,” you said. “Though, that is a good way to gather attention . . . I wonder if Spencer would actually hold a conversation with me if I wore something as ugly as that.”
She laughed, “You know I think that might send you backwards.”
You stabbed your lettuce, “At this point I’ll try anything.”
Before Penelope could respond, someone interrupted your lunch, your only other friend on the BAU team, Emily Prentiss.
“Oh hi Y/N! How are you!”
“I’m good Emily, what kind of gross things are you here to deliver today?” you and Emily joined the FBI at around the same time, and found comfort in the fact that you were both total try-hards. Emily was going to eat lunch with you and your fast friend Penelope, at least on days when she was in the office for lunch, but you and her both agreed that she should eat lunch with the team so that they can get used to having her around.
“Just some paperwork, no cases yet, knock on wood. Also I just wanted to say hello! What are you guys eating?” she asked, pulling up a chair.
“Some salads from that takeout veggie place PG is always talking about. I told you I was going vegetarian right?” “You did not! That’s great Y/N! We need to talk more, like we used to when we first started here,” she sighed, then perked up, “We should have girls night! Remember how fun it was that night at the bar? With Brad the real FBI agent?”
“Yes! We should! You know, Gideon’s replacement comes tomorrow, we should celebrate!” Garcia said.
“You know, I don’t know if the best way to celebrate a new agent is by drinking without them, but I’m down. We’ll toast our girls night to agent Rossi. Someone ask JJ if she’s busy.”
JJ was not busy, but when you and Emily asked, Morgan overheard.
“So am I not invited to the party?”
“Well it was supposed to be girls night . . . but I think PG would throw a fit if I turned down her 2nd favorite person in this building, so I guess you can come,” you teased. “You should come too Spencer!”
“I don’t know, that’s not really my thing . . “
“Oh come on! I know I would love to see you there,” you then realized that you were embarrassing yourself being so forward. “And I’m sure everyone else would too!”
“Alright, I’ll come, but I’m not drinking.” he said firmly. 
Before you could respond, Penelope magically appeared. “Good, you can be completely sober when Y/N gets wasted and embarrasses herself,” she said.
“PENELOPE! I’m not the light weight here! you’ll see Spencer, she’s actually awful. Two shots in and she’ll be on the floor,” this was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Spencer grimaced. “But it’ll be so much fun! You have to be there! You already said yes!”
“I just don’t know if seeing all of my coworkers get drunk while I watch is my idea of a fun evening. . .”
“Trust me! I’ll even stay sober with you, so we can judge them together. It’ll be a blast.”
“Ok, I’ll be there . . . but for now I need more coffee,” he pulled his chair out and walked towards the office kitchen. You silently cheered, forgetting how people were still standing around you.
“Well,” you awkwardly laughed, “um, I guess I better be getting back to my neck of the woods. I’m not a hot shot profiler like the rest of you guys . . . so see you all later!” You tried to escape before anyone interrogated you about your conversation with Spencer. However, a certain profiler followed quickly behind you. 
“So. . . you and pretty boy huh?”
“Shut it Morgan.”
{⋅. ♪ .⋅}
You stayed true to your word that night, Spencer stuck to water and you enjoyed a diet soda. The bartender, who you had grown fairly used to seeing on your many nights out, was shocked to hear you didn’t want any alcohol in it. 
It’s probably a good thing that you didn’t drink, you already embarrassed yourself enough in front of Spencer fully sober.
“So Spencer, you know that new bookstore you said you were going to go to after work a couple weeks ago?”
“New bookstore . . .? Oh yeah! What about it?”
“Well after I heard you talking about it I decided to check it out . . . It’s really nice there! I go like every other night now! We should totally go together sometime.” Luckily, you were sober enough to keep a secret: the fact you were only going so much in the hopes of running into him.
“Oh really? If I’m being honest I wasn’t super impressed with their selection, it was mostly contemporary fiction. And all in English . . . Not really my thing,” when he saw the way your face dropped he quickly changed his tone, “but it’s great if that’s your thing!”
This. Is. Humiliating. The amount of times you had gone and bought books from the bookstore, you were there almost every night hoping to run into him after work and start a conversation. You felt stupid, of course he wouldn’t want to go on a book store date with you. If Spencer Reid didn’t like you so much that he wouldn’t even go to a bookstore with you, there’s no chance at a relationship.
“Oh haha, yeah you’re right it’s totally lame. . .”
“Didn’t you just say you went there all the time?”
“No! When did I say that? You must be drinking Dr. Reid,” you said, quickly hopping off your bar stool, and running towards Morgan and Garcia, not turning around to see how confused Spencer was, but only being able to imagine him as relieved. Relieved he didn’t have to make conversation with you anymore.
“I’m blowing this PG, he totally hates me.”
Morgan laughed, “Y/N, you’re acting silly, this isn’t high school, we aren’t seventeen, stop dancing around it and just go ask him out.”
“Morgan, he doesn’t want to go to a bookstore with me, no way he’s agreeing to a date.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, maybe he’s just not in the mood to go?”
“You go ask him then, 20 bucks he says yes.”
“You’re on Y/N/N.”
7 minutes later Morgan returned and without a word pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and deposited it into your hand. “Sorry, Y/N.”
Penelope then piped up, “I’m telling you Y/N, he just doesn’t know. That boy is clueless.”
You scoffed, “I think he knows Penelope. I’ve made it pretty clear.”
“Have you told him?”
You were thrown off, “Um, no but-”
“Well then you haven’t made it clear enough, have you sugar?”
You almost said something, but you couldn’t really think of a good rebuttal for the argument. So instead, you downed Penelope’s half dranken frozen margarita, and headed back over to Spencer.
“Hey!” he said as you made your way back over, “I was wondering where you went, after you left Derek came over and asked to go to that bookstore with me, isn’t that extraordinary. . .”
“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you blurted out.
“What?”
You sighed, “I’ve had a crush on you since like, forever, and I keep planning all these ways to ask you subtly but it’s just not working so I’m asking now. Do you want to go on a date with me?”
“You like me? I didn’t know that . . .”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not, I thought you were just being nice. You’re nice to everyone and I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
You smirked, “Get your hopes up? Does that mean you’re obsessed with me too Dr. Reid?”
He laughed in response, “Yeah, you could definitely say that.”
You dug through your purse and pulled out your keys, “Ok, then let’s get out of here.”
He paled, “And do what?”
“We’re going on our first date.”
He smiled, and you both got up off your bar stools and headed out the door, ignoring Morgan’s snide remarks as you passed. 
{⋅. ♪ .⋅}
You couldn’t help but smile as you drove. Every couple of seconds you couldn’t help but look over at Spencer, getting lost in his brownish hazel eyes, which looked indigo in the night. He would smile, the kind of smile people write silly little romance songs about and spend verses to describe, and tell you to pay attention to the road before you run off of it. You would laugh, tell him to calm down. Although originally you had an idea of where you were going, now you just wanted to drive in circles, to bask in this memory. 
“So where are we going?” he asked.
“Think about it Doctor Reid . . .” you replied, teasing him in the way you’ve imagined since you met him. 
You pulled up to that little bookstore on 16th avenue, the one you couldn’t stop going to out of the sheer chance Spencer might be there, the one that was obviously closed this late at night, but was too perfect not to spend your first date at. 
“Although this is beautifully symbolic, it’s almost 2 in the morning, this place closes at 8. We’re 5 hours, 49 minutes and 17 seconds late.”
You smiled and pulled out your ring of keys, “You know, when I spent hours a night hanging around here after work, hoping that you would happen to come shop for books and see me here too, the woman who owns this store got pretty curious. So I told her why I was here, and after she got done laughing at me she offered me a key, so that if I ever had the guts to ask you out, I could take you here no matter what.” You turned the key and swung the door open, gesturing him inside and locking the door behind you, “but we have to keep the lights off, so no one comes by and tries to get in.”
You and Spencer sit in the non-fiction section, and enjoy the silence for a few seconds before you have an idea, “Read me something Reid.”
He reached up, pulling a book off of the shelf without looking, “Are you sure, A Brief History of 1491: Life in America Before Columbus, is first date material?”
“Although that book is anything but brief, anything you read to me will sound stunning coming from your pretty mouth.”
So he begins to read, attempting to slow down to a reasonable pace but still going abnormally fast. You didn’t care though, more than you listened to the history of the late fifteenth century you watched Spencer’s hands. They’re really nice hands.
His right followed the words as he read aloud and his left helped hold the book. He wiggled the fingers on his left hand unconsciously as he spoke, getting into the words of the book. 
After about 25 pages he glanced over at you, and you could almost hear the gears turning in his head. After a second he went back to the page, and continued reading. You didn’t think anything of it until a couple minutes later, when his hand made its way to your left thigh.
He held it and you leaned into him, and you both stayed like that until you fell asleep hours later, with his head resting on top of yours. 
At 8:30 Mrs. Betts, the owner of the bookstore, found you and Spencer, arms around each other, the book thrown aside. She smiled, glad to know you had taken her up on her offer. She went to go wake you up but glanced at her watch. She didn’t have to officially open until 10. 
She could definitely spare a couple of minutes. 
“I want you, bless my soul I ain't gotta tell him I think he knows”
- Thank you for reading! Please reblog and let me know what you think :))
ATR’s tiny taglist: @reidingmelodies​
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bunnygirlkate · 3 years
Text
Truth or Dare: Tokoyami x reader
Genre: Fluff (but with sexually suggestive themes)
~1.9k words
Setting: you're in the UA dorms with the rest of your classmates just hanging around, watching videos, playing cards, etc. It's after dinner but too early for bed.
"Guuuyysss! I'm so boorrreeddd" groans Mina. I wanna play a game, something we can all play!
"I'm down for a game, what should we play?" asks Sero. "How about truth or dare?" says Mineta, with an eyebrow raised and that annoying sexually suggestive tone in his voice. Tsu, Ochaco, and Jiro scoff at him, knowing he's thinking something perverted. "Actually… that’s not a bad idea, it could be fun" Mina says. Mineta nods and smirks. He's about to say something but Ochaco jumps in first:
"I’m fine with that, but only if we play a pg-13 version…". 
Everyone in the common area shrugs in agreement, with the exception of Mineta who looks defeated.
 "I'm not usually one to take part in such social games, however, I've got nothing better to do since Shoji and I ran out of card games. I shall join just this once" says Tokoyami.
You like the idea of playing truth or dare, but you're a little nervous. You have a secret crush on Tokoyami. You two have been in the same class for a while but it wasn’t until recently that you started developing a crush on him after you two were paired up for an assignment. To avoid any awkwardness, you try to hide your feelings from him and your other classmates. You're afraid of someone asking you a truth or daring you to do something that would make you look foolish in front of him. Nevertheless, you join the circle with your classmates to play the game. Since there was so many of you (pretty much the whole class), the circle was fairly big.
"Alright" Mina says, clapping her hands together once to get everyone's attention. "Here's how we'll do this… I'll be the host, which means that I'll be asking the questions or giving out dares, but you're welcome to speak up if you come up with a really good truth or dare for someone. Once you receive your truth or dare, you must go through with it! No changing your mind or chickening out! And as Ochaco said before, everything has to be pg-13." Everyone glares at Mineta and Denki who are sitting next to each other in the circle, quietly plotting loopholes through the pg-13 rule. Everyone then nods in agreement to the rules.
Mina goes around the circle asking each person "Truth or Dare" first is Ochaco. She picks truth and Mina asks her who she thinks has the lamest quirk in the class. She's reluctant to respond in fear of hurting anyone's feelings, but eventually she reveals that she thinks Aoyama's quirk is the lamest. Mina quickly goes through Hagakure, Momo, Iida, and Jiro, who all pick truth. She gets to Denki and he's the first to be brave enough to pick dare. Before Mina can talk. Jiro asks her if she can offer the dare.
"Denki, I dare you to… charge my phone!" everyone laughs while Denki, looking very unamused, takes her phone and cord to charge it.
Bakugo is next and of course he picks dare. Instead of making him do something stupid, Mina dares him to 'smile like he means it'. Bakugo is irritated by the boring request and gives a sheepish, forced smile. "Jeez dude, is like you’ve never smiled before…" says Denki, with the phone cord still in his mouth. "shut up, phone charger! I know how to smile! … I just don’t want to". Responds Bakugo, muttering under his breath toward the end. Everyone lets out a soft chuckle.
Its Shoto's turn now and he chooses truth. Again, another student besides Mina offers up a question. 
"I got one for ya, Todoroki" says Denki. "you have to answer honestly. I'm sure we've all been wondering this… do the curtains match the drapes?"
"Hey! That’s not pg-13" yells Mina.
"It’s not like I’m asking him to show us!" says Denki! "It’s just a yes or no question." he smirks. 
"Fine, I'll allow it" says Mina as she crosses her arms.
Shoto stares at Denki for a few moments then responds "I don’t think I understand the question" 
"I believe he is asking about the interior design of your home." says Iida.
"No man, he's asking if the color of your pubes matches the hair on your head" explains Kirishima. 
Shoto blushes slightly and looks down to the floor. "I don’t know why you'd want to know that, but since I'm required to respond truthfully… my pubic hair is mostly white… I think there's a few strands of red hair" he says, still looking at the floor and rubbing his neck with his hand. 
"That was a bit more truth then I was asking for, but okay!" says Denki. 
Shoto looks around the circle to see averted eyes and slightly blushed cheeks (mostly from the girls).
-----------------------------------------
Mina goes through a few more classmates before she gets to you. "Truth or Dare, Y/N?" 
"I'll try a dare" you say, after seeing that the previous dares weren't so bad and the truths were getting a bit to invasive for you.
"Sure thing, but I gotta be honest, I’m getting bored of my own prompts" Mina says, throwing in a fake a yawn. "I'm gonna give you something a little more…interesting." she says with a devilish look on her face as she stares you right in the eyes. 
Your brow starts to sweat as you become anxious at what she may ask you to do. "Y/N, I dare you… to kiss . your. crush. " she says, spacing out the words and saying them in a slightly melodic fashion.
Your face turns beet red as you realize, not only is she asking you to kiss someone (let along the person you like!), but she's also asking you to reveal your feelings to him and everyone watching. You look at her, your mouth open in surprise. 
"You have to do it! It’s in the rules!" Mina says. 
You look down at your lap, still beet red. "I know, I know" you respond. 
You pick your head up and purposely avoid eye contact with Tokoyami, who is sitting across from you in the circle. You and your classmates sat there in silence as you tried to figure out how you were going to do this in a way that was least awkward as possible. 
You finally say "Okay, I’ll do it. But I need everyone to close their eyes, actually, cover them with your hands too so I know nobody’s peeking. While your eyes are closed I'll walk over to the person and sit in front of them. Then I'll tell you when you can look… and that’s when I'll… kiss them…". 
You look around and everyone expresses understanding in some way. Some nod, some give a thumbs up, some say ok. You make sure everyone's eyes are covered. Before you stand up to make your way over to him, you look at Tokoyami covering his eyes with both hands, sitting cross legged, slightly slouched over. So many thoughts rush through your mind as you admire him from afar.
'I can’t believe I’m about to do this. He’s so cute. How do I kiss a beak? What if he doesn’t like me? What if he thinks it’s weird that I have a crush on him!? Oh my god I can’t do this. Ugh. No. I just have to get this over with'
You finally stand up, making your way over to Tokoyami slowly and quietly so that your classmates can’t use their other senses to try and guess where you are. You quietly sit down in front of him, trying to keep your breathing light so he doesn’t sense you're there until your ready. You look at him with his eyes still covered, admiring his appearance up close. You want him to know you're there before everyone else sees. So before you tell everyone to open their eyes, you gently reach up to touch his hands that are resting on his face. His hands twitch slightly, probably because he's surprised that his hands are being touched, or surprised that your sitting in front of him. 
You take his hands into yours and move them away from his face. He opens his eyes, blinking a few times, his beak slightly gaped open. He looks you in the eyes, they're wide with surprise. Your face is still red, but you offer him a small smile. 
"Ok, you all can open your eyes now" you say.
Everyone eagerly looks toward the direction of your voice. Some look surprised, others express a mix of joy and awe. "I knew it!" Mina exclaimed. 
'So this was just a set up, huh?' You think to yourself. 
Tokoyami clears his throat "Y/N, you must be mistaken, I think you’ve got the wrong person…" he says. A bit of confidence flowed through you as you said
"No, I think I've got just the right guy.”
Someone in the circle begins chanting. "kiss, kiss, kiss!" Your eyes meet his again, silently asking for consent. Tokoyami nods to express consent, though still looking surprised. Your hand reaches up to caress and hold underneath of his beak (where his chin would be). As your face moves closer and closer to his, you both close your eyes, and you plant a firm yet gentle kiss on the tip of his beak. It was a bit more then than a peck, lasting about 3 seconds. Everyone cheers.
You end the kiss and take your hand away from his face. Tokoyami looks a bit flustered, its difficult to see him blushing, but you notice that the base of his beak is a bit brighter and slightly more orange. "I'm truly honored, Y/N" Tokoyami says in his deep voice. You give him another small smile, then make your way back to you empty spot on the other side of the circle.
The game goes on, you and Tokoyami share glances every now and then as other students answer their truths or perform their dares. Once Tokoyami's turn came around, he chose truth. 
"Tell us Tokoyami, who do you have a crush on?" asks Mina.
You were partially excited for him to say he has a crush on you, but you were also prepared to have your heart broken. There were so many other people at this school, he could have a crush on any one of them, and you two only had one true close interaction a few weeks ago.
"Well…" Tokoyami started "I'm not really the type to possess a crush on someone, but ever since I got to this school there's someone I've had my sights on". 
You listen with anticipation as he drags out his answer.
"and now I've realized that the feeling is mutual". He says, finishing his statement and giving you a short and flustered glance. 
Your heart filled with joy, although he didn’t directly answer the question by saying your name, you know he was talking about you. Many others in the circle didn’t understand, thus sitting in silence and confusion. Suddenly, Dark Shadow pops out and yells "He likes Y/N!" the class cheers for both of you again as you sit on opposite sides of the circle looking equally happy and embarrassed.
Authors Note: This is my first time writing anything like this, actually my first time writing fiction! I hope it’s acceptable.you can give feedback if you’d like.
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zmediaoutlet · 3 years
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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!
to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 
(read on AO3)
When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.
There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.
Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.
Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?
There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.
After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.
She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.
*
What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?
Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.
Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.
In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.
There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.
Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.
He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.
'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.
In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.
*
What's a life?
Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.
He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?
Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.
He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.
When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.
*
He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.
Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.
The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.
She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.
The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.
He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.
He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.
Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.
Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.
So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"
He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.
Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"
"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"
Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—
What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"
Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.
Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.
It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.
"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.
"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.
"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.
They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.
When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."
"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.
Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.
*
Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.
It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.
He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"
"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"
Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."
He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"
Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."
When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.
In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"
He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."
She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"
No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."
"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."
"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.
"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.
"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."
He kisses her hair, and does.
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britishassistant · 3 years
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From one gut punch to another, but fluff edition: I think Divus hates when Yuu gets sick. Being a test tube baby, Yuu must have missed out on the natural immunities given by typical pregnancy. So when they were really young they would get ill very fast and very terrible. You can’t tell me that first time parents Roger and Anita wouldn’t panic when faced with the dreaded stomach bug. And who else to watch the pup when they run out for supplies then their “Uncle Crew”. At first, Crewel would consider it an triumph that Yuu could get sick since most of his creations have natural immunity, but that immediately changed and suddenly he was panicking too after Yuu had a pretty nasty burst of coughing. After all Yuu is the first creation that he’s ever made that was meant to be fragile, he’s not exactly equipped with how to deal with that. Nowadays Yuu mostly just suffers in silence, but if Crewel happens to hear that a certain reporter is under the weather, The Perfect will mostly likely stumble back into their apartment to find a care package from him with all their childhood treatments and the decent medicine.
@coffee-or-hot-cocoa said: hahaha how about yuu getting sick with a cold, lol the city must be the verge on a civil war with all the villains arguing who takes care of yuu, no crimes where committed but breaking and entering and the occasional medicine theft, they could've had kidnapped a doctor, but nothing says "look i'm husband material" by treating them to get better by helping them themselves. I keep imagining riddle with trey bringing some soup but then being shoved to the side from jade and floyd, with them bringing blankets and medicine, only to be beaten by the savana trio, by them taking a nap with yuu.
Thank you for the ask, dear anon and @coffee-or-hot-cocoa !
And oh. Oh. That makes so much sense and makes me so soft, I declare it canon.
Because Yuu’s lacking in these natural defenses, they tend to be someone who goes all out when they get sick. By which I mean they’re never someone who can have ‘just a light cold’, because their body just goes to the greatest extreme, from 0 to 100 in a matter of hours. They get awful fevers, migraines that leave them hardly able to think, body-wracking coughs, upset stomachs that mean they’re unable to even keep water down, sore throats which quickly devolve into tonsillitis, and that’s if they’re lucky and their symptoms are mild.
And they’ll still try to go to work in this state, because they’re a dumb workaholic.
Yuuken is in charge of turning them around, sitting them back in the car, and driving them home to rest.
It was particularly scary for Anita and Roger when Yuu was small, because chicken pox hit them like a freight train when it went through their class at school, leaving them ill enough for two weeks that they were contemplating taking Yuu to the emergency room so they could at least get the fluids they were losing via IV drip.
Crewel found it fascinating at first, as all of his creations have natural immunity built into them, so nothing can stop them when they rampage. Seeing one of them laid low by a mere disease, it’s a new experience that needs to be documented to its fullest extent to gather valuable data.
Of course it stops being so ‘fascinating’ once it becomes clear how much #Y26 is suffering, how much longer they’ve been bedridden when compared to normal rates of recuperation in children their age, long enough that the idea of them just not recovering at all becomes a viable option.
That’s when Crewel stops collecting data and starts working on a way to cure Yuu or alleviate the worst of their symptoms.
It’s also why he gets so pissy when he finds out what the supervillains are doing while Yuu’s sick. What don’t those numbskull puppies understand about avoiding stressing out the patient and the dangers of weakened immune systems?! Do they want the reporter to stay ill for longer under their antics?? It’s not like they’ll even be able to remember any of the ‘caretaking’ that they’re hoping will earn them brownie points, given how out of it Yuu always ends up!
He usually descends like a fashionable yet wrathful god, chasing the unruly puppies out of the reporter’s apartment with a rolled up newspaper before they can make the situation worse. The best thing they can do is leave their offerings of soup and medicine for Crewel’s perusal and back off quickly. Attempting to force their way in or sneak Yuu out is a fast way to incur Crewel’s cold fury. The Diasomnia, Octavinelle and Savannaclaw supervillain groups learned that the hard way.
Yuuken quickly won Crewel’s favor when they first met by staying as far away as he could when Yuu came down with flu while they roomed together, and doing exactly what Crewel advised him to after he had to leave Yuu in Yuuken’s care overnight, asking sensible questions when unclear about his directives. That at least showed Crewel that Yuuken was willing to do what was necessary to return Yuu to health rather than fulfill a certain ideal of caretaking that’s ultimately more self-serving than actually helpful.
Yuu wakes up a few days later with a can of tuna perched on their chest, grumbling about the remnants of a headache and wondering how much they’re going to need to play nursemaid after Uncle Divvy got done with their supervillain admirers this time.
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magical-girl-coral · 3 years
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It's Gin's Birthday! Here are some HCs
- He made his own version of "the floor is lave!". In the Seireitei it was "the twelve worked there," while in Hueco Mundo it was "Szayelaporro spilled something here." Both times people would fly to the roof, and in both times, Gin will have a shoe thrown to his face.
- Things Gin is forbidden to touch during his pranks: Aizen's tea, Kaname's kitchen, anything that belongs to Unohana, Yumichika's hair products (a request from Kenpachi because the bitching was awful the last time it happened), anything made by the twelve division, anything made by Szayelaporro, Yachiru's candy, Soi Fon's knives, the ninth's yet to be published articles, Rangiku's makeup, Komamura's shampoo, and Jushiro's medicine (even Gin isn't heartless enough to mess with that).
- Gin's a surprisingly good cook. It makes sense once you remember that one, Kaname was one of the people who raised him, and two, he grew up with Rangiku and had to learn how to cook, or they would have died from food poisoning.
- He's an absolute fashion disaster. He wears the plainest and oversized clothes he can find. If it weren't for Rangiku, he would have the Shinigami equivalent of a closet full of hoodies. Just hoodies.
- Gin was lowkey crushed when he found out Shinji had a tongue piercing. It meant he couldn't have one of his own without people thinking he's copying his old captain.
- He's the only person in the entire world that can bring Orihime's Cain Instinct to activate. If you leave them alone in the same room, she will try to strangle him.
- He and Orihime have a fascinating dynamic because it's a battle between Orihime's ability to lower people's threatening aura and Gin's creepiness rubbing off on people. It's a pure unstoppable force v.s immovable object battle.
- Gin mostly gets sick during summer thanks to his sensitivity to heat. When they were kids, Rangiku only got sick during winter so they joked that they knew they would be screwed at the same time, so their bodies took turns of who gets to be sick this time.
- When Gin was a kid and got sick for the first time, Aizen had to trick him into taking medicine by putting them in dried persimmons. Gin understood the trick immediately and refused to ear dried persimmons whenever he was sick since then. Nowadays, a good chase around the barracks is the only way to make him take his cough drops.
- The reason why Gin refuses to take medicine is that he wants his immune system to get stronger on its own. He's constantly on survivor mod and doesn't want to become too weak and pampered. He doesn't have the same attitude when someone else gets sick though, like the hypocrite that he is.
- Jushiro once did the mistake of unexpectedly hugging a third seat Gin, awakening the latter's fight or flight instincts and Jushiro got a swift kick to the stomach as a result. No one tried to hug him since, at least not without warning.
- He has a really weird grasp on human pop culture. He gets to go to the human world on rare occasions and will try to catch a movie to pass the time if he finished his mission early. References with him are a hit and a miss.
- He also suffers from insomnia and is usually awake from one to three in the morning. He tries to do paperwork or read a book to help him fall back asleep, and takes a nap in is his office to complete some of the missing sleep.
- All of Gin's seater officers were originally from different divisions. His third was from the first, his fifth was from the eleventh and his sixth was from the sixth. They were unhappy with their positions, so Gin gave them promotions to make the transfer faster. It made his betrayal all the more painful.
- Gin is cursed with genre awareness. He knows exactly what kind of story he's in and what his role is. He figured it out around the time he became captain when Aizen was doing a Shounen protagonist version of Build a Bear with Ichigo's parents. He saw Aizen create his own downfall and thought "ah, I see. So this is where I stand." The reason why he gave Ichigo the mantel of taking down Aizen and why his last thoughts were in complete calm was because he knew he was going to fail thanks to his role as a side villain. He didn't quit with his revenge because he believed he was too far gone and understood that if he's going down, he might as well try to take the bastard that started it all with him.
(here are some "if he lived" hcs because I need to get these out of my system)
- Gin return the Gotei 13 is an uncomfortable reminder of how no one is invincible. Every time someone is like "we Shinigamis are too strong to be defeated," Gin lets out an awkward cough. This is also one of the reasons the head captain wanted him back; he knows they need Gin to remember to keep their feet on the ground.
- There are a few people (other than Rangiku and Izuru) that befriended Gin after his return:
Jushiro: Kinda felt bad for knowing Gin as a kid and not knowing how Aizen was slowly turning him into a weapon. Also, he needs more members for the Shiro club.
Shunsui: He usually goes along with whatever Jushiro's doing and this is no expectation. He was always pretty neutral about things anyway.
Nanao: She already felt like she had to give him the benefit of the doubt with how much Rangiku was happy with his comeback. They ended up bonding over picking up their drunk friends from bars.
Kenpachi: He finds Gin funny and Yachiru likes his snacks.
Unohana: They had some weird bonding and mutuals understanding as she healed him. Also, him being a captain again is a huge pain in the ass to the Central 46. That already makes her happy.
- I've already talked before about how if Gin had an inner hollow it would be a Kitsune, so I would like to add that his teeth would sharpen as a result and his hair would become softer, almost fur-like. It's because the stronger the hollow, the more one's body gets affected, almost like a type of mutation.
- Gin only broke the rules once with his restrains, and that was so Kaname could visit Kakyo's grave during her birthday.
- Even after Central 46 banned all interactions with Karakura town, Gin continued in contact with Orihime through secret burner phones. Only Rangiku and Izuru are aware of this.
- After his return, his first prank was dying all of Byakuya's clothes, furniture, and hair seaweed green. Byakuya had said something so goddamn insufferable that it snapped Gin out of his depression and straight into mischief. If Byakuya likes his Wakabe ambassador so much, Gin might as well help to bring it up to a whole new level.
- The wounds left by Aizen were so severe that Gin had to wait five years before he could get his right arm back without damaging something in the process. His prosthetic was overseen by Unohana herself to make sure no one was messing with any of the electronics.
- The first thing he did after his restraints were removed was to visit his old hut. He wanted to see it one last time before letting go of the past for good.
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gascon-en-exil · 2 years
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Would you argue that the relationship between Edelgard and TWSITD is very nebulous? Cause there's text that shows she is using them for her own means and it was her choice but there's also them destroying Arianrhod after she defies them (one in a million but still). I know there's a line in Verdant Wind where Claude argues that they were using each other for their own ends.
...Probably? It's ambiguous, but the biggest problem is that there's no answer here that makes Edelgard looks good even though her defenders have been known to flip opinions to whichever sounds better in the moment.
If you say that Edelgard is too weak to oppose the Agarthans for the 9ish years that she's allied with them, then she's a helpless victim of the people who abused her and not at all what one would call a strong female character (especially when this is then stacked with just how dependent she is on the men in her life to give her purpose and/or accomplish her goals: her father, Hubert, Thales, and potentially male Byleth). Conversely, if you say that Edelgard is using the Agarthans and that she could deal with them easily on her own, then this makes her complaining about having to work with them (again, for nearly a decade) ring hollow and makes her sound like just as much of a villain as the Agarthans themselves - each of them just waiting for the right moment to screw the other one over, and damn anyone who gets in their way in the interim. The story as a whole tends to support the latter in that it utterly fails to present the Agarthans as consistent threats - their base is raided and wiped out in 1-2 chapters, Dimitri takes out their entire leadership without even realizing it, a lot of their action and inaction in Part 1 looks incredibly stupid once you stop and think about it for five minutes - but I don't think we're supposed to look at it that deeply. IS seems to have been aiming for an Arvis and Manfroy situation where each side thinks they're playing the other, but because CF never drops the other shoe that is Genealogy's second generation we never get any kind of definitive revelation there - dragon-possessed inbred antichrist or otherwise.
My own headcanon came about mostly because I really like Hubert but am at best indifferent to Edelgard. Hubert is well aware that his lady swings a mean axe and can give very pretty speeches, but that she's awful at strategic planning (case in point: the Prologue). As such, it makes sense that he'd be the one to propose the alliance with the Agarthans and that he'd act as liaison to them; they've got the magic and the tech, and they have a common enemy in Rhea. Hubert allows Edelgard to think she's in charge while preventing her from getting her hands dirty with the Agarthans on her payroll, because he likes being as much of an over-the-top evil bastard as possible and because he wants to get his hands on more of those sweet dark magical innovations he's been an unapologetic fanboy of for years...preferably after he's cut out the middleman and killed Thales as his only competition for the role of the Most Evil Man in Fódlan. Also, in true Nice Guy fashion Hubert believes that if only he can help Edelgard fulfill her dreams then she'll finally notice him...except she never will because Edelgard is Hot for Teacher and a professorial plank of wood just walked into her life....
Does that headcanon strip Edelgard of much of her actual agency and render her little more than a figurehead for a creepy villain who's basically the fictional embodiment of her straight male fanbase? Pretty much, but it's not like the game ever does much to contradict that. At most it offers you a choice of male characters (and f!Byleth, using a script identical to her male counterpart) for Edelgard and her actions to be defined around. Hubert at least is vastly more entertaining on his own merits than any of the alternatives, and while Edelgard is never going to put out for him Ferdinand is a different - and far more amusing - story altogether.
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marshmallow-phd · 3 years
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Scarlet Moon
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Genre: Scarlet Heart Ryeo!AU, Time Travel!AU, Alternate History, Royalty!AU
Pairing: OC x EXO OT9
Summary:  This isn’t Gwen’s time. She was from the modern era, with technology and electricity. But during a solar eclipse, she’s transported back into a previous life in a time and place she does not know. Now, as the foreign daughter of a merchant living in a prince’s household, she must tread carefully, watch her back, and guard her heart. But with the princes locked in a battle over the throne, the chances of her making it out alive might disappear.
Part: 1 I 2 I 3
                                        ********
The bright sun felt warm against Gwen’s skin. Chae Ryung half-heartedly chastised her about burning her face, but Gwen hardly gave a listen. It felt like it had been years since she’d simply stopped and took in the light. All she ever did was go to work, do her schoolwork, and watch dramas. She never really took much time for simply… being. After a minute or so, Chase Ryung convinced her to keep walking through the courtyard, but she still went slow, taking in everything.  
The other servants would stop in the middle of their work and glance at Gwen in a fashion they might have thought was sneaky, but was, in fact, fairly obvious. Some gave looks of concern, others, it felt like, of awe. Gwen ran her fingers through her hair, the red catching in the sunlight. She stuck out more here than she ever did back home and it made her stomach queasy. 
“So, Chae Ryung,” Gwen finally said, “what is it that I usually do during the day?”
“All day?” she echoed. She pursed her lips side to side as she thought. “Mostly you keep Lady Hae company. She’s a bit lonely as Prince Suho’s wife. You’re the closest to her station here.”
Suho. An interesting name for a prince. I remembered Papa inquiring after the pale but beautiful woman in ornate clothing. “And she’s sick?”
Chae Ryung nodded sorrowfully. After looking over her shoulder, she lowered her voice as she leaned in. “Some are worried that she doesn’t have much longer and the prince still doesn’t have an heir.”
“Is it that bad?” 
Chae Ryung nodded again. Gwen’s heart went out to the beautifully tragic woman. In the single moment she’d met the Lady of the household, Gwen could tell that she had a kind heart. The look of worry and concern was etched in her mind, not a single twitch giving away possible deception. Spending her days with Lady Hae didn’t seem like too terribly a time. Perhaps she could be another person to lean on, to help Gwen when she stumbled. Because she would certainly be stumbling every other step in this place. 
Gwen and Chae Ryung wandered around the grounds for hours, the latter filling Gwen in on what she couldn’t put together for herself. 
Apparently, this Gwen had had a tendency to be a bit rambunctious, taking liking to archery just as much as needlework. Often, she would be caught joining in the servant boys in whatever rough game they were playing that day. Not exactly a good look for the daughter of a wealthy merchant. It had to be a comical sight, the horrified looks this girl must have produced from the other women around the household as a child. But over the last few years, she’d calmed to be a bit more demure. Chae Ryung went into explaining the wide gray area Gwen was given as an outsider. Though this girl knew the rules of society, she was able to bend them ever so slightly. 
Excellent. 
Coming up on the path was a pond, round and expanding, the edges lined with tall grass and fresh flowers that gave off calming scents. A family of little ducks floated on top of the clear water. Fish in bright colors of oranges and yellows swam freely, their tails creating the slightest ripples on the surface. As they walked around the water, Chae Ryung described a beautiful gazebo that this Gwen apparently loved to hide away in when she wanted to be alone. Disappointingly, though, the gazebo was already occupied by the Prince and Lady Hae. 
Looking like a happy but conservative couple, they drank tea together and spoke softly. Prince Suho smiled at his wife as he brought the teacup to his lips, but as his eyes drifted over to the spot where Gwen stood, the smile changed. 
It deepened, almost. An uncomfortable feeling settled in Gwen’s stomach. She smiled back, though, and waved, to remain polite. She was probably reading into things or misunderstanding them. Prince Suho held back a laugh before turning back to his wife. She still didn’t fully understand the dynamics of this world and could easily misinterpret his actions. And her head still slightly throbbed, so that could be clouding her thoughts as well. 
“It’s inappropriate to stare at a married couple’s private moments,” a high voice snipped. 
Confused, Gwen turned to find an elegantly dressed girl close to her age. Or, rather, this body’s age since this Gwen was a few years younger than the body she’d left behind. 
This new girl’s face was pretty, but it was destroyed by the snobbish and self-satisfied look she wore. Chae Ryung bowed deeply, but Gwen stayed erect. Bowing was not something that came as second nature to her and she didn’t want to do it for just anyone. Not surprisingly, this defiance deepened the annoyance on the girl’s face even more. Sensing danger, Chae Ryung forced Gwen into a bow.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” Chae Ryung said with a shaky voice. She gave Gwen a pointed glance that was ignored. 
“Apparently, not only have you forgotten your memories, but the few manners you ever had as well,” her highness sniffed. “I would be happy to be your teacher. Maybe we can make you a more respectful person this time around.” 
“Perhaps we have two different definitions of respect.”
It was subtle, but the girl’s smile strained, stiffening and tightening in the corners. Gwen knew that irritated look all too well from high school. The girls of the popular crowd would often shift into this body language whenever Gwen ignored their insults or countered them with a response they weren’t expecting. It had made her extremely unpopular, but that was never important to her. All she ever cared about was getting out and graduating. It was sad that mean girls had existed back in this time as well.  
“How dare you speak to me that way,” the girl hissed. “You think because you’re a freak of nature you can do and say as you please?”
“Just because I look different from you doesn’t mean that I’m a freak of nature!” Gwen shouted. Her nails dug into her palms as she tried to reign in the urge to respond physically. That particular subject had always been a sore spot for her. She didn’t think she was ugly, per se, but she wasn’t a beauty. Society’s standards, as ever changing as they were, always felt too far out of her reach. “Pretty” was not something she ever saw in the mirror. And, unfortunately, this body held the same face. 
“What is going on here?”
Gwen stiffened at the Prince’s voice behind her. Slowly, she turned around and bowed deeply. Prince Suho had abandoned his wife at the gazebo to investigate. She hadn’t meant to ruin his date, especially since they probably didn’t get many moments like this. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Your Highness.”
Prince Suho looked past her to the girl and then back at Gwen. “Perhaps, it’s best for you to go back inside, Lady Gwen. I don’t want you to tire yourself out and I fear it might get colder. ”
Nodding, Gwen bowed again and walked away. There was no point in arguing. Besides, she didn’t want to hang around this self-important girl, who she didn’t dare give a passing glance to and give her the satisfaction of besting her. Once out of sight, however, Gwen’s bravado deflated. 
“Who was that girl?” She bit her bottom lip in a very unladylike manner as she slouched against the outer wall of a red-painted building. 
Chae Ryung tutted nervously. “That was Princess Yeon Hwa. You’re lucky that her brother stepped in.”
That girl was Prince Suho’s sister? Gwen shuddered, feeling sorry for Suho since he had to be related to her. “Mom always said I was too spiteful. But I wasn’t being disrespectful by looking for five seconds. They just looked like a scene out of a movie.”
“A movie?”
Oh, crap. There you go again. “A novel. I meant a novel. They looked like a scene from a book.”
“Oh!” Chae Ryung nodded, though she wore an expression of confusion. “Still it would have been better to apologize and walk away.”
Gwen shrugged. “Maybe next time.” 
Looking up at the blue sky, Gwen wanted to pout. It was such a nice day. Even with these layers of clothes, she wasn’t too hot and a nice breeze played with her hair. But Prince Suho had told her to go inside. He must have figured she would cause less trouble there. He also said it might get colder. Gwen hated being cold. 
“When I have to stay inside, where do I like to go?” she asked as she looked ot her friend. 
Chae Ryung grinned from ear to ear. She seemed excited as she took hold of Gwen’s wrist and pulled her along to a building near the middle of the compound. It wasn’t a large building, with spaces barely able to be called rooms. That hardly deterred the excitement bubbling up in Gwen’s chest. 
Inside were wooden shelves, thin and easily seen through. But unlike the thick, hardbound novels Gwen was used to, the books stacked here were thinner, flimsy and held together with twine. Another servant girl shuffled up before they stepped into the room. Chae Ryung was needed elsewhere. She urged Gwen to go on ahead and stay at the library for a few hours. 
Within the shelves, she lost herself. 
Reading was always a comfort to Gwen, but she tended to lean towards adventurous fiction filled with romance and challenge. She doubted she would find such stories in the Prince’s library. If she could even read these manuscripts. 
Gwen blinked, reflecting on her presence here. Somehow, she was able to communicate with the others despite the fact that they weren’t speaking English. The real Gwen’s knowledge - at least, with speaking and reading - somehow had remained behind. As her eyes drifted over the Chinese characters written on the spines, she understood what they said. A small laugh escaped her lips. She’d always wanted to know more than one language. All it took was being transported back in time to a different body. 
From what Gwen could make out of the titles of the volumes, they were mostly science based - medical treatments and catalogs of animals and plants - along with a few recorded histories. There were no fictional stories to be found, so Gwen went for the next best thing and grabbed a book that recounted the story of how King Taejo founded Goryeo. 
The wording was a bit dry and straight forward, the author giving only the occasional flourish here and there. Still, like any written word, it absorbed her attention. To receive a recount of history from a source so close to the time that it happened was not to be taken lightly. Gwen walked through the aisles as she read, unaware that another visitor had arrived. In the middle of a sentence about a deciding battle, her pacing was stopped by a soft wall. She looked up and sucked in her breath. 
Prince Suho.
She bowed, thinking that her back would start aching from all this bending over. “I’m sorry, again, for earlier,” she whispered. It was a sincere apology. Though it wasn’t her fault, she’d egged it on and caused the Prince trouble, which in turn could cause trouble for this Gwen’s father. Both men had been kind to her since she woke up and she didn’t want to repay that kindness by being a burden. 
Instead of acknowledging her apology, Prince Suho asked, “Do you really not remember anything?”
Gwen shook her head, unable to meet his eye. She could feel his gaze seering onto her face, however. Warmth tickled at her cheeks and she hoped that it wasn’t a visible heat. The Prince was handsome, with a strong chin and kind eyes. He spoke softly.
“Do you remember why you were at the bathhouse?”
Gwen snapped her head up, confused. Why would he be asking her about a bathhouse? “The bathhouse?” She knew nothing about a bathhouse or what this Gwen would be doing there. 
He sighed. “Truly?” Did he not believe her? Did he think she was faking it to avoid getting into trouble? 
“I-” she stopped. Would she be punished for something she didn’t even do? She tried to be as sincere and honest as possible. She didn’t know what could be done to her if he didn’t believe her. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Prince Suho didn’t look receptive to her answer, but he backtracked anyway as he looked away. “Perhaps I was merely seeing things,” he murmured to himself. Regaining eye contact, he took a step to shorten the space between them. “When I invited you and your father to stay here, I took it upon myself to look after you, knowing your foreignness would make you a target. I’m afraid I’ve neglected on that duty. It has caused Lady Hae great worry.”
Gwen took a step back, her hands behind her back. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I think I’m causing you more trouble than I’m worth. I promise, I’ll watch my steps from now on. The last thing I want is to be in the way. If you need anything, I’ll do it. I want to be a help, not a burden.” He nodded, the expression on his face softening slightly. Feeling the conversation was over with that last declaration, she bowed and scurried out of the library after replacing the historical text. 
With that haven now compromised, Gwen concluded the best place for her to go was back to her room until dinner. 
                                                    ********
After a few days of managing to stay out of trouble, Gwen ran into Lady Hae on one of her leg-stretching walks. She didn’t seem to be upset about the incident at the gazebo, though she was disappointed that Gwen hadn’t come to see her. Gwen stumbled through an apology, not realizing that she would be so missed. In fact, she thought she was doing everyone a favor by staying out of the way. 
Accepting the apology, Lady Hae asked if Gwen would like to learn how to make lotus lanterns for the upcoming festival. Gwen raised her eyebrows in surprise. Thinking it would be fun and distracting, she agreed and followed Lady Hae to one of the buildings with open walls that allowed a gentle breeze to keep them cool. The temperature hadn’t dropped like Prince Suho had predicted. When Gwen saw who was already at work in the building, she instantly regretted her decision to join. A groan was barely suppressed as she sat down beside Lady Hae.
“Lady Hae, I see you brought a friend,” Yeon Hwa sneered cheerfully. 
It took willpower, but Gwen managed to ignore the princess’s snide remark, instead focusing on Lady Hae’s explanation of how to put the lanterns together. The glue had a potent smell that stung at Gwen’s nose. No wonder they were in a building that allowed the air to drift in and out. It took a few poor looking lanterns for her to get the hang of it, but finally they looked worthy of being hung up for other people to see. Glancing over at Yeon Hwa’s, Gwen huffed internally. Though they were the same design, the princess’ were begrudgingly far superior.
“Lady Gwen,” Yeon Hwa called out. A faux-sweet smile stretched across her lips. “Why don’t you go take the dry lanterns and put them in the Moon building for storage until the festival?” 
Gwen returned a smile just as fake. “Of course.” 
Chae Ryung, who had joined the group soon after Gwen’s arrival, stepped forward. “I can take them, my lady.”
 “Lady Gwen is perfectly capable of carrying them herself,” Yeon Hwa snapped. The evil look gleamed in her eyes, as if she were punishing Gwen with such menial labor. 
Little did she know the request didn’t bother Gwen in the slightest. She was giving the perfect excuse to leave her presence. While making the lanterns, Gwen’s mind had wandered towards the village beyond the walls and - with everyone occupied here – sneaking out on her own should be easy enough. She wanted to see more of this world that she now resided in. 
Filling up her arms with as much as they could carry, Gwen shuffled up the hill, following the directions Chae Ryung had given to the Moon building. 
“Gwen, you’re out of your room.”
Papa walked up, a smile on his face causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. He seemed out of place in the Goryeo fashion he donned, yet comfortable as the shiny fabric swayed around his legs. He wore the hanbok with dignity and ease. Back home, Gwen prefered less complicated clothing and was still adjusting to the multilayered dresses that needed an extra pair of hands to put on.
“Yes,” Gwen said. “I was helping Lady Hae make lanterns for the festival.” She held them up proudly for him to see.
“Those are very beautiful,” he complimented. Gwen’s smile stretched farther across her lips at the praise. “I’m happy to see that you’re getting back to your old self.”
The joy in his eyes was almost too overwhelming. Gwen thought back to her own father, with whom she was close. They seemed so much alike. Tears threatened to brim her eyes. Within the last few days, she’d grown an affection for this man. He was patient with her and caring. And, as an outsider himself, a small connection that she clung to. “I’m happy that you’re happy, Papa.”
“I have some business to oversee at the house. Please, stay out of trouble.” He gave her a kiss on the head and resumed in the direction he was headed before.
Continuing on her own way, Gwen barely reached the steps of the Moon building before a man in brown clothes ran, bowed, and took the lanterns to store them. He must have been a servant in the Prince’s household. She hadn’t seen him before but she gladly handed the lanterns over. Thankful that her task was now over, she waited and watched as the servant hung the lanterns up on a long string inside the open doors. Now it was time to explore. Taking a different path, she headed for the gate.  
This place was certainly different. Monarchies weren't as widespread in her own time, most nations having moved on to people-elected governments instead of blood-appointed kings. Though it was different, Gwen appreciated the underlining respect that drove this culture. The differences in formal and informal speech and the hierarchy of that respect ran deep within the people. The mutual heritage they all shared made her a bit jealous. She was from a place that didn’t have that. 
The sound of drums broke through her thoughts. They were deep, rhythmic, calling out to anyone who wanted to listen. Answering the call, Gwen followed them. 
In a giant dirt courtyard near the palace stood about six figures, some dressed in red, others in black. They were spaced equally apart in a square structure. Gwen hid among the archways, too fascinated to walk away like she should have. The figures danced in unison and with power – except one of the men in red, who was lacking enthusiasm and proper rhythm. The others noticed and stopped their dance, the drums fading out as well. They all stared at the one who had finished incorrectly as he flopped down to the ground. Gwen covered her mouth to soften the giggled. He was throwing a fit. A grown man by the looks of him, he was acting like a spoiled child. Among the figures was Prince Suho, who seemed exasperated at the situation.
So, those must be the other princes. 
This festival must be important, if royalty was performing. Gwen made a mental note to have Chae Ryung explain it in more detail when she went back to the compound.
A few of the princes ganged up on the one on the ground, criticizing him for still getting the moves wrong after such a long practice. Huffing, the one on the ground jumped up. He pointed a long finger and accused another brother of making a mistake as well. Gwen laughed loudly at their altercation, the noise pushing through her fingers. Prince Suho glanced up in her direction. She took off, scared to be caught. 
Once among the common people, Gwen’s mind eased. She wandered around the city, trying to ignore the whispers and stares that followed. The market was abundant with people. Men gossiped with their friends while the women picked over the vegetables and meats, inspecting for any impurities. Children played loudly and ran through the streets, uncaring if their feet were covered in mud. Different stalls caught Gwen’s attention, some selling soaps and bath grains, others selling intricate hairpins that sparkled under the sun. She made a mental note to ask Papa to come with her next time to buy a few wares. Maybe Chae Ryung could teach her how to place the pins in her hair. 
Leaving behind the market, Gwen came to a small bridge over a shallow river. The water flowed steadily, uninterrupted. She stared down at her blurry reflection, wondering how she could still look so much like herself. There was no railing to obstruct the view, so she bent down for a closer look. 
The face looking back was still round and pale, the soft jaw line giving a youthful appeal. Red hair fell natural, gentle waves that never liked to obey. Not even the multiple hairpins keeping it out of her face could tame it completely. Sea green eyes sat in hooded sockets on either side of a thin nose and average lips. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and apples of her large cheeks from years of sun exposure. Forced to come back to a time that wasn’t hers, the least magic could have done was improve her looks. 
The cries of the villagers reached her ears too late. Searching for the source of the hysterics, Gwen stood and turned as the villagers ducked out of sight. A mad man on a black horse galloped through the market. The rider didn’t care about others around him. He didn’t look back behind him or stop to check on those who dived out of his path. A villager with a traveling pack hanging from his shoulders scurried across the bridge to run away from the rider. In his haste, he knocked into Gwen. She lost her balance, flailing her arms worthlessly, and began to fall into the river that had served as my mirror just moments ago. She closed her eyes and braced for impact with the surly cold water. But it didn’t come.
A steadfast grip snatched her by her waist. When she opened her eyes to see who had saved her from the water, she was face to face with the rider.
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franeridart · 3 years
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Anon said: [Spoilers for non-manga readers] opinion on Baku's hero name?
Very Bakugou, honestly don’t mind it at all! Mostly just surprised it’s, like, legal in the bnha universe for heroes to call themselves stuff like explodo-kills (and also that there isn’t a character limit for hero names??) but that Bakugou would stick with it is pretty damn in character for him so I like it xD still, I’ll probably just call him Dynamight if I’ll ever need to use his hero name lmao
Anon said: not to be the most romantic sap but uh just a kiss by lady a is killin me
Nothing sappy about letting romantic songs get to you!!!! I say, as I’m constantly crying over romantic songs so this mindset benefits me as well lol
Anon said: i may or may not have stumbled across some of your older kiribaku art, the stuff with akane, and she's the best child oc tbh. i actually like her and i tend to not be a fan of child ocs but she's just the cutest darn thing 🥰
I’m so glad you like her!!!!! She was a lot of fun, what a good gremlin ;;;
Anon said: uve heard of dragon!kiri w his hair spikes up, now get ready for dragon!kiri w his hair dowm lookin like the softest boy
AW HECK I think I’ve drawn him in the past, actually!!!! Spike-haired Kiri will forever be my fav Kiri, but there’s just something about hair down Kiri isn’t it!! What a cute boy ;;;; all sharp edges and soft curves, what a lovely sight
Anon said: can i just say your itafushi art is so cute? these two already make me feel and then your art just (つω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥`)
THANK YOU SO MUCH I really need to draw them more, don’t I! goge kinda monopolized my attention there, but the way itafushi makes me feel..........boy the way they make me feel ;;;;
Anon said: good day, poké au thought: 12 y/o bakugo somehow catches a dreepy as like his 2nd pokemon and never questions it
WHY NOT WHY NOT I have a whole team in my mind for the boy tbh but dreepy is so cute ;;;; and anyway, I like my poke!bakugou with as many dragon types as he could possibly get his hands on hahaha
Anon said: Please know that, amongst other factors, you were one of the maon reasons I stsrted Jujutsu Kaisen two days ago and there isnothing more to say except thank you and I'm absolutely in debt with you for that, thank you so much 😍
I’m so so SO glad you’re liking it!!!!!! It can get kinda heavy but it’s such a great story.... honestly I’d been wanting to start it since I saw the first pv for the anime all the way back last year but I was like, you know it’s a mappa anime! so I wanted to watch the anime as a new thing, cause I love mappa, but three episodes in I couldn’t hold back and just binged it. It’s kind of story that just makes you wanna drink it all in one go, isn’t it? so good so good
Anon said: makeup artist kirishima and model bakugo or makeup artist bakugo and model kirishima? :0c
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm can’t say I see either of them much into fashion tbh, but if I had to pick probably model Kiri and artist Baku? I just don’t think Baku would be able to stay still enough to get photographed, and he wouldn’t like the photographer bossing him around anyway, and catwalks would be impossible for him to stomach imho, he’s too restless for it! At least it’s the way I see it haha
Anon said: fdgdhdkfhdafs i had a thought, what if bakugo prefers dogs and kirishima prefers cats and when they meet each other and become friends it's like, "oh." because they have some striking similarities to their fave animals
That’s been my headcanon for a while now, actually!! I think for me it came from two characters in a manga I like that are a lot like a dog and a cat but have inverted fav animals and when I read about that I was like “oh, right, makes sense since they like each other” and then my brain turned it krbk because when does it not lmao
Anon said: your art is the soothing balm to my soul recently, thank you for posting so much beautiful content. i hope you have a lovely week. ♡
sob thank you so much, I’m glad my doodling can help you feel better ;; <3
Anon said: Friendly reminder anon from last time: that post I left last time I had only eaten 7 gingersnaps that day and hadn’t drank any water. So that encouraged me to actually self care. Thank you.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! well I hope you’re taking care of yourself today too! And as fair trade, I’ll do the same myself! <3
Anon said: Hi! I'm an artist and I'm thinking of making a sideblog for my art. Do you have any tips?
Ah man, I’m sorry but I’m not the best person to ask this to! I started this sideblog cause I had too many followers on my main and I didn’t want my stuff to be seen by that many people at first, so whatever I did probably isn’t what you’re looking for :( but really there isn’t much to it, just post whatever you like to draw, tag it as best as you can (but remember that only the first five tags appear in the search page) and be patient, since whatever you do at first you won’t get much attention anyway - the only real advice I can give is to draw something that makes you happy and that you’d draw anyway even if no one were to see it, it’ll make keep posting despite a possible lack of activity a lot easier!
Anon said: Your goge art🥺🥺
I just love them so much ( TT’’’TT)9
Anon said: how the fuck have i not been following you? I remember seeing your bakushima art in the bnha tag and always thinking it's so cute. Now you're into JJK too??? and the satosugu art??? fuckin, diabetes incarnate. I love it. I love you. Your art 10/10. I'm tired lmao.
WELL thank you for the follow!! And for thinking my stuff is cute!!!!! I do my best with that, I want all the soft things for my favs 😌
Anon said: Are you gonna draw Gojou/Getou comic?? 👉🏻👈🏻 WOULD LOVE TO READ IT
you mean an actual doujin? I don’t think I will, sorry! I’m really no good at long projects orz but thank you so much for wishing to read something like that from me!!! ;A;
Anon said: Hello! YOUR ART IS SO FREAKING GORGEOUSSSS!!! I love them so much!! If I may ask you one question. Between Getou amd Gojou, who do you see as top/bottom? Just curious
THANK YOU!!!!! And I honestly don’t care as long as they’re happy and together!!! please let them be happy and together 🙏🙏🙏
Anon said: i want you to know!!! i followed you for your kiribaku art but!!! i love your art so much that idc what you post because it's all just!!!! incredible and wonderful and stunning!!!
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!! this means a lot to me so seriously thank you so much!!!!
Anon said: d'you think bakugo has like headaches or migraines after training or battles because of how loud his quirk is? like, i listen to music slightly too loud and my head is sending me to hell. (unless you go with the hoh hc which is also 👌)
I like to think Baku’s body is attuned enough to his own quirk that he wouldn’t get drawbacks of the kind tbh, though that wouldn’t be a bad thought for when he just starts to increase the output/width and strength of his explosions............ well, I myself suffer from chronic headaches and migraines so I’m always up for projecting on my favs ngl lmao
Anon said:  so like... dragon kirishima's eyes glow right? like, if we equate his dragon-ness to unbreakable his eyes glow? they also glow when he's half shifted? honestly i just live glowing eyes
Oh hell yeah I’m all for that, definitely definitely, I love glowing eyes with my whole heart and Kiri’s eyes in unbreakable are just so!!!!!! NGH *chef kiss* the more of unbreakable there is in his dragon form the happier I am ( TT^TT)9
Anon said: me, scrolling through your blog: ah shit guess im gonna have to start watching jjk
!!!!! hope it won’t hurt you too much, anon!!
Anon said: dragon!kiri and bakugo having a tug-of-war match over a piece of meat. both have it in their mouths. both are determined to win.
Kiri is turned into his dragon form and Baku still wins, hell yeah
Anon said: your satosugu is top tier!! it's hard to find stuff for them that isn't straight up angst so your art has been super cool and also very very cute!! (tho if you went with angst, it wouldn't be a bad thing obviously)
AH I’m so happy to hear you like them!!!! but also happy you wouldn’t mind angst, as I do like them the best happy and soft but my brain, my brain has been throwing sads my way for a while now 👀 I got some ideas
Anon said: What program/device do you use??
Easy Paint Tool SAI and a wacom intuos!! Though I got myself an ipad+procreate just yesterday and I’ve been messing around with it, let’s see how that one goes!
Anon said: *inahles* i am simping for mohawk man please tell me everything about your ocs immediately or i will detonate
THANK YOU FOR LIKING HIM HE’S CALLED DAVIDE Dav for short, he’s a cat of a man and a music instrument enthusiast (mostly string ones, but he’s very good with the piano as well) - he works in a music instruments store, and he’s a uni student majoring in philosphy! He doesn’t like bothersome things, he isn’t very good at taking anything seriously or putting effort in stuff, but he’s very chill to spend time with and generally a nice chat both if you want mindless thoughts or deep conversations (he’s a philosophy major after all). He can’t sing for shit, he’s got two cats (tago and schelly!), and he just wants a quiet life to laze around but all his friends are hurricanes in human bodies, but then again, he picked them himself so he can’t complain. He’s a good boy!! I’m planning a comic for him and his boy Ross >:]
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