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raeloganthesonic06fangirl · 2 years

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Wanted to draw, but then the laptop decided it was time to spend all day doing updates, so I decided to share some scrapped and WIP doodles instead for some of my sketches for the Amnesia AU

I'm gonna put this under a Read More because it's quite a few, and a couple of them has some unsettling imagery that depict Jacky after the initial accident, so I wanna give a slight forewarning although nothing is colored and most everything is in blue linework anyway.

Starting off a little fluffy here, but I gave up on trying to figure out how to make Claire's beak was going to work here, but anyway, that little playful dance scene.

Jacky from the Faux-80s era thing (the non descript pre-snappage setting that I decided technically takes place in the 80s but the DWD comics created a snarl by boosting technology to mimic the 2010s despite the original cartoon being in the 90s and no one aged a single gosh dang day), and its that one hospital visit where he's molting from a stress-rash brought on by the anxiety during that trial over the recall on his products. Mostly a quick loose doodle to get a visual on how absolutely uncomfortable he's feeling.

Nothing in particular, he's just freaking hyped over something.

Face. Nothing else, I don't even think I wanted to draw anything other than face. A little more on-model than usual, tho.

Very sassy "Y'all seein' this junk??" More proportionately closer to my general style, but I didn't get around to lining and coloring this one yet.

Blanket cocoon, Jacky trying to get over that cold he got while insisting he's fine, but Claire thinks otherwise

Figment!Jacky as seen during the fever chapter when Jacky starts imagining him as he saw himself on the tape of the "Fell Out The Window And Cracked His Skull Like An Egg" incident that landed him here to begin with. Originally described a little more scuffed in the story proper, I wanted to figure out a design to work with for the illustration purposes (I wanted to keep the image put in the AO3 release to not go as hard as the actual words, and also drawing injury to a blorbo is way freaking harder to endure than typing a few words down because you gotta stare at that the whole time making it ahhhhhhhh) that adhered to the description, minus the... um... stains, so one working idea was to draw the headfeathers more ruffled to give the indication that the injury still existed. Also, there's like NO reference images of QuackerJack with his cap askew so I had to figure out how the angling and eyeholes are going to work, so you can imagine this is a challenge for me.

POV: You're Darkwing and this is the moment where the AU starts, after QuackerJack was launched out of a third story window by two large sentient banana toys. He's got the concussion of a lifetime from hitting concrete, and doesn't remember the last four months (AKA: My initial estimate for the timeline of the first half of the comics). He doesn't realize that his life is in your hands right now. Good luck, Darkwing.

This was intended to be the illustration of the incident, but I still can't figure out how to tone it down while still keeping the urgency of the scene intact. Again, blorbos in ouch ain't exactly fun to draw but I suppose the solace in this is knowing that he gets taken care of and put on the mend right away, so it's not like this is totally bleak, but still... this has been sitting on the backburner for months...

Let's do a palate cleanser for a sec after that jarring image. This ain't got anything to do with the AU, but it's still a neat unfinished sketch.

Not exactly part of the AU, but remember that Wereduck!Jacky thing I did around October last year? Here's a playful sketch of him wagging his tailfeathers with his tongue out because he am puppy.

And that's a handful. I tend to scrap things if I either just don't like how the layout is or if I'm unsure if it's appropriate yet to do so, either because spoilers or because I don't think enough context could make it make sense yet.

#rae's art #art by rae #darkwing duck #quackerjack #quackerjack amnesia au #claire

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perfectclash · 2 years

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Failing, I mean, *learning* how to typeset - 1

Even though I initially applied for CLDR, I have decided to take up typesetting too. There are many things I have learnt in my short time with this hobby, and I wanted to write them down as a sort of progress record.

It's a roller coaster of a learning journey that goes like: excited/motivated to TS->stumble on a painful part->suffer/do a bunch of TS iterations->finally ask for help->get amazing advice.

*the scuffed suffering cycle of a scuffed TS

However, the spark that comes from learning a new technique or solution to problems and applying them to the current issue (and the possibility of future ones) is worth the suffering. It's as if a path that I have never considered suddenly appears and it opens so many possibilities. This feeling and, of course, being able to release the project as best as I can for love of its content.

I'm grateful to my scanlation group, Jujugang!! because they're a bunch of cool, friendly, open members!! They're such a treasure ;-; soo wholesome T_T

Typesetting certainly is a different skill than CLDR, even though both require creativity and a sense of design, I feel like both do it in a different way. CLDR is like the makeup used to mask imperfections, while TS is the makeup used to enhance beauty. I like both of them (or maybe it's because when I get burnout from one, I wanna jump to the other LOL).

What I'm going to write here is from the perspective of a beginner typesetter so probably some of the things may not be suitable to follow. Many times I've found that I said something wrong and then corrected myself entries later OTL

The way I began to learn was from reading a bunch of guides from the Scanlator School discord and also the occasional TS discussions from other students with questions.

Well den with my shaky level of knowledge it was time to apply it to something and its first victim was a JJK doujin (I'm sorry, Jihaku). I translated it from English to Spanish beforehand which has its perks as a TS because when the TL does not fit, I can reword it (and boy was it annoying due to its use of vertical boxes). Another plus of this was that I could look at the English version to base my TS from it.

Since I finished it like a month or two ago, the pain of most of my struggles faded away (unfortunately?) so I may not be able to recall most of what I went through.

One of the most time-consuming tasks was obtaining the right fonts. Fonts are like a palette of colours and there are infinite variations which you may or may not decide to keep as is or modify. Choosing the right fonts for a project is important. If the genre is horror, I would choose fonts that are a bit unstable. If they're romance, I would go for rounder ones (or maybe just don't care and get the fonts that are best suited for mangas, because these dang bo-).

Even though JJK is a shounen series with no romance. I think that using a shoujo font for the djs also works because... they're romance now lolol ofc if the plot of the doujinshi is hurt/comfort or angst, it could change. The art style is also very important to take into consideration! The font choice should match the tone of what the doujinshi wants to convey as well as its art. Ngl using CC Meanwhile is quite tempting...

So there I was, scouting through a bunch of font sheets looking for those that fit an SFX, and this maybe took half the time of my actual typesetting... this is probably normal (I HOPE?!) because as a beginner I have no fonts, but as I work on more TS projects, I guess the time spent will lower.

That is with the exception of when I pick up more and more fonts... it's like going on a shopping spree to fill up a closet. Only that you don't have to pay for most of them (cough). So I went... on a font spree and downloaded waaay too many fonts... which makes the choosing process hard. Like: huh, the SFX "turn" looks better with this font or this other font?

Choice paralysis by being overwhelmed with so many choices and thinking: maybe there is the perfect typeface for this but I haven't found it yet (this is being masochistic, probably best not to think that).

Getting fontbase was great. It's a program that lets me activate/deactivate fonts as I need them (because PS loading up so many fonts will cause it to crash whoo). The free version lets me organize fonts by category but I'm unsure about which ones I should make. For now, it's like this and I don't think it's very helpful LOL it could certainly be better. I'm too lazy to update the NSFW one and add new categories.. for now xd

The paid version lets you add tags to fonts which I find pretty helpful.

There's a way to preview how the text will look like too and nice UX additions.

So what does a font addict do when they have an enabler? Download even mooore fonts. It's fun at first because later on, it becomes a pain to organize;; That said, the result is worth it because if I need a specific type of font for an SFX I can just go to a category, type the word and scroll through the options that have already been sifted through.

Last night I downloaded 117 fonts... it's addicting... but I still haven't finished organizing my previous batch...

#scanlation typesetting

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your-divine-ribs · 1 month

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I’m With the Band Part 8

Words: 1.5k

I’m With the Band Masterlist Main Masterlist

There's an air of excitement over breakfast the next morning, and it's not just the loaded glances that me and Johnny share over the cereal boxes.

Larry has his mobile phone out on the table and it vibrates with a message every few minutes.

"For goodness sake Larry, can't you put that away whilst we're all eating?" My aunt sounds exasperated.

"But mam, it's Reading and bloody Leeds!" Larry exclaims. "Everyone's buzzing for it! First the UK tour, and now this. The band are gonna hit the big time, I just know it!"

"And what are you going to do then if they do?" My aunt says, a serious expression on her face. "Are you going to go and get yourself a proper job?"

"I've got a proper job!" Larry protests, and then he goes into great detail about his role in the band and how important he is, not that my aunt's listening. She's tutting and rolling her eyes, much to Larry's consternation.

"Don't worry son, I think you do a fabulous job!" My uncle says, giving Larry an affectionate slap on the back.

I catch Johnny's eye across the table and he shoots me a huge grin which I return and a warm glow spreads through me. What's wrong with me? I never let guys get under my skin and now here I am, exchanging secretive smiles and blushing like a silly school-girl!

I need to be careful of this one I think, looking down at my cup of tea.

Johnny and Larry disappear soon after breakfast on 'important band business' and I resolve to spend the rest of the day pampering myself ahead of the Manchester gig.

To be honest, even though the whole indie band boy thing really attracts me, I've never been much into going to gigs. The idea of dancing in a sea of sweaty bodies and being pressed up against someone's armpit at the barrier doesn't really fill me with excitement, but I suppose I need to show willing if I'm going to try and get invited on tour with the lads.

I rifle through my wardrobe but everything just looks too dressy, and as for my shoes? I like to impress but the thought of getting my Louboutin heels scuffed makes me feel nauseous. Also I'd be likely to break my neck if I got caught up in a mosh pit. I hate to admit it but I really need to tone it down for tonight.

The good news is my dad has topped up my allowance, and thankfully my aunt has a free day so she agrees to takes me into Liverpool city centre for a shopping spree. Llandudno's High Street just doesn't cut it unfortunately.

"Come on Bells. You ready? All the lads are waiting for ya!"

I'm just finishing applying little wings to my eyeliner when Larry knocks on my bedroom door.

"You can't rush perfection!" I shout out to him, standing back and appraising myself in the full-length mirror.

I had the best intentions of buying purely casual clothing, but something just doesn't feel right when I'm not dressed to kill. I've opted for a skin-tight low-cut tiny black dress which I dress down a little by throwing a denim shirt on top. I finish off the outfit with some fishnets and the docs that I bought grudgingly when I'd asked the shop assistant for some advice on footwear.

I'd cringed at the idea of wearing them rather than my signature heels, but actually, now I'm all dressed up with my make-up just right and my long hair cascading down my back in soft waves I've got to admit I do look the part.

The boys certainly agree. Well... Van in particular is very vocal in his appreciation. Johnny's a little more subtle with a small smile and a modest compliment, which Benji echoes. Bob doesn't say a word after greeting me, but the surreptitious glances he snatches at me make me smile to myself. He's definitely checking me out.

"What the hell? I'm not getting in that!" I wrinkle up my nose as Van grasps the back door handle of a huge white transit style van that's sitting on Larry's driveway.

"Come on Bella! It's not that bad. We've been around the whole country in this. Slept in it and everything!"

I imagine going on tour with the boys in a week's time. Them coming off stage, drenched in sweat and in dire need of a shower, bedding down on sleeping bags in the back of the van. Me lying there, sandwiched between their clammy, stinky bodies. When I envisaged getting hot and sweaty with the boys it wasn't quite what I had in mind.

Benji steps forward to slide his bass guitar case into the back and then turns to me with a smile. "Don't worry, this isn't what we'll be travelling around in next week! We have actually got a proper tour bus booked for that. And we've got a hotel booked in Manchester for tonight. We're only travelling down in this for tonight as the crew are meeting us there."

"Yeah, of course, we wouldn't expect Princess Bella to rough it!" Larry sniggers.

"Princess Bella? I love it!" Van laughs loudly, whilst I glare daggers at Larry.

"Got a massive suite booked for tonight!" Van carries on enthusiastically, using his hands to demonstrate the grand scale. "Wait till ya see it. It's gonna be dead posh. I've already bagged the master bedroom..."

He sidles over at that point, draping an arm over my shoulder and grinning cheekily at me. "Bet the bed's gonna be huge... plenty of room for sharing!"

I steal a glance at Johnny who quickly looks down, fiddling with the fastenings of his guitar case. I side-step quickly away from Van.

"Perfect - there's plenty of room for Larry to share with you then!" I announce.

When we arrive at the venue I'm astounded to see a hoard of fans waiting outside and a queue snaking itself around the outside of the building. I'd not thought for one minute that the band would be so well-known. A little spark of pride lights inside me as we all clamber out the van and immediately hear the fans start to call the boys' names. The girls all seem to be going crazy over Van in particular and it's really not hard to see why. Despite him annoying the hell out of me, I can't deny how gorgeous he is. He stands there waving at the crowd with a dazzling grin, positively glowing as he basks in their adoration. I find myself automatically moving towards him and snaking an arm around his waist. Seeing all these girls losing their shit over him has suddenly made his attractiveness increase a hundred-fold.

"See that Bella?" He says, wonder in his voice. "This is what it's all about. Making music for the fans. Look how excited they are!"

"I didn't realise there'd be so many, there must be hundreds of people here," I say in awe.

"Venue holds 4000 and we've almost sold out," Van says proudly. "Not bad for saying we've not officially released any music yet, eh?"

Some crew from the venue appear and start unloading all the lads' equipment and Benji, Larry, Bob and Johnny all disappear inside, but I hold back, lingering near Van. I can feel the eyes of some of the female fans burning into me with envy and I'm thoroughly enjoying the sensation.

"So how did you get so popular then?" I want to know.

I can see Van practically puffing his chest out as he talks, eager to talk about his band and their increasing popularity.

"We've worked so hard for this, we've not taken any shortcuts. Me and the lads would be out the night before a gig putting flyers up all over town, and then we'd go to festivals and stick CDs of our music under everyone's windscreen wipers in the car park. We turned up at one university campus dressed as ninjas! We just piled out the van, hooked up to a generator and started playing! Shit like that gets you noticed... and of course the music's class!"

"Well... we'll see about that," I say, impressed by his obvious passion but not wanting to show it.

Van looks surprised. "You've still not listened to us?"

"Thought I'd wait until I heard you live. See what all the fuss is about!"

Van grins and grabs hold of my hand tightly, urging me to follow him into the venue. "Well Princess Bella... you are definitely in for a treat!"

I make a show of rolling my eyes but my insides are actually teeming with excited butterflies. I glance back at the fans before I duck inside, shooting them a smug smile.

#im with the band #van mccann fanfic #johnny bond fanfic #fanfic #vanfic

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cirrusea · 3 years

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They're back!!!!

#dream smp #dsmp #technoblade #philza #emerald duo #my style is so scuffed right now but i don't care #that stream was instant serotonin #expect more hug drawings cause i sketched like a dozen versions of this lmao #don't tag as sh/ip please #my art #dream smp art #dsmp art #antarctic duo

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katsukikitten · 3 years

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Time spent with Todoroki.

Warnings: This is a Pro Hero aged up AU, think late twenties. Adult themes such as sex are to follow. Please enjoy

Shoto was by far your favorite sugar daddy. He showered you in lavish gifts and gave you the pipe often. He checked your bank account and made sure it never fell below a certain amount and paraded you around town like the Princess you were. But most importantly he was stoic. Doing nothing more than wiping you up with a warm rag once the two of you were finished, never clinging to you with desperate hands like many other sugar daddies had. Hoping their money would make you giddy and buy your love. Maybe it would have, had you not already run out of love for people. Your heart broken one too many times by a long term relationship causing you to vow that money was your only love.

People were just too disappointing.

Your contracts with Shoto were medium in length, anywhere between three to five months mostly because he likes to keep his "options open." Which filled you with pure lust for him, knowing you could get away with your kinks without worrying over some man falling for you.

Still, it was difficult for the Pro hero not to fall for you, at first he had no interest in love. Having sworn it off mostly for fear of failure thanks to his dysfunctional family. It was the main reason he started looking into sugar baby websites, he saw your profile picture and your bolded No strings attached. He liked the idea of that, loved it really and yet, he became tangled in you after the renewal of your second contract. He tried to suppress the warm feeling in his chest, he found it difficult more times than not.

Especially now, with you on your knees with his guicci jacket spread out on the tile of the bathroom floor as your lipstick clad lips wrap around his cock. Your cheeks hollowed and your eyes looking up at him with enchanting lust. He fists your hair shoving you further on his cock. Your eyes water as you gag softly and Todoroki is just thankful your makeup is waterproof.

The sight and the sounds make him groan while your manicured nails dig into his bare thigh. You rub your thighs for friction, moaning around his cock, it's enough to send Shoto over the edge. Hot ropes of cum hit the back of your throat as his grip on your styled hair tightens.

"Fuck Princess…." He moans bucking into your mouth, sharp eyes look down at you. Seeing a powerful man come undone for you is enough to keep you content for now.

"Sir will take care of you after the gala okay?" His cheeks are still a little red as he runs his hand over your hair. Lifting you off the floor before fixing himself. He gives you a light spin, making sure nothing scuffed your gorgeous designer dress before he exits the stall. Pushing back his long hair while you retouch your lipstick with a knowing smirk.

The two of you waltz back to the party, sans his jacket, abandoning the designer garment without a second thought. The price of it was barely a drop in his bucket. It could have been half of his bucket for all he cared, his mind always swimming with thoughts of you. He places his hand on the small of your back as he guides you back to the table, dinner half forgotten once your hand wandered towards his crotch for a tease.

"F...find the bar okay?' Izuku asks as you take your seat, your sly hand going for your wine. Uraraka blushes when you give her a wink.

"Just fine." Shoto says sipping his whisky.

"So who's won awards so far?" You ask with gleaming eyes, Izuku smiles.

"Kaachan for most villains caught. Kirishima for the safest feeling hero, myself for rescue ratio." He holds up his small little trophy, "And you, Shouto, for most mysterious."

"What about the rankings? Did we miss that?"

"No they are about to announce it!" Uraraka exclaims, eyes glittering with excitement and wine. Her chestnut eyes slide over to her emerald eye date, hoping for the best for him.

The announcer steps to the stage, his sapphire blue suit catching everyone's eye as he takes the center.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it has been a night filled with congratulations and cheer but now is the moment you've been waiting for, tonight we will reveal the top three heroes. Voted in by a strenuous board appointed by the fans, we finally present the BIG THREE!"

Some tables erupt in cheers while the host takes his dramatic pause, when the sound dies down the host brandishes the golden envelope.

As he announces your hand wanders again, playing with your favorite toy, Shouto's face gives way nothing as the host drags out the awards. Explaining how long the winner's speeches should be. Soon Shouto cannot ignore your hands creeping on his clothed cock that throbs beneath your fingers. He knows he can't wait through what's bound to be a half an hour. He rises excusing himself dragging you with him before you're being cornered against a wall in some random closet.

"So impatient, princess." He bites out, kissing your throat, sliding down to your exposed collar bone while his hand ventures between your thighs. Calloused pads circling your puffy clit as you let out a loud moan that's swallowed by the cheering of the gala room. Impatient himself he undoes his pants, stroking himself with his free hand while you cum on his fingers.

After the coil in your stomach snaps for a third time he's satisfied, kissing you as he aligns the tip of his dick to your quivering entrance.

"Fuck, Shouto. Fuck me please, sir!" You beg, making his head spin, alcohol mingling in the small dark space.

"Be patient kitten. Sir will fuck you right baby." He grunts, sheathing himself into your soaking core. You cry out, clawing at his back through his shirt. The smell of biting cold hair mingling with the hearty smoke of a bonfire engulfs you as you press your face into his chest. He lifts both of your legs, strong hands grabbing onto thick thighs as he fucks into you with a deadly pace. Slapping skin and lewd wet sounds echo back to the two of you, encouraging his pistoning hips.

"Listen to those sounds Princess, your pussy sounds so pretty." He bites at your ear as you endlessly moan and whimper into his chest. Cunt clenching as he drives over your spongy spot, the head of his cock going deeper with each thrust. Soon it all becomes too much, your vision spots panting as you cry out in ecstasy, body ridged and arching to meet him.

"Cumming on my cock already?" He coos, fucking you through your next orgasim as your legs shake around him. Toes pointed in your red bottoms as you attempt to hold onto him for dear life.

"S..sir! You cry out, "I'm gonna...nnngghhh."

He ruts into you, pressing you further into the wall as he frees up one hand to play with your throbbing clit. Rubbing harsh circles as he loses focus on his precise thrusts that turn sloppy. His eyes too focused on you as you cum, milking his cock. Your eyes flutter, desperately attempting to hold eye contact as one hand palms your breast and the other scratches at the skin at the nape of his neck. Your tongue lulls out just a bit as your mouth makes a sinful O shape, a few tears of over stimulation fall down your cheeks as he continues to fuck into your wet cunt. The sight makes him explode into you, warm spurts of cum causing you to whimper and clench in delight as he ruts until he is done. He sets his sweaty forehead against yours, panting as words claw up his throat.

"I love..." He whispers, catching himself just in time, "Your tight cunt."

He kisses you, hoping you don't think anything more of it.

After a few minutes, and Shouto's cock softens, he withdraws. Wiping you up with a wipe from your purse as the two of you check the other for fluids. A drunken cat smile plastered on your lips as you reapply your lipstick, wiping away the stains on his dark grey shirt and collar.

The two of you step into the hall just in time as the doors start to open. Quickly and calmly you grab for your pack of cigarettes, your normal alabi, placing the stick in your mouth. Shouto, much like a gentleman, lights it as you inhale to keep the tip a burning ember. Gently blowing the smoke over his clothes, careful to avoid his face as you waft the burning stick around yourself as if it were an incense. Knowing good and well the smell of smoke always hides the salty smell of sex. Quickly you extinguish it on an ice cube that Todoroki provides, you toss the cube in the closet and the half of a smoke into your burkin slamming it shut just as a small group of sidekicks approach.

"Shouto! Wow! I can't believe it was a three way tie this year! Congrats to you, Deku and Dynamight!" They drunkenly cheer, "It's crazy how that happened."

"You're so secretive, your manager accepted the award on your behalf even though you were here tonight!"

A stream of people dot on your date as you cling to his muscular arm while you harbor a secret of your own. Cum dribbles between your thighs as you think of his sweaty head against yours. It feels good to be a Pro hero sugar baby.

"You staying the night again?" Shouto asks as he presses a cold water bottle to your palm, your body covered in a sheen of post sex sweat from a week's worth of fun. You give him a small smile as you sit up, tits bouncing as you readjust entirely. You can feel his icy hot gaze as it rakes over your body, feeling the goose flesh prick along your skin as it does with the threat of an oncoming summer storm.

"I wanna discuss the renewal of our contract. Plus we have a final date per the expiring one." He says as he rises, heading towards the luxurious ensuite to start a shower for you both.

"Hmmm guess I could. How much longer do we have left?" You never really paid attention to this things, always being satisfied with whatever Shouto gave you.

"Two weeks." He returns back from the bathroom, grabbing his wallet from his bedside table. Pulling out his onyx black card, he places it in your hand. His eyes holding yours, you give a devilish grin.

"Sir has a lot of paperwork for the agency to do today. Buy a dress I want to fuck you in and anything else you want to match okay baby girl?" He leans down to give your forehead a kiss while you giggle. Unable to hide the giddy that bubbles beneath your skin, you wrap your arms around him.

"Thank you sir!" You exclaim, pepper his cheeks with kisses as you pull back, "Do I get to pick the date again?"

"Mmhmm." He encourages, running his hand up your bare bare as you squeal with delight. You rush to the bathroom before he slowly follows behind. While under the hot stream the two of you make out for far too long, tongues fighting as the two of you exchange laughs before you add a playful statement that stays with the two toned hair man as he sits in his boring home office.

"I'm going to get a dress so classy and sinful you'll fuck me on the spot!"

His eyes wander to the photo on his desk, the one of your first date. The one you insisted the two of you take after a month of late booty calls since he paid for the "girlfriend" package. The two of you are bundled in warm coats, you cling to his firey side as you laugh and he just barely smirks.

Looking back he thinks this is when he started to fall for you. You had never been ice skating before and insisted on going while the two of you were in NYC for important PR interviews for the cold and mysterious hero. Because that's what people did in the movies while in NYC, put on their skates at the Rockefeller rink to glide along the ice beneath the sparkling lights of the giant Christmas tree. It was busy, he opted for no skates, as he did better without but he helped you lace yours. Being ginger for the first time in his life as he helped you onto the ice, after demanding a moment of independence you had fallen straight onto your ass. Giving Shouto second hand embarrassment but instead of yelling, crying out or giving up, you laughed. Genuinely laughed as you reached for his steady hand, captivating the whole rink for a moment. It felt like magic had washed over the ice, as snow slowly danced into your hair and the colorful lights danced across your eyes. Just like that the spell was broken with a flash of light. A stranger approached to give you a small tip on how to skate and the polaroid he had taken. You thanked them with a smile placing the photo into your coat pocket leaning into Shoto to share a secret.

"Now we have our first 'date' immortalized!" You had giggled, gliding across the ice as if you were ethereal, hands outstretched for Shoto to join you.

He wonders how you're doing at the shops. He occasionally gets a text or two from you. Sexy pictures of you in the changing room as you obviously buy lingerie as well.

He fists his cock enough times he gets no work done and by the time he convinces himself enough is enough you come home.

Wearing that damned devilish smirk.

And so another week passes in the four walls of his bedroom. Your bank account as stuffed as your pussy as you bounce on his heating and cooling cock.

"Fuck, baby fuck." Is all Todoroki can say as you chase your own high. His blunt nails clawing at your thighs as your tits bounce. Your mouth opens into that gorgeous O as you seek out that delicious friction on your clit. The coil in your stomach snaps as your humping becomes erratic and sloppy but still enough for your tight cunt to spasm wonderfully over Todoroki. So nice is the sight, sound and smell of you that Todoroki pumps his hips up into you twice before he paints your velvety walls, his eyes focused on you.

"Fuck." He presses his sweaty head into the silk of his pillow case. Two toned hair clinging to his forehead. You lean over and kiss his cheek.

"Thanks for the ride Pro hero." You wink before you dismount. Stretching towards the sky once your feet hit the warmed hardwoods, you begin to make your way towards the bathroom. Phone in hand.

"I wanted to talk about extending your contract." Todoroki says, staring after you, "At dinner tonight."

"It expired tonight right?" You say, looking over your shoulder while your phone lights up with an alert, "No need for dinner."

"What do you mean?" He calls to you as you start the shower.

"I mean, I think we should let the contract expire. Keep things fresh you know? Keep our options open?"

He jumps to his feet and begs the urgency to die in his step. Calmly with somber steps making his way to the ensuite. He finds you already in the shower, water washes away the smell of sweat. The smell of him as your phone glares up at him. He taps the screen and your recent notifications wave at him as he stares down.

Reading one of them in horror.

Todoroki isn't sure why he feels this way as he looks at your phone on his vanity. As if the world fell from beneath his feet. His throat burns as he stares at the illuminated glass, spiraling as steam clouds his vision that begins to blur. He knew what he signed up for, he wanted this.

This detached, heart hidden exchange in hopes of choking down the loneliness

But he never expected that when this ended it would feel as if his heart had been ripped out, stepped on and crushed beneath the heel of one of your red bottomed shoes.

"Come on aren't you joining me for our last shower iced cutie?"

"Uh yes I'm coming." He steps into the shower as the push alert on your phone burns into his brain.

"Kirishima Eijirou has put in an offer."

#todoroki x reader #todoroki sugar daddy #bnha au #aged up au

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iguessweallcrazyithinktho · 3 years

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run to you | Harry Styles

Summary: harry can’t help but feel a little jealous when it seems like his best friend is interested in someone else

GENRE: angst, fluff at the end

WARNING: jealous harry, roommates, being dumped, drunk reader briefly, crying

Pairing: harry styles x reader

Word count: 2.5k

Author note: I write a ton of friends to Lovers fic

Blog appropriate for all ages

Please don't post any of my content anywhere else without my permission.

---

Harry's fingers drummed on the table he was sitting at. His eyes knitted as he watched your figure across the room like you were some type of prey.

You were grinding up against a guy as the alcohol you consumed ran through your veins. You were carefree, living you life and enjoying yourself like lots of people were doing in the club that night except harry.

God he hated how that guy was touching your waist, and how you smiled as you looked at him, and how your lips were almost touching his. He hated it, harry really fucking hated it.

He wanted nothing more than tear that guy away from you, but he couldn't.

Harry adjusted himself in his seat, tearing his eyes away from you and the mystery man. His hands went down to his lap and he cleared his throat. He used every inch in his body to not look back over at you.

5 minutes later the song died down and you came back giggling. "Hi harry." Harry looked up at you, pressing his lips into a thin line.

You of course didn't notice and kept talking. "It's fun night. I just met this cute guy and he blew me away. He's going to take me on a date later this week because he likes me. It's going to be so fun." You squealed.

Harry growled under his breath before getting up. "Let's go." He took your hand. You looked up at him confused as to what the problem was. "Harry, what is it?"

Harry pulled you out of the club and to the car he drove you in. "It's late and you're really drunk. It's time to go."

You got in the car, harry did as well, and he drove you away to your apartment.

The whole ride harry grip on the steering wheel was tight. His mind was clouded with thoughts he just couldn't shake.

You on the other hand was confused. You peered over at Harry every now and then seeing his jaw tighten and his knuckles white from his grip. You didn't know what was wrong with him but you didn't bother trying to figure out either.

About 10 minutes later harry pulled into the driveway. He parked the car and got out. He helped you out of the car Because of your drunk state before letting you into the house.

Harry walked right passed you to his room with out a word. You felt yourself tear up at the action. You don't know if it was because you were drunk or you were genuinely upset, but you hated it.

That night you went to sleep crying and confused. Harry heard your cries loud and clear seeing that he was in the room next to you. He felt guilty for treating you like that but he was pissed.

The next morning harry woke up at the crack of dawn. He ripped the blanket off and dragged himself out of bed.

He went straight to the kitchen to get you some water Because he knew you were going to have a killer headache when you awoke. He still cared about you of course.

He walked back up the creaking stairs, grabbed an aspirin from the bathroom before walking to your room.

You were sprawled out on the bed, mouth open as you snored. Harry chuckled to himself at the image. He sat the water and pill down on your nightstand before shaking you awake.

"y/n, time to wake up."

You opened your eyes, groaning as your head started to throb. You easily regretted getting wasted last night.

You looked up at harry; he had a faint smile on his face that didn't quite meet the eyes. Images of last night flooded in your brain of harry being unknowingly mad at you. It made your heart drop in your chest.

You sat up and reached out for the water and aspirin. With harry's help you gulped it down before you looked up at him.

"uhh what was your problem yesterday?"

Harry sighed, "nothin' I was just ready to go." Harry lied. You knew it was a lie but didn't pry.

Your phone on the bedside table ring causing you to reach over for it. You opened your messages and began to read.

Harry watched as a smile creeped up on your face. "What is it?"

"the guy from yesterday message me. He wants to take me on a date tonight." You giddy said.

Harry swallowed, jaw tightening. "Well.. that sounds fun."

"I-"

Before you could get a word out, harry walked out of the room. You sat there dumbfounded. You didn't understand what his problem was and right now you seriously had a problem with him. He was being an huge ass.

Your makeup was done, you were dressed in a silk dress and a few expensive pieces of jewelry for your date. You exhaled as you stood in front of the mirror in the foyer. You were waiting for your date to come.

Harry walked down the stairs and saw you in that beautiful dress. God you were beautiful but it wasn't for him.

He walked straight to the kitchen without saying a word to you even though you looked right at him.

You walked into the kitchen ignoring his pissed state. "so, I'm probably going to be out till 11 so I'll see you later." You said to him.

He turned away from you grabbing a mug from the cabinet. "Have fun I guess."

You grew angry at him, "what is your problem? You've been acting like a huge jackass!"

Harry scuffed, "I'm a jackass. At least I'm not the one who's going out with a fuck boy." He placed the kettle on and placed the mug on the counter. His eyes didn't met yours at all. You decided it was time to give him a taste of his own medicine and ignore him like he's been ignoring you.

You walked out of the kitchen as you heard a knock on the door. You grabbed your bag and coat before walking to the door. Before you left you yelled out to harry.

"have a good Rest of your fucking day Harry." You walked out of the house, slamming the door slightly.

"you too y/n." Harry spat out to himself.

---

Days and days went on since you and harry talked on the night on your date.

Everytime you both were in the same room you ignored each other. It was like you were both strangers in your own home.

It wasn't like you both wanted to do this but harry was being a prick and you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

It was the day of another date with the guy you met at the bar. You were really excited. You sat in the restaurant waiting for him to come.

5 minutes turned to 10 minutes, 10 turned to 20, and 20 turned to 30 and he hasn't shown up. You started to worry, aggressively texting him but there was no response.

You were getting embarrassed at all the waiting you were doing right now. After a while you just decided to leave. After telling the waiters you were leaving, you walked out of the restaurant. As soon as you reached your car your phone went off.

You opened it seeing a message.

Bar guy | I'm not coming, I found another girl. Sry

You felt your heart drop as you got in your car. You held in your tears as you drove to your apartment. The only thing you wanted more than anything was to be with Harry. Even though you hated his guts, he was always the one there when you had a breakup.

You pulled into the driveway, parking the car. Harry who was inside wasn't expecting you back so early. He frowned as he sat his guitar down.

The door open revealing you. You were crying and went straight to harry.

"hey, love what happened?" Harry asked as placed a kiss on your forehead, wrapping his arms around you.

"he dumped me." You cried out. Harry awed as he once again kissed your head. "It's okay, he didn't deserve you."

You pulled away sniffling. "I'm sorry. I called you a jackass and you were right. He was a fuck boy and I didn't see it and I'm so so-"

"hey, no no it's okay, it's okay." Harry stopped you. "You didn't do anything wrong. He's the one I'm mad at not you ok."

"yeah... Ok." You whipped your eyes and sat down on the couch. Harry did the same. He picked up his guitar. "So I know I'm a shit friend sometimes but what do you think about us having a little bit of fun. Just me and you. I'll sing you a song."

You chuckled, "okay."

Harry smiled, "alright, let's do this."

---

You and Harry spent the whole night enjoying each other's company. After a few days of not talking it was worth it.

Later that night you and harry are laying on the floor after you both had a long dance party– yes you both were cheesy like that.

Your chest was rising and falling as you looked up at the ceiling. "that was fun."

Harry looked up at you, "of course it was, you're with me bitch, it's obviously going to be fun." Harry said

You laughed. You turned to harry and smiled. "Thanks for today." Harry smiled at you, "you're welcome."

He leaned over and placed a kiss on your nose, something that was normal and he has been doing for years. But this felt different to you.

His lips lingered making your skin tingle. When Harry pulled away he was inches away from your face. You couldn't help but close the gap between the both of you.

Your lips moved with his slowly with meaning. You moaned softly into his lips as harry pushed your back on the ground and hovered over you.

Eventually he pulled away and looked down at you. "Wow." Was all you could get out as he stared down at you. Harry chuckled, "yeah, wow." He placed another soft kiss on your lips before getting up leaving you shocked on the ground.

----

@captainamerica-is-bae

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n

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cerastes · 2 years

Note

So dreamer! What are your thoughts about DMC4? I have a major soft spot for it but it's hard to ignore it sometimes feels lacking in a few places

I've had fun with it so far! It's definitely rough in some places, though.

Now, this is me talking as Me Who Has My Preferences, but I would like to see the RE blood expunged so we can be left with The Cool And Stylish Fighting System. Or, in other words, I hate every time I need to do puzzles or move around a huge map when all I want to do is Fight More. I would definitely appreciate it if there was more Fight and less Everything Else. This might sound unreasonable and maybe it is but at the very least I feel like, so far, 5 missions in, there's been two bosses and a whole lot of nothing in between them. On the one hand, yes, it is only 5 missions so I Should Just Wait And See More. On the other hand, it's been 5 missions, enough time for anyone reasonable to believe that might be the pace the game is trying to set for the rest of the game and grow appropriately concerned about it.

When I Get To Fight, Though, it's a joy, I love earning the privilege to Throw Bosses Around With My Buster. So far, I've killed both bosses with busters, so that's fun.

Another thing is that your starting moveset feels... Horribly Barebones. "Dreamer, it's the literal start of the game", I don't care, even the literal start of the game should give me more tools than zero. The complete lack of anything at first really makes you want to get more currency fast... But the game also has to pace itself, obviously, so you can't just have everything immediately. End result: I feel very weak and lacking of, well, everything. I bet Nero plays wonderful after a while, but right now, I feel like I have jack and, additionally, shit.

On the flipside, just getting Table Hopper was nice enough to start Just Dodging enemies and start stringing moves and style. It looks like it'll be fun once I get the 70000000000000 souls I need to buy more things from the shop.

So overall it's fun but it's defo rough around the edges. The grappling hook puzzle in the mansion that makes you fight a ton of clowns every time you fail it was particularly frustrating because the game legit scuffed me even when doing it properly, which lead to further confusion. If chat hadn't been there to tell me I was doing it right and that the game fucked me over, I might have stopped playing then and there for a while.

#rex101111

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min-youngis · 3 years

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aesthete - j.jk

banner is miNe

~ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (artist!kook)

~ Genre: Fluff (is v soft), Suggestive (?), a smidgen of angst

~ Rating: T bordering on M (yes, i'm an ao3 gal why do u ask)

~ Summary/Excerpt: You can feel it when he whispers that he wants to paint you, his words kissed against the side of your jaw, lips feathering across your skin like his brushes.

Established Relationship

~ Word Count: 1.7k

~ Warnings: implied sexy times, kissing, casual nudity, eM0TionaL vuLnerABiLity i suppose

~ A/N: i would simply like to see a harry styles and bts interaction tomorrow, i think that would be super. disclaimer- this story has nothing to do w that.

i'd love to hear feedback, spread the love!

masterlist in my description.

You know you love him. You can feel it when he offers to drop you off at work, because you're en route to his client, and your heart flops a bit at his thoughtless kindness. You can feel it when he takes pictures of you on dates when he thinks you aren't looking, and then again when you catch him setting those pictures as his lockscreen wallpaper.

You can feel it when he whispers that he wants to paint you, his words kissed against the side of your jaw, lips feathering across your skin like his brushes.

His fingers trace a path of comfort up and down your back; earlier, you would've thought it was mindless, but now you know better. Every catch of his nail on your shoulder blade, every lazy dip of his finger tips down toward the small of your back is art. And you don't know how you feel about being something as reliable as his canvas.

You don't answer immediately, choosing instead to silently let your palm settle more solidly against the side of his chest, your head cushioned next to it. Slowly, you look up, resting your chin on his firm torso. There's a stupidly poetic beam of moonlight entering the room, cutting across his face and throwing it into stark definition, even from the awkward angle at which he has to bend to look you.

With his weight solid beneath you, the heat of his body that you had recently been intimately acquainted with effortlessly grounding you, and the soothingly relentless patterns of his fingers on your back, the vulnerability in your eyes isn't easy to miss.

"What if you see too much?"

"With you, it's never enough."

"Comfortable?"

You nod slowly, letting yourself settle in position, body draped on its side over the hardwood floor. Your palm holds your head aloft as you face the empty chair a few feet from you sideways. You can feel heat below you, lying down as you are on a patch of sunlight, can feel heat over you from the midday warmth seeping in through the open window, can feel heat in jungkook's touch as he positions your free arm so its comfortably curled in front of your chest, your fingers grazing your already sensitive neck.

He kisses you once, twice, thrice, countless times on the side of your head, calloused painter fingers taking their time in making subtle adjustments to your limbs. Occasionally, he stops in his calculated movements, walks in front so he can look at you from the perspective in which he's going to be immortalising your body in art. Eyes rake down your naked frame, gaze warming you and making you shiver despite the summer sunlight hitting you directly.

His fingers trail fire as they gently push your upper thigh a little more to the front, burn imprints onto the small of your back as he makes you straighten the curved in arch, leave scorch marks against the side of your neck as he tilts it to rest more firmly on your palm.

And you let him. How could you not? He's treating you like you're made of china. Like you're art. Your breath hitches every time you feel him on you, his palm settling on your stomach to soothe paradoxically keying you up more. You don't say a word. The gentleness is too much, too kind.

"You good?" he softly asks, smoothing down your hair as he kneels behind you. This is intimate; far more intimate than anything you've done before.

"Yeah."

You're only half-lying, you know. But nonetheless, you nearly purr as jungkook's palm slides down from your forehead to cup your jaw, tilting your painstakingly positioned head up to face him. If he sees the muted fear in your eyes, he makes no mention of it.

He dips his head, dropping a soft kiss against your lips that you sigh into, letting you press up into it as much as you need to ground yourself. His warm fingers don't leave your face. Your eyelids flutter open when you pull away, a little calmer, a little more reassured.

"If you feel uncomfortable, we can stop immediately, okay? Just say the word." His tone rings with conviction, with comfort, with kindness; and you know that you're going to pull through with this.

Wordlessly, you nod, returning his soothing smile with a small one of your own before he moves your neck back to its previous position.

He takes his time setting up, smoothing down the pad on the easel, examining his pencils with concentration and care. You've seen him do it a hundred times, but it's different now. When all the preparation is to draw you.

You resist the urge to shift, already a bit restless after being still for no more than ten minutes. But there's an unacknowledged thought in your head, disowned but definitely present. Selfishly, a little narcissistically, and incredibly terribly, you want to see how it turns out. How you turn out.

"I'm starting now," he softly says, gently tugging you out of wherever you've zoned out to.

Giving your fingers one last flex, you nod. "Where do you want me to look?"

"Right at me."

His answer should make you want to wrench yourself off the floor, grab your clothes and send you running for the high hills. All it does is make you smile. "Okay."

You've sat in on some of his projects; watched him as he designed colourful tapestries for clients, landscapes filled with rainbows and elephants for day care walls, elegant, artistic prints for framing and portraits for celebrities. But here, on the receiving end of his focused gaze, is an entirely different ball game. After a point, you don't know who's observing whom.

Jungkook's tongue pokes out occasionally, lips get pursed in a concentrated pout. His foot taps a bit as he compares you to what he's drawn so far, eyes narrowing as he smooths some strokes. His little habits keep you from noticing the strain on your bent wrist, the soreness in your thighs. Above you, the sunlight becomes a little warmer as it gets closer to noon, and the family of red finches that comes to your garden everyday makes its appearance known through the open window.

It's all so stupidly ideal, everything happening around you. Sat on his three-legged stool with one hand on his waist as he stretches his back ever so often, giving you reassuring smiles occasionally, making you giggle when he pointedly looks at your boobs before winking obnoxiously, his oversized grey t-shirt falling over broad shoulders and smelling like paint and patchouli soap and comfort; Jungkook could be the model, the artist and the muse, all rolled into one.

You're observing the way the messy ponytail on his head is slowly starting to come apart, wispy strands brushing against the bottom of his ears, curling against the cut of his jaw, when he finally says, "Done."

You're silent for a second, just letting yourself look at him a bit more, observing as he paints a few more marks on the paper in front of him before he places the pencil down, arms coming up and back straightening as he stands up and stretches, nudging the stool out of the way. It's too soon to revert to the knowledge that you're perceived, and that how you're perceived by him is now so transparent and just a few steps away from you. You're far better off in this quixotic fairytale, where all you have to do is watch Jungkook, no doubt with an overfull gaze of fondness.

He tilts his head to the side with a knowing look. "Do you want to see?"

Slowly, you ease your limbs, massaging your wrist as you come up to a sitting position. "I don't know," you shrug, busying yourself with rolling your ankles to get the numbness out, not meeting his eyes. "Do I want to see?"

You feel him watching you as you pull on clothes, tugging your t-shirt over your head and examining your pants to find the front and back.

"I like it. But I think that's less because it's artistically good and more because I like you."

It's corny. It's so cheesy, and it's so stupid, but incredibly, it's affirming. And it makes you want to see.

Smoothing your hands down the front of your leggings, you turn around to face him, small smile and twinkling eyes greeting you and making you feel a warmth that not a single shade of sunlight could manage during the last hour. His arm is extended towards you, palm open, waiting for yours.

Wordlessly, you convince your legs to guide you to him, feet scuffing on the wooden floor and suddenly sounding too loud. Fingers curl as you timidly place your hand atop his, letting him gently tug you close to his frame. With a soft kiss to your forehead, he twirls you so you're facing the paper.

You hardly notice his arms winding around your waist, barely register his chin resting atop your head.

You're painted in quiet hues of pink, lips curled up slightly in a small smile, eyes dripping honey. The curve of your hip right down to the tapering of your ankles are all softened. You don't even realise that you're tracing out the image, shaking fingers stalling momentarily as you find something new, something you. The scattering of moles on your forearm, the curl of your hair at the bottom, the subtle red of the mosquito bite near your belly button, the brown birth mark near your knee. You still once you reach your slightly smudged feet, chipped blue nail polish thrillingly evident.

"You kept wiggling your toes."

It's such an innocuous statement, an explanation for something so fascinatingly real, and it makes you want to punch and kiss him simultaneously. You're too overwhelmed to reply, though, settling for squeezing his arm silently, subtly moving backwards closer to his chest.

His breath whooshes against the hair on the top of your head as he asks, squeezing back, "Are you glad you saw it?"

You'd nod, if you weren't so scared of displacing the moment, suspended in air and tender.

"Yeah," you whisper, letting your hand fall. Silently, you turn around, wrapping your hands around his waist and trying to convey as much as you can through the hug, head burrowing into his frame as his chest rumbles with fond, muted chuckles. "I love it."

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taking-over-his-life · 3 years

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The old shop

Written by my old friend Colt.

On a bright autumn day, when the low angle of the sun, the sudden warmth of Indian summer, and the riot of scarlet and yellow leaves all cast a spell over the Virginia countryside, I set off for a drive, with the car windows rolled down. Intense glare alternated with deep shadow, as the road wound through fields and woods. It led to a town called Hapsburg, where it became Main Street, nearly deserted on Saturday afternoon. I parked along the sidewalk, and got out to stretch my legs.

The buildings were of red brick or painted clapboard, one or two stories. Shop windows were empty, or contained faded posters, long out of date. I walked past a café, a drugstore, a lawyer's office, and a barbershop, all closed. Next came a shop that sold old furniture, chipped plates, sentimental pictures, obsolete farm tools—the debris of former households, past lives.

In the display window, draped over the back of a chair, as though the wearer left it there minutes ago, and would soon reclaim it, was a black leather jacket. Creased and scuffed, it had evidently seen hard use. So casually was it thrown on the wooden chair—was it also for sale? I tried the latch, and the ancient shop door opened. A bell jingled sharply overhead, as I stepped inside.

A pale, thin man seated behind a counter barely looked up from his newspaper. His eyes were watery blue or gray, and his hair was sparse, showing the scalp. I pretended to look at a dusty shelf of books, then wandered to the back of the shop, which seemed to have nothing of value. At last, I returned to the front. Except for the man at the counter, there was no one else.

The black leather jacket was compelling. I touched a sleeve—the leather was thick and heavy. I searched for a tag, a price, a label, but found nothing. On the shoulder, a red patch bore the legend: "Hapsburg Motor Patrol." "Go ahead," the man said. His voice was unexpectedly clear and strong, despite his age. "Try it on. You'll be the first, since it just came in. Who knows, this may be your lucky day."

I slipped my arms into the sleeves, shrugged the weight of the leather over my back, and tried the zipper, which worked smoothly.

"A perfect fit," the man said, "like it was custom-made for you. There's a mirror, if you don't believe me."

It was uncanny, but the old leather jacket did fit perfectly. Stiff yet pliable, it was already molded to my shape, broken in by the previous owner.

"Whoever wore it must have had exactly the same upper body size," the man said.

"So you don't know who owned it?" I asked. "Anything about him?"

"Not a clue."

"What about the patches? Will I be arrested for impersonating a police officer?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. The town police department disbanded years ago, when the county took over everything—schools, taxes, roads, jail. The county police wear a different uniform, not that red patch. As it stands now, that jacket is a collector's item, a genuine Hapsburg Motor Patrol issue. Quality leather—they don't make them like that any more. The badge is missing, of course. It went in that reinforced hole in the chest."

The leather creaked, as I flexed my arms and walked to and fro. I inhabited the jacket, inhaled the smell of leather, and felt slightly giddy.

"There's plenty of wear left in that jacket. It will keep you warm on the road, and protect you in case of a spill. When you're riding, that is. Yes, sir, it fits you like a glove."

"How much do you want for it?" I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

"That depends on how much you want it," he answered, suddenly shrewd. His pale eyes glittered in the shadowy interior.

Though I detest haggling, I was unable to take off the jacket. I named a price, a round number, which I hoped was low. To my surprise, the man instantly agreed.

"Sold!" he shouted, as though at an auction.

I reached for my wallet, anxious to complete the transaction before he changed his mind, or before I did.

"Like I said, that leather jacket was meant for you. What are the odds that someone would walk in here, exactly the right build, with an eye for police memorabilia?"

"So you don't know where it came from?"

"Sorry, my friend. It could have been someone cleaning out an attic, getting a house ready for sale, winding up an estate. Wait! Now that you mention it, some other things came in with the jacket. Here's a helmet, the standard police type."

He handed me a white helmet, and I lowered it over my head. Snug, but comfortable. I started to ask the price, but he cut in.

"At no additional cost—special today. And check out these beauties." He rummaged behind the counter, and produced a pair of black leather riding boots.

"Somewhat the worse for wear, but you can replace the heels, and shine them up like new. Here, try them on."

Hurriedly, I untied my shoes, and shoved my feet into the tall boots, folding my pants inside the cylindrical shaft. Amazingly, the boots fit. I wiggled my toes, rocked from side to side, and strode a few paces. Like the jacket, the boots felt eerily right, as though I had worn them for years. Looking in the mirror, I caught my breath.

Instead of the man who entered the shop, an ordinary citizen like millions of others, I saw a police officer, a motorcycle cop, a figure of speed and power, a member of an elite squad, albeit from decades before. The fantasy was exhilarating.

"Do you want a bag?"

Abruptly, I remembered where I was, in a dusty junk shop, in a forgotten country town. I took off the helmet.

"No bag, thanks. I'll wear it."

"What about your shoes?"

"Oh. . . yes."

I handed the man my shoes, which he dropped into a crumpled paper bag. He handed the bag back to me, with a wink of his gray eye.

Jacketed and booted, as though dressed for a costume ball, I exited the shop, and blinked in the dazzling sunlight. The air was growing cooler, and the sun would soon set. With the helmet under one leather sleeve, and clutching the paper bag, I strode to my car for the drive home, through the inflamed countryside.

In the following weeks, as the weather turned cold and windy, I sometimes wore the leather jacket. As promised, the thick, back skin kept me warm. It did not attract attention, other than a smile or nod of approval. The thrill I felt on first putting it on mellowed, and in a way, I grew into the jacket.

One day, it occurred to me to search the pockets. An inner zipper revealed a small black and white photograph of a man standing beside a motorcycle. He appeared to wear the same jacket and boots, with the same white helmet on his head. He also wore a police badge, a silver star on his chest. His posture was upright and confident. The photograph bore no identification, no name or date. It was impossible to tell the man's age, or where the photograph was taken. Still, I was convinced that this was the officer who owned the items I had bought.

His uniform included a pair of riding breeches, tailored snug at the calf and flared at the thigh, almost as though inflated. It was a picturesque style, something that went out of fashion long ago. I could not recall ever seeing such a uniform on the street. In color, the riding breeches were dark, with areas of sheen. Were they made of black leather, too? I placed the photograph in a dresser drawer.

Though out of sight, the image haunted me. Who was this man, in purely physical aspects so much like me? What were his tastes, his habits, his personality? What was the police officer's story?

With no conscious intention, I began to read classified ads for used motorcycles, and I looked more closely at those I passed in the street. I wondered what type of motorcycle my officer rode. What type would a small-town police department be likely to have? When a neighbor parked a motorcycle in his front yard, a machine much like the one in the photograph, with a "For Sale" sign attached to the seat, I did not hesitate.

The neighbor, an engineer who would soon move to another city to start a new job, taught me how to ride the motorcycle, and he gave me advice on maintenance and repair. My luck continued in the form of a mild winter, which allowed me to ride on weekends, gradually learning how to handle the motorcycle on narrow roads, and in traffic. Though not especially powerful, it was quick and responsive. I wore my leather jacket, boots and helmet, of course, and sturdy jeans. By spring, I had become a confident, if careful, motorcyclist.

One Saturday, as the trees were coming into leaf, and the air was newly fragrant, I set off to ride through the green landscape. I started with no destination, but the road became familiar, as it wound through fields and woods. Just as it did six months before, it led to Hapsburg. Slowly, I cruised Main Street, looking for the old shop where I had bought the leather jacket, the same one I was wearing. Not seeing it, I turned around, and rolled in the opposite direction, but still failed to find the dusty display window. I parked, pulled off my helmet, and stood in the middle of the street, baffled.

A place I did not remember, a combination art gallery and custom frame shop, hinted at economic revival. Clean, freshly painted, with a gleaming steel and glass door, it was open for business. I entered, and at once was greeted by a young man with black hair, dark brown eyes, and an eager smile. After browsing the drawings and paintings, all by local artists, I explained what I was looking for.

The young man grew solemn, and said he would be right back. He walked briskly to a storage room in back, and returned with a large envelope, which he handed to me. Scrawled on the envelope, as a kind of address, was the phrase:

"For the man in the leather jacket, when he returns."

I studied the envelope for a moment, then asked:

"How can you be sure that this is for me?"

"The junk shop you describe was here, this space. I cleaned it out, renovated, put in new lights, and so on. A lot of work, you can imagine. The previous tenant passed away, I was told, and he left the shop as you saw it. I never met him—a retired police officer. Nothing of the contents was worth saving, but I did save one thing. That envelope was lying on the counter."

I lifted the flap, and extracted something heavy and pliable, made of black leather.

"Looks like a pair of pants," said the young man, clearly interested.

"Yes," I said, "or riding breeches. I saw them in a photograph."

"Awesome! They match your jacket and boots. Want to try them on?"

"I don't need to. They're exactly my size. Don't ask how I know."

"Okay, I won't. Strange things happen, even in Hapsburg. But here's the really strange part. They told me that the old man passed away more than a year ago. So how could you have met him here last fall?"

I shrugged my shoulders, and the leather jacket creaked. I slid the breeches back in the envelope, and tucked it under my thick black sleeve.

"Thanks," I said, turning to leave. "And good luck with the shop."

#leather boots #uniform #leather gear #leather jacket

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