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rotten work (focal point) preview;

early release on patreon.

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hey chat just a reminder to filter out/block the tag 'silly billy' it'll be my go to tag for mature content like violence, blood, etc. (i will still tag its respective ones)

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Oh Gomz, you should sooooooooooooo watch transformers, even if it's just the latest movie and none of the rest of it. It's really good, and i think you'll enjoy the characters a lot!

Also!! You're awesome and amazing!!

Hello Kiwi <3 yes I actually had watch transformers movies before and was a small fan of it back when i was like a wee 12 year old

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If I’m daydreaming before falling sleep, is it called nightdreaming? Duskdreaming? Moondreaming?

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hey chat i'm still alive just busy with life haha

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It's my birthday! I gifted myself some holiday Ghoap!

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Just thinking relentlessly about Ghost who meets a clairvoyant (you).

You live life in relative peace and normalcy, but sometimes (something beyond this universe) convinces you to use your gift. When the urge strikes, you usually let it; you are not one to deny the powers of the beyond. Of fate. Of God maybe—who knows.

When you see the tall man outside the train station rifling through his backpack, brow low and angry, something in him calls to you. He’s handsome enough, a little intimidating especially thanks to his stature, but you feel no fear as you change course and cross the street to him.

“Left it on the tube, friend,” you tell him. He stares up at you with fathomless, dark eyes. Eyes that have seen so much brutality, that have shut against so much pain.

“What?” he asks.

You point to your mouth. “Your facemask. You left it on the tube. Rotten luck. Hope your day gets better!”

And while you don’t anticipate ever seeing him again, you’re hardly surprised when you do. That’s the universe for you. Or, more likely, that’s just Simon Riley. When he falls into step beside you the next morning, he’s wearing a new facemask.

“You been following me?” he asks.

You blink. “No? Think it’s the other way around.”

“How’d you know. About my mask.”

“Ah. Clairvoyant.” You tap your temple.

He scoffs. “What, like talking to the dead?”

“I do that too.”

“Don’t believe you,” he says. Ah, a skeptic. You know better than to argue with one.

“Alright. See you later, Simon.”

And it isn’t until you’ve turned the corner that he realizes he never gave you his name.

The next time he runs into you, he stops you in your tracks. People on the sidewalk flow around you both, irritated at the interruption in their walks, but you don’t care. Not when he pulls out a leather-bound book and hands it to you.

“Prove it,” he says, hand shaking a little. “His name was John. Johnny. He’s been dead for three months. I just—prove it.”

You take the book reverently, sensing how much it means to him. You nod and part ways. When you glance back over your shoulder, he looks disappointed—but sometimes these things take time.

At home, you open the book. It’s a sketchbook, filled with pages, figures unfamiliar to you (Simon. So much Simon), handwriting in a neat curl. You flick through it slowly, learning about John MacTavish the old fashioned way. When you come across the last page, you find it blank.

Perfect.

You pick up a pen—but no, that’s not right. You search for your charcoal pencils. That’s better. Then you begin to write in a neat handwriting so unlike your own.

The next time you see Simon, you hand him the book. He takes it with naked trepidation, mouth set in a frown beneath his mask.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell him.

You both part ways. He isn’t sure what to feel—like a fool, mostly, for believing. Heartbroken, sure. He can admit it. He’d wanted to hear from Johnny one last time, some message that the man was at peace. Some idea, painful though it would be, that Simon’s feelings had been reciprocated.

He goes home and flips through the book, knowing each page by heart by now. The last one is his least favorite, forever blank—except this time it isn’t. And it makes his blood run cold.

Written in Johnny’s handwriting are a number of disjointed words:

help

help me

help me

tunnels

Makarov

help me

head

boom

help me

sos

alive

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Look at him go

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blue mascara with Kuroo?

send me an ask for my WIP game to hear more about my works in progress!!

Blue Mascara – Kuroo

This one might not turn into anything, but here we go.

The idea is that the reader wears blue mascara to work (at the JVA). Kuroo points it out and thinks it’s really cool. It’s not usual to try and stand out like that in an office so someone says it’s unprofessional or childish.

Kuroo wears a tie in the same colour next day in «solidarity», says he was inspired and ultimately no one wants to correct him on it because it's just a tie.

So you get to wear your mascara because clearly the colour is not the problem.

I was inspired by one of my friends who's a nurse and started wearing blue mascara and eyeliner more often at work because it makes her happy.

masterlist

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Cooking (Kuroo Tetsurou)

Notes: fluff, gn!reader (no pronouns used) wc: 0.5k

Some days, you just dread having to cook. Today is one of those days. Work was just awful, your boss decided to chew you out in front of everyone for something you didn’t do, you spilt your coffee on all your important files, and you were given a mountain of work due in two days! It was awful. All you wanted was to come home, crawl into bed and sleep. But you couldn’t.

Usually, your sweet and lovely boyfriend Tetsurou would be there to take care of you, to cook you dinner, and to kiss you better. But he’s been gone for two weeks, his work taking him to Poland for a JVA conference with the Volleyball Nations League. You’re happy for him, truly, it’s an opportunity all the associates fight to get and you’re so proud that he got it. But today, you just wish he were here.

The elevator to your floor dings and you sigh, at least he’ll be here in two days. You scratch your scalp, hoping to help ease the migraine you’ve felt all day. Maybe you’ll just make instant noodles, you’re not in university anymore but it’s so low effort that it’s exactly what you need. Although the thought of even boiling water sounds too exhausting.

You open the door, haphazardly kicking your shoes off. You take your blazer off and fall on the couch, maybe what you need is a short nap, then you’ll feel better. Yeah, just five minutes.

Your eyes snap open when you hear something sizzle loudly. You fall off the couch in surprise, grabbing the nearest object (a cushion) for protection and walk towards the sound. As you near the kitchen, the sizzle is paired with a humming noise. Who the hell could this be?

You turn the corner to see him. Tetsurou. He’s cooking something, clearly too focused to notice you at the entry way. Your eyes well up, relieved and happy, and you run across the kitchen, tackling him in a hug.

Kuroo lets out a wheeze as your hug takes all the air out of him. He catches himself on the edge of the counter to stop the both of you from falling, “Hey love,” he smiles, giving you a peck.

“You don’t understand how happy I am to see you,” you reply.

“Hmm, judging by how much I’ve missed you, I think I’ve got a vague idea,” he looks into your eyes and frowns a bit, “long day?”

You sigh, “So long. But the fact that you’re back early helps,” you give him a squeeze.

He gives you another peck, “I’m glad. Now how about this, I finish cooking this, you take a shower, and then we can talk about your day and how we can make tomorrow better. Sounds good.”You nod in response, reluctantly letting him go to take a shower.

Once you’re out of the shower, you’re welcomed to the lovely smell of your favourite meal and Kuroo, sitting at the table waiting for you. Suddenly, your day got a whole lot better. Maybe it’s because you didn’t have to cook or, more likely, it’s because someone you loved cook for you.

m.list

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Beta Zayne looked like younger version of him

Maybe that's how he looked like as student

....

awwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaa

😭😭

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cold in the cold

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Desert Ghost muscle 🤎

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₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ Part of my fluffember short writings - Masterlist ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ Kuroo Tetsurou (Haikyu!!) X Genderneutral reader ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊ Fluff - wc: 390 ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

There is nothing Kuroo loves more than coming home to you after a long day of work. There is something indescribable about the feeling he gets when he walks the final steps from his car to the front door, only to see that the light is on. He won’t come home to a dark emptiness, instead he will be greeted with your cheerful voice from the kitchen, pans and utensils clattering, the sound mixing with whichever melodies you have put on in the background. 

If he’s lucky, you won’t even have heard the door open, and he gets to see you dancing along to the music, singing along to the tunes and swaying your hips, leaning over your furnace slightly to check if everything is processing the way you would like. He’d stand in the doorway for a bit, a smile on his face as he loosens his tie and untucks his shirt. He’ll never be able to describe the feeling he gets when he watches you like that, his heart somersaulting, unable to contain all the love he feels for you. 

He usually coughs or makes some other sound, so he doesn’t startle you by calling out your name from the doorframe. The last thing he wants is for you to get a jumpscare while handling hot items on the stove.

His knees grow weak just a little when you turn around to face him, your face lighting up the minute you spot him. How he wishes he could just capture that fraction of a second and burn it into his brain, an image he never wants to forget or take for granted. 

You turn off the heat as you turn away from the task at hand, walking over to him to give him a kiss. His hand finds its place on your side, where it lingers, the kiss never just a short peck. There’s a reason you turn the stove off before you turn to him. 

“Welcome home.” 

Those simple words have such a profound meaning for him, because that’s what it is. Here, holding you, that’s where his home is. It’s wherever you are, wherever he can breathe in your scent and hear your soft giggles as he playfully peppers the softest kisses to the exposed skin of your neck. Home is his favorite place to be. 

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simon grunts as he feels a sandpaper rough tongue lick at his eyebrow. dark, curling tendrils of unpleasant dreams fading under the persistent repetitive motion.

“gerroff, cat.”

there’s a pause as tiny pinpricks knead at the thin cotton t-shirt covering his chest before a tiny yet surprisingly hard head bumps the bridge of his nose.

“mrrr?”

simon stretches slowly and a small displeased “meep” sounds off near his hip as his lower back twinges.

“olright, ‘bab meat.”

two creaky purrs fill the space, reminding him of the sound of shitty two stroke engines as they rumble and buzz in and out of sync with each other.

he breathes deeply to dislodged the weight on his chest and cracks open a bleary eye when it shifts before settling again. two phosphorus yellow eyes blink slowly in response.

“should ‘ire you f’detainment purposes, kidder.” simon murmurs, using the knuckles of his hand to brush over a furry cheek.

cat purrs harder and tilts her face so on simon’s next pass he catches the edge of her jaw and bony jut of her chin, exposing her delicate neck and the soft dark fur that covers her throat. the show of trust still makes his heart squeeze a little in his chest. cat has come a long way from the hissing and spitting flea ridden stray kitten he found years ago.

there’s a pause in the purring by his hip and the click of teeth as kebab meat yawns before the mattress dips as the orange cat oozes his way up simon’s side to bury his face in his armpit.

a wheezy chuckle rumbles out of simon’s chest as he lazes in bed, his hooded eyes slowly closing. he’ll get up in a minute or two. cat and kebab meat will want breakfast at some point.