#Dick was a fashion disaster in high school

[minnow-doodle-doo]

Once a tire thief, always a tire thief.

[titan-fodder]

Detonate

Pairing: Pro hero!Bakugou x Reader

Rating: E (explicit; mdni)

Count: ~7.2k

Tags/Warnings: cis female reader, so much banter, swearing, mentions of bullying, enemies to lovers, honestly just so much banter, not-quite confessions, explicit sexual content, oral sex (male & female receiving), vaginal sex, facials, one joke about small dicks, and more banter

A/N: this was supposed to go in an entirely different direction, but since my friends are indirectly turning me into a bakugou fucker, this is what ended up happening. this has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for literal months, so may as well yeet it out now. will this become a regular thing? doubtful. but who knows what could happen. anyway, enjoy~

As soon as you see him, you roll your eyes, trying not to groan out loud. Smoke billows in the alleyway behind him, his palms still popping with tiny explosions that remind you of sparklers. He always was one for theatrics. 

 "You okay down here, sweetheart?" Bakugou—no, sorry, Great Explosion Murder Go… actually, nevermind—asks in the raspy voice you remember from your high school days. 

 "Yep," you nod, flashing an unconvincing smile as you look up from the perp you're tying up. "Dandy, even."

 "You sure?" His boots are heavy on the pavement when he walks toward you, small rocks and dust getting crushed with every step. "'Cause you missed a few stragglers back there—had, like, four guys tailin' you." 

 The man you're tying hisses when you cinch the rope tight around his wrists, pulling him to his feet at the same time you get to yours. 

 "I was planning on circling back, thanks."

 "Well, they were getting pretty close, probably gonna gang up on you," the blonde muses, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Guess it's good I showed up."

 And, you'd known the exact moment he had. Even blocks away, you could hear Dynamight, kind of hard not to, and even his quieter attacks carry his signature with them, thick smoke rising above buildings, the sweet smell of a massive campfire permeating the night air. 

 You had hoped he wouldn't actually find and talk to you, but… No such luck. 

 "Guess I was," you say with a click of your tongue. "I'm about to call Tsukauchi. What'd you do with the other guys?" 

 Bakugou nods to the side. "Next alley over."

 "Did you tie 'em up?" 

 He shakes his head, smile widening. "Don't worry. They won't be wakin' up any time soon."

 "Are you—" you stop yourself with a scoff, shoving the criminal in your grasp against the nearest wall before setting off toward the stragglers. "Careless. Just fucking careless."

 "Oi! Where're you goin'? I told you—"

 "I heard you," you wave behind you. "I just prefer a more thorough approach."

 Bakugou is a good hero for the most part. He struggles with his gruff public image and occasional PR disaster, but when it comes to actual on-the-job happenings, he's stellar. It's just that he relies on sheer force and not much else, doesn't care about leaving things pretty. 

 As you can see when you round the corner. 

 Bricks are littered about, dust still kicked up, explosive black marks decorating the nearby buildings. In the midst of it all are four bodies sprawled out, completely unconscious. You spot blood trickling out of a few ears, some facial lacerations, and a broken wrist but not much else. 

 Dynamight must have focused on the structures rather than the perpetrators in terms of targets, knowing a big enough attack would still knock them out, send some debris flying but not leave anyone dead or mortally wounded. It's a good tactic considering how volatile his quirk is, but the business owners who've leased these buildings might argue. Could also be catastrophic if implemented during the day when the buildings are actually packed with people.  

 "Satisfied?" 

 You ignore him in favor of grabbing extra zip-ties from one of your pant pockets, always thankful you chose utility over fashion when deciding on your costume. Of course, being impossible to ignore entirely, Bakugou holds out a still-smoking hand after he watches you immobilize the first man. 

 “Gimme a couple,” he grunts.

 “I can do it myself, it’s fine.” You hope it comes off as a casual shrug-off, but judging by the way he scoffs, you have a feeling there was still a bite to your words. “Fine, whatever, just grab the last guy,” you amend, tossing a couple of the plastic ties in Bakugou’s general direction. 

 “No, no, it’s fine. Wanna act like you did it all yourself, that’s cool,” he says, holding his arms up as he falls to lean against one of the crumbling walls. “Not like I’m surprised.”

 “That’s not even—” You growl and shake your head like it will get rid of your rising irritation. “Whatever.”

 The better part of your teenage years were spent being antagonized by the hero off to your left. Though, that’s not to say you didn’t get a fair few of your own jabs in against him once you actually grew a backbone. From harmless pranks that just made each of you roll your eyes to actual serious injuries while practicing or sparring, you and Bakugou covered the entire spectrum.

 You’ve never gotten along, not when he shouldered into you on your first day at UA and not when you flipped him off after walking for graduation. Having taken a job in the states almost immediately, you haven’t seen much of him over the last few years. Honestly, having several thousand miles separating you from him was pretty nice, no fear of him popping out at you from around the next corner with a palm full of sparks with your name on it. 

 All good things must come to an end, you suppose. 

 The phone call to Tsukauchi is short, just your location, how many perps, and their overall condition. He tells you he’ll be at the scene soon with a few cars and to sit tight until then. 

 “Was that the cat dude?” Bakugou calls from his place on the wall, and you turn to give him the most incredulous look you can muster.

 “The—Are you talking about Tamakawa?”

 He shrugs. “Does Tamakawa have a cat head? Little bell instead of a tie?”

 “You really don’t know their names? After how many times you’ve had to meet with them, like when you got yourself fucking kidna—”

 He’s off the bricks and in your face before you can blink, the smell of burnt sugar wafting through the air as his hands crackle. “Swear to god, if you finish that sentence…” 

 “Aw, still have a little chip on your shoulder about that?” You grin. “It’s a good thing Deku and Riot had your back, otherwise you would’ve been on your own, and well…”

 "Why do you have to be such a bitch all the fucking time?" He finally breaks, and you think this might be a new record for how long the two of you have held out before reverting to name-calling. 

 You snicker to yourself and take one step back, just so that you aren't breathing in that sugar sweet smell that radiates from him. 

 "What, you thought you were just gonna waltz up to me and act like high school never happened?" You muse. "I don't think so, sweetheart."

 "I'm not waltzin' anywhere! You waltzed! You left after school, and this is you waltzing back home, and—"

 "Katsuki Bakugou, don't tell me you missed me," you drawl with a smirk. 

 He squints at you from behind his mask. "Don't flatter yourself." 

 "Well, what am I supposed to think?" You question before pushing your lips out in a pout, batting your eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. "You find me all alone in a dark alley and come to my rescue, make sure these bad men don't beat me up."

 "God, you're annoying," he grumbles, and you let out a genuine laugh. 

 "Right back at ya', bud."

 He does actually help you with lining the criminals up on the wall, a couple of them mumbling incoherently, others limp as rag dolls. Neither of you try to make conversation, knowing it'll only turn into an argument, and you're glad when you see the cop cars pull up because you know it means you can get away from—

 "Wait, both of you are responsible for this?" Tsukauchi asks, speaking away from the phone he's holding. 

 "What?" You look at him then to Bakugou then back and immediately claim, "No, no, this was all Dynamight, it's fine."

 He did take down four out of the five perps anyway, you barely had to lift a finger, so…

 "Nah, I'd say it was a joint effort," Bakugou negates, suddenly slinging an arm around your neck and gritting through a fake smile, "Always so modest, like she can't help it."

 You elbow him in the stomach but are only given the satisfaction of a very small grunt. Tsukauchi glances between the two of you, obviously picking up on the fact that something is off, but doesn't seem to want to dive into it himself. You can't blame him. 

 "Okay, well, uh, both of you will have to fill out reports then. Do you need a ride to the station?" 

 "No, s'fine, I've got my bike around the corner," Bakugou states. "She can catch a ride."

 "Really not neces—"

 Bakugou just cuts you off. "We'll meet you there!" then starts tugging you toward wherever he's parked his stupid little motorcycle. 

 "What is wrong with you?"

 "Nothin' at all," he chuckles, letting go of you when you rip yourself out of his grasp. 

 "Here I was thinking professional hero work and adulthood would have matured you, but nooo."

 "Look who's talkin'."

 The bike is actually pretty nice, not that you'll ever tell him that. It's mostly black with accents the same shade of green as his disgusting grenades. You're glad he kept the orange far away. It's bad enough he walks around the city looking like an explosion personified, no need to take it another step further.

 His costume hasn’t changed much over the years, still as obnoxious as it's always been—spiked mask and headpiece, bright ‘X’ over his chest, bulky gauntlets, and boots that it looks like he’s finally grown into. He always thought he looked so good in high school, and though you may have been mean to him almost as much as he was to you, you just didn’t have the heart to tell him his accessories made him look like a shrimp, too big for his body type at the time.

 At the time.

 He’s gotten taller, though. Taller and broader. It’s irritating, but you’re not about to dwell on it. It’s just fucking Bakugou in a slightly evolved form, still the same snot-nosed bully you went to school with, sporting the same stupid, unruly hair and the same cocky grin. 

 “You’re gonna have to hold on,” he gruffs after you’ve kicked your leg over the bike, no choice but to sit pressed against him, and isn’t he just loving this. Prick.

 “Yeah, yeah, just get us there in one piece.” 

 The air is warm out tonight, but as soon as you start speeding through the streets, the temperature feels to drop by a few degrees. Other cars and buildings whistle past, nothing more than streaks in your peripheral vision. Your fingers tightly grip the material at Bakugou’s waist, but even then, you attempt to keep any and all contact to a minimum, still trying not to lean against him completely. He probably knows, can feel how stiff you are behind him, but if he has anything to say, he doesn’t, knows it’s a lost cause against the roar of the engine.

 Once parked outside of the station, you dismount then smooth your hands over your hair, mumble a quiet, “Give a girl a helmet next time, geez,” to which he rolls his eyes and pushes you toward the entrance of the building. 

 “Not really one for ride-alongs,” he tells you.

 You don’t believe him, letting out a sarcastic, “Okay, sure,” so that he’s made aware. Katsuki Bakugou not giving friends—girls—rides on that bike, yeah right. It’s probably one of many tactics he uses to get into people’s good graces (as well as their pants on some occasions). 

 He didn’t publicly date often at UA, and you don’t hear much about his love life now aside from the occasional tabloid yammering about seeing him walk out of a Boba shop with Uravity or Miruko, but you know it, you feel it in your bones, the dude gets around. With a face like that, you know he does.

 Trudging up the steps, you hear his heavy boots and heavier sighs behind you. You’ve irked him which is only fair since you’ve been stuck in a state of perpetual annoyance since you first started hearing his explosions earlier. At least this way nobody’s happy. 

 Tsukauchi gets some peon to grab the routine paperwork for both of you to fill out, shoving you into a cubicle together before shuffling away. You’re content to just stay silent, let the scratch of the pens fill the quietness, and it works for a while, but—

 “You were really gonna give me full credit just so you could leave?”

 You stop writing and peer up at Bakugou through narrowed eyes. “It was less about leaving and more about getting away from you.”

 “That bad, huh?” He asks, and you can see the corner of his mouth pulling upward, a tell-tale sign that he’s about to say or do something infuriating. “Just can’t control yourself around me, can you? Had to at least try to get away.”

 The face you make is completely unflattering, you can tell, but you’re too lost in trying to figure out exactly what you just heard—control?—can’t around…?

 “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 “Look, I know it’s been a few years, but I was hoping since you’re back in the city, we could just put it all behind us,” he tries, red eyes looking full of sincerity to an amateur but not to you. No, you can still see mischief lurking within. 

 “I’m still at a loss,” you admit. “Put what behind us? The years of back and forth bullying, or—”

 “Dont be fucking stupid,” Bakugou laughs, leaning back in his chair some. His eyebrows raise just a bit, expression morphing to one of casual arrogance. “I know you liked me back then and were embarrassed about it. Probably are now, too.”

 The cackle that bursts from your chest is not cute, and it rings through the station for everyone to hear. “I’m sorry, what?”

 Blinking at you, Bakugou's eyebrows begin to knit together in confusion. "Jesus Christ, you think I—" you wheeze, "—that I could ever—" tears are gathering in the corners of your eyes, "—like, in what world could you—could you interpret all of that—as infatuation?!" 

 You have to drop your head, shoulders shaking as you try and fail to calm yourself down. This idea that he's formed, that you've just liked him this whole time, too coy to say anything so you simply resorted to flinging insults and inflicting bodily injury. It's too fucking funny, can't even put into words—

 "Alright, alright, chill out, fuck," Bakugou grumbles, but it only makes you laugh harder. "Keep it up, and I'm just gonna assume it's a panic response at bein' caught."

 "Being caught—I cannot believe—" Taking in a few deep breaths, you try to avoid looking at Bakugou (or the few unfamiliar faces that are angled toward you because of your outburst). "You thought I was, what, pulling your pigtails or something?" 

 "Why else would you be such a bitch?" He asks like it's obvious. 

 "Maybe because you're a fucking dick? I wasn't just gonna lay and take it like everyone else. Screw that."

 You'd witnessed it too many times to count, the way he would intimidate his peers, make them feel inadequate or completely useless. He had his tight group of friends, and if you're being honest, he wasn't much nicer to them. They just had thicker skin, it seemed. 

 You weren't about to be one of the "extras" at UA, but you definitely weren't gonna be Bakugou's friend, so the only other real option was to become his enemy. It was a bold move, but look where it's gotten you: fearless in the face of pro hero Dynamight, able to laugh out loud at his expense and not be even a little afraid of him. 

 Because what is he really gonna do? If anything, he's even more restricted now than he was in school, has to keep his reputation in mind before doing anything rash (like murder another pro). 

 "Do you assume criminals wanna fuck you too since you don't get along with them?" You tease, enjoying the way Bakugou grits his teeth and glares. 

 "Keep it up, see what happens," he threatens. 

 He's a little red in the face, so you figure you can afford him some mercy, so after a little more giggling, you turn back to your paperwork, finishing it up with a few little snickers here and there.

 You aren't sure if Bakugou completes his forms at the same time as you or if he's just been waiting, but as soon as you tidy your papers and stand, he does the same. 

 "What are you doing?" There’s that bite to your words again.

 Bakugou snorts. “Getting ready to leave. The fuck does it look like I’m doing?”

 You shrug him off like you’ve been trying to all night, stepping past him to get to Tsukauchi’s desk to drop off your report. 

 “You gonna let me give you a ride back to your place?” 

 “Why,” you smirk. “So, you can find ways to torment me in what’s supposed to be the safety of my own home?”

 “God damn, you really think I’m obsessed with you or something.”

 “Hey, man—” the two of you are walking out of the station at this point, and you don’t mean to follow him to his bike, but your legs carry you there anyway. “—the line between love and hate is very, very thin.”

 “So, you think I’m in love with you now,” he chuckles, sounding a little too smug.

 You round on him, jabbing a finger into what you find is a very toned chest. “I didn’t say that.”

 “Yeah, but you implied it.”

 Rolling your eyes, you mumble a tired, “Insufferable,” because you are tired. The aggressive banter really does take a lot out of you, so paired with the criminal fight from earlier this evening, you’re ready to shower and fall into bed. 

 Bakugou apparently does not notice as he refuses to relent. “Lemme give you a ride.”

 It’s a battle you don’t see yourself winning at the present time, so you wave a hand with another grumbled, “Whatever,” and rattle off your address. Like you realized before, he’s on a tighter leash now. It’s unlikely he’d turn to petty vandalism just to piss you off. 

 The ride is a little longer than the one to the station, and while you’re just as stiff as before when you initially get on the bike behind Bakugou, the constant wind against your face eventually wears you down enough to rest your head against his broad back, just between his shoulder blades. No need to let your skin get chapped and raw, especially since someone decided helmets weren’t a necessity. 

 When he pulls up to your apartment complex, he drives around back and idles as you swing yourself over the seat.

 “Thanks for the ride. It’s been a lovely reunion,” you tell him with a sarcastic salute, but he obviously can’t hear you over the engine, so he turns it off.

 You don’t know how to feel about that. 

 “What?” He gruffs with a squint, street lamps shining right in his ruby eyes. 

 “I said it’s been great,” you repeat, making sure to add, “Sarcasm.”

 “Yeah, figured as much.”

 You stand there, counting the seconds as they tick by, and you should turn around, go up to your apartment, leave him until the next time you inevitably run into each other.

 But, there’s a little voice calling out to you: maybe it is time to let bygones be bygones, put the past behind you, move forward as adults. Maybe both of you have grown enough to have some semblance of a civil, professional relationship.

 It’s why you sigh and make the offer, “You wanna come up for a drink or something?”

 Bakugou blinks at you, obviously surprised. “I don’t really drink.”

 “I have, like, tea too, but if that’s a soft rejection, that’s also fine.”

 He laughs, a gritty rumble that makes you curl your toes in your boots. You’re already regretting the invitation. 

 “Not a soft rejection. Just making sure you’re not trying to get me liquored up.” 

 He kicks the stand out for his motorcycle then slides off of it, gesturing for you to lead the way, and why why why did you think this was a good idea? What fucking possessed you to do this? Are you really so hopeful to believe this won’t turn into another fight?

 “Why, pray tell, would I wanna get you liquored up?” You question as you begin to walk up the stairs. 

 “Dunno. Pictures of a drunk Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight that you can post to make me look bad—”

 “You ever regret choosing that for a name?” You interrupt, genuinely curious as you shove your keys into the lock. 

 “Not even a little bit. No one is ever surprised when they meet me, hero name sums up my entire personality,” he chuckles.

 “For once, I have to agree with you.”

 Your unit is small and sparsely decorated. Most of the time spent at home is for eating and sleeping, more often than not out on the streets patrolling or at some boring fucking hero committee meeting you get invited to. 

 “Boots off, please.”

 Bakugou scoffs. “You know how fuckin’ long it takes me to put these on?”

 “That sounds like a you problem. I don’t need you tracking shit on the carpet.”

 He grumbles something under his breath but bends down to start unlacing the hardcore costume boots. Yours are much easier to unzip and kick off, and you don’t miss the way Bakugou smirks when he straightens and finds that you’ve shrunk a few inches, still considerably shorter than him even without his ridiculous platforms. 

 “Wipe that look off your face. You want tea or not?”

 “Am I gonna need to help you reach the shelf it’s on,” he teases, and yeah, this was a bad idea.

 “I know you’re not making fun of me in my own home.”

 “You’d be wrong then.”

 He’s hot on your heels as you walk the few paces into your kitchenette, posts up against the counter as you retrieve the box of tea from the pantry (on a middle shelf so that you don’t have to stand on your tip-toes, thank you). A pot is filled with water, set on the stove, and like that, you both wait for it to start boiling.

 Leaning against the cabinets opposite of Bakugou, you cross your arms over your chest and stare. He’s just how you remember him but… not. Features are harder, jawline sharper, and his frown is somehow even more pronounced. His headpiece is resting on top of the gauntlets next to his boots, so you can see every spike of his hair with nothing to distract you, and you’re alarmed to find that despite its all-over-the-place nature, it looks soft, like you could easily run your fingers—

 You stop that thought before it can get away from you, shaking your head and sighing.

 “What?” He pries.

 You turn back to the pot to find tiny bubbles rising to the surface. “Nothing.”

 He exhales like he’s put out, but you’re too busy once again thinking about how stupid it was to invite him up here. 

 “Why’ve you always hated me so much?”

 The question hangs in the air between you too, thick, heavy, loaded. How are you supposed to answer something like that? The truth, probably. It’s not like it’s embarrassing, but it will no doubt lead to one of many arguments you’re trying to avoid. 

 Back still turned, you counter, “You want me to start from the beginning when you tripped me on our first day, or…”

 “That was just me being a punk kid.”

 You do twist around at that, expression incredulous. “Uh, newsflash, I was also a punk kid.”

 “Okay, new question then. Why’d it take you so long to retaliate?”

 It was sabotage, you remember almost fondly. Loosening screws in his desk so that you could kick one of the supporting rods in the middle of class and make him topple over. That had been a couple days after he’d sprayed you in the face with the water fountain after quirk training. 

 Good times, good times. 

 “It didn’t take me that long, but if you must know, I wasn’t exactly keen on engaging in a four-year rivalry,” you admit with a click of your tongue. “But, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

 “Like, get her ass kicked every other day.”

 “Um, I do recall almost breaking your arm during sparring third year.”

 The little noise he makes is unimpressed. “Barely even a sprain.”

 “Yeah, that’s why you had to have Recovery Girl kiss it better.”

 The water finally comes to a boil, and you dip two teabags into it then spend the next several minutes reminiscing debating past “pranks” that usually ended with one or both of you in the infirmary. 

 “For two people who hated each other, we were pretty, uh… fixated,” Bakugou muses.

 You raise your eyebrows, glancing away. “You said it, not me.”

 “You’re tellin’ me there was really nothing there on your end?” Another inquiry that catches you off guard, but this time instead of looking somewhere else, your eyes snap to his. “Not even a little curiosity?”

 Your gaze narrows, immediately suspicious. “Did you want there to be? Were you curious back then?” 

 “I was a teenage boy. ‘Course I was.”

 It surprises you for some reason, and if you could take another step back, you would, but the countertop is already digging into the small of your back, and to get out of the kitchenette, you’d have to bypass Bakugou which seems like a… not great idea right now. 

 “Years of torment and it was all just, what, a little boy’s sexual frustration?”

 “Well, that and I wasn’t used to anyone challenging me the way you did.”

 “Oh, so I was just special?” God, you hope you don’t sound as flustered as you feel, but the subject at hand is making your face heat and your stomach flip and your hands tremble which you hope he doesn’t notice as you pull the bags out of the tea to throw away.

 “Guess you could say that,” he only halfway confirms, and why is your heart beating so fast? This is Bakugou. Katsuki Bakugou. The guy who made some of your most formative years hell, and you’re, what, getting fucking butterflies?

 “You’re shaking,” he says, much closer than before, so close you can feel his breath ghost over the shell of your ear. It makes you shiver. 

 You're honest when you tell him, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re makin’ me nervous.”

 “Why?”

 You reach forward, fingers clumsy as you turn the burner off, then suck in a deep breath and pivot to face him—a mistake considering you’re nearly chest to chest now.

 “Because, Bakugou, I don’t know what you’re playing at right now.”

 Except you think you do. You think you know exactly where this is leading. 

 “You gonna stop me?”

 Your eyes are too wide in your skull, straining, taking in the set of his face. Determination laced with that curiosity he spoke of earlier. Is this just scratching an itch from forever ago? And, if it is, do you really care?

 No. No to that question, and no to his.

 “Tea’s gonna get cold,” you murmur, as if either of you could give a shit. 

 It’s the last thing you manage to get out before he bends to press his mouth to yours, and it’s exactly how you expect Bakugou’s kiss to be—fierce and unforgiving but also hungry, fiery. Passionate. 

 As soon as your lips part, he’s sliding his tongue into your mouth, warm as it moves with yours. One of his hands, larger now than you previously thought, curls around the back of your head, angling you any and every way he wants which is much hotter than you’d like to admit, but then maybe that’s what Bakugou has always been to you: more appealing than you’d like.

 In a swift motion, he scoops you up to set you on the counter a little too close to the stove than you’d normally like, but you’re too wrapped up to worry much about it. About level with his hips now, he has you just close enough to the edge to be able to grind against you just where he wants, just where you want, and the way you moan into the kiss is mildly horrifying, but the reciprocated grunt that rumbles from his throat is extremely satisfying. 

 “Bedroom?” He huffs.

 “Mm, shower, I was sweating earlier,” you try.

 “Don’t care,” he dismisses before ordering, “Wrap your legs around me.”

 A younger version of yourself would have frothed and spit at him, don’t fucking tell me what to do, but not now. Now, you’re busy fitting yourself to him, arms locked around his neck, thighs hiked high as he grips them hard enough to bruise, walking backwards out of the kitchen then letting you direct him to the small room in the back. 

 You’re tossed on the bed and then abandoned as Bakugou sheds his clothes, heavy thunks of various belts and buckles hitting the floor, and while you have the space, you do the same, lifting your hips to shimmy out of your pants then tearing your top over your head. 

 The thought of a shower crosses your mind again, knowing you could use one and he probably could do, but when Bakugou turns to face you, on full display to you for the first time, you come to the conclusion that bathing would be futile as you probably wouldn’t actually do much washing. 

 “Quit starin’, you’re gonna make me blush or some shit.”

 “Oh, please blush,” you giggle, a little shy yourself as you cover your chest when he begins walking toward you. “Give me something new to tease you about.”

 “I don’t think so.”

 He takes one long stride over, and the bed dips when he places a knee on the edge, your entire body tilting toward him and making it even easier for him to reach down and pry your arm away from your torso. 

 "Fuck, you're just as sexy as I thought you'd be," he says, and by the tone of his voice, you can't tell if he's satisfied or upset by this fact. 

 Raising your free hand, you're able to sink your fingers into that soft, blond hair, urging him down to you as you play, "Think about me like this a lot then?" 

 "Tonight, mostly," he tells you sincerely, and you think that's better than him confessing to a legitimate years-long crush. Curiosity at a young age is understandable, but if he told you he had full blown feelings for you back then, you'd probably call him a liar. 

 "Haven't been able to stop thinkin' about this since I found you in the alley," he elaborates, dipping down to nip at your neck then sucking at the offended skin. 

 "So, you covered it up by calling me a bitch?"

 Any snark is lost to the gasp he pulls from you, back arching in an invitation that he takes when he palms your tits. 

 "Old habits die hard." 

 "Tell me about it."

 He bites and sucks a trail down your neck and to your chest, teeth gently closing around the nipple he isn't pinching between two fingers, and your core aches, legs spreading without thought in a silent plea. 

 You got a glimpse of his cock when he'd walked over to the bed, noted its above average size, and the younger you would have been disappointed, always assuming all that Big Dick Energy™ was due to a comically small dick, but here and now, you're so, so glad of the weight of it in your hand when you reach down to stroke him, that his girth is too much to close your fingers around entirely. He's not intimidating, but you know that in time, your eyes will be rolling into the back of your head when he stretches you. 

 There's a bit of desperate fumbling for a while as Bakugou makes his way down your body, groaning regretfully when you lose your grip on his cock, but he seems to forget about it when he drops between your legs and pulls your thighs even further apart. 

 Some men stare. Some tease. Bakugou does neither, immediately burying his face in your dripping pussy, circling your entrance with his tongue, bumping your clit with his nose. Relying on his shoulders to keep you spread for him, he snakes his hands under your ass, gripping each cheek and using them to move you in gentle little jerks—up and down, side to side, like you're riding his face on his terms. 

 Your spine tingles, gut growing hot, because Bakugou looks and feels ravenous as he eats you out, lapping at your wetness when he pushes a finger inside of you, the tip of his tongue laving over the skin that tightens at the intrusion of a second. 

 He's somehow gentle and rough at the same time, in control while losing it, and all you can do is leak all over his face. Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging harder the closer you get, and fuck, is that string pulling tight, threads slowly beginning to snap one by one until it's at its full breaking point, and then—

 "Not just yet, sweetheart," he grins, sitting up on his elbows and aiming a little slap right over your swelling clit. "Wanna draw this out."

 You whine, an honest to God pout tugging your lips downward, but it's only another couple of seconds before you decide there are better things to do with your mouth.

 Slipping out of Bakugou's grasp with limbs like jelly, you slide down to your knees on the floor. He catches on quickly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and spreading his legs for you to kneel between. Up close now, you can really admire his cock, its length and thickness along with its barely-there curve and the vein that runs up the side. 

 That's what you go for first, tracing over the raised skin so lightly it makes Bakugou pant. His fingertips dig into the bedspread for a few moments, but sooner rather than later they're pressing into the back of your skull as he leads you to the head of his cock, flushed with precum beading and dripping from it. 

 "Okay, okay," you laugh airily.

 You don't shake him off when he guides you down, your jaw dropping as you cover your teeth with your lips. He's warm and fat, stretching your mouth as you rub the flat of your tongue back and forth on the underside of his shaft. It's only then that he lets go of you, releasing you as well as a deep groan as he falls back onto the mattress. 

 You drool over his cock, letting spit coat him to make your glide easier, and then you're bobbing your head, taking a little more of him every time. You can't quite get the last inch without pushing yourself too far, so you curl your hand around it, jerking him off as you give what is hopefully the best and sloppiest blowjob he's ever received. 

 His hips jump when your other hand comes up to toy with his balls, massaging and rolling them, giving a slight tug every once in a while. Thighs tense and tighten around you, and even over all your slurping, you can hear the short breaths Bakugou is taking in. He's white-knuckling the sheets again, chest flushed with arousal, and then he's suddenly sitting up and pushing you away. 

 "Alright, stop."

 You bat your eyes up at him. "Why?" 

 "'Cause I'm not about to have you tellin' everyone I’m a quick shot," he answers, then scoots back on the bed and beckons you forward. 

 You go but not before grabbing a condom from the drawer of your nightstand. You're more than happy to fuck Dynamight, but you'll be damned if you end up having his kids. 

 Bakugou takes the foil package from you and tears it open with his canines—of course—then rolls it onto his dick faster than you ever could. 

 "You cool with being on top first?" He asks, and it catches you off guard. So much about him catches you off guard. "Want you to be able to set the pace 'til you're used to me."

 "Yeah, that's—that's fine."

 He helps you climb on top of him, just barely having to tilt his head up to look at you, and with his guiding hands, you slowly begin to lower yourself. 

 Eyebrows going high, you moan just as he hisses, your sore jaw dropping open, and it's just as you thought, that delicious stretch, that satisfying burn that you can feel all the up in your throat. 

 Once fully in his lap, you sit for a few moments, adjusting to the feeling of being this full. You rock your hips, heat flooding you when his cock rubs against the bump that makes your pussy drip, and when he notices, he takes you by the hips and repeats the motion with more force than you allowed yourself. 

 "Ohh fuck—fuck, Bakugou—"

 "Katsuki," he grunts into your ear, nipping at the cartilage in a way that makes goosebumps spring up on your arms and legs. "Just Katsuki now."

 At this point, you'll call him anything he wants you to, unable to think straight as he abuses that spot inside of you so that your eyes begin to water. 

 Fighting against his grip, you raise yourself some before dropping back down, and once that precedent is set, Katsuki assists you with the new rhythm. He lifts his hips to meet yours, fucking up into you while you cream around his cock—fuck, it feels so good, so good—

 "So fucking good, oh my god—"

 "Yeah?" He presses his chest against yours, your sensitive nipples gliding against his slick skin and making you push into him even harder. 

 One hand curled around your back, he flips you both around, on his knees now and tugging you by the legs so that your ass meets his pelvis. 

 The new angle makes you cry out, hands reaching for him, nails scratching down his toned abs so that the muscles jump beneath your touch. 

 "Feel good?" If Katsuki Bakugou were capable of cooing, you think he would be right now, voice a little softer than usual but still full of gravel. 

 "Yeah, fuck yes, right there—"

 He pistons in and out of you, and you can feel wetness coating your inner thighs, dripping down to the curve of your ass. He taps your clit a few times, eliciting a pathetic mewl from you. Katsuki just shushes you, though, soothing the nerves with delicate circles that quickly turn you into a sloppy mess, pussy clenching around him only to loosen again as more fluid trickles out. 

 The sight seems to trap him, fixating on the way you take him, pulsing around his cock, covering him base to tip in slick, gossamer arousal. It prompts him to thrust a little harder, circle a little faster until your eyes bulge and your breath catches. 

 Toes curl, your back arches, and like that you come hard enough to make your head throb. Your orgasm rolls over you in waves, body still sucking Katsuki in every time he fucks into you because he still is, riding out your climax alongside you. 

 And, when it dulls into an easy tide and you sigh, he leans down for a harsh kiss, growling, "So fucking sexy when you come on my cock."

 All you can do is moan in response, meeting his hips weakly, pulling his hair, dragging nails down his chest until he's panting heavier and his rhythm begins to falter. 

 "Can I—can I—' he stutters, and for a moment you think he's asking for permission, but before you can be too surprised (or laugh at him), he finishes, —can I come on your face?"

 In any other state of mind, you'd probably decline, maybe shout a judgmental, what the fuck did you just ask me? but right now you are dazed and pliant. Agreeable. 

 So, all you do is smile lazily and tell him, "Sure."

 Katsuki pulls out almost immediately, tearing the messy condom from his cock and moving forward on his knees to angle himself at your face. You sit up on your elbows to help him out, closing your eyes and bracing yourself as the slick sound of him jerking himself off fills the room. 

 "F-fuck—fuck—"

 It's the last warning you get before warm strings of cum start hitting your face, viscous as it drips downward. A line lands over one of your eyes, all but gluing it shut, while another coats your lips, your neck, the last load hitting just above your tits. 

 His hand slows, milking the last couple drops from his spent cock, and then he sighs and falls forward only to catch himself on the hand that's suddenly planted on the mattress next to you. 

 Opening the eye you can, you're not surprised to find him staring at you, smirking at you. 

 "Take a picture. It'll last longer," you tease after licking some of the cum from your lips. 

 He chuckles, reaching up to thumb away the string across your closed eye, then utters an unsurprising, "Don't tempt me."

 Before he can wipe his seed on your bedspread, you grab his hand and suck it from the coated digit. He blinks at you in what could either be awe or post-orgasm bliss, simply swaying when you leave his side to stand up. 

 "That did not disappoint," you say in a strained voice, arms high above your head as you stretch. "Now, I'm gonna shower 'cause I am filthy, and you're more than welcome to join me."

 He does join you. And, afterwards he joins you for re-warmed tea. Then a movie on the couch. Then falling asleep in your bed. 

 Maybe it was a one-off and you'll be back at each other's throats in a few days, or maybe high school really is just water under the bridge. 

 Whatever the case, once a full twenty-four hours have passed—a few texts sent back and forth—you come to the conclusion that you're gonna have to learn to work with pro hero Dynamight one way or another just as your PR teams are about to have to learn because staring at you on the homepage of your news app is a photo of you, clad in a skimpy robe and slippers, walking Katsuki out to his motorcycle the morning after your escapade. 

 Your phone starts ringing before you even close out of the article, 'Lord Explosion Idiot' displayed in bright letters. 

 You accept the call with a laugh. 

 "You ready for this shitstorm?" He asks without pause. 

 "Ready as I'll ever be."

[florence-wayne-official]

Can you rank your siblings on how big of a fashion disaster each of them are?

I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE

*opens PowerPoint* *mic check* ALRIGHTY FOLKS, HERES THE WORST TO BEST FASHION IN THIS DISASTER FAMILY

Dick. @not-dick-grayson is an absolute disaster. This man is almost 30 years old and cannot dress himself without looking like a 3 year old playing dress up. *COUGH* DISCOWING *COUGH*

Thea. @youngergrayson baby sister, I love you, but you, much like your brother, are a fashion nightmare. You only dress in sweats unless you’re on stage or at interviews, wearing outfits I made.

Dad (aka Bruce). Better than Dick and Thea, but also can only dress like either a homeless man or straight up black suits and there is no in between. Can only dress like a normal person if me or Alfred forces him to.

Tim. Only dresses in sweats or occasionally something normal. However, he cannot dress himself, one of the girls has to pick his outfits.

Kit. @kit-the-nonbinary-wayne I also love you, but like dad, you only dress like a homeless person or like an absolute deity. Unlike dad, you can dress yourself, so you get more points than he or Tim does.

Addison. @addison-wayne18 you only wear leather or leggings and it is simply a travesty. I need to make you a new wardrobe

Kathy. @kathy-kyle better than Addi, you can dress yourself perfectly fine without looking like a 12 year old. But, you do dress like a high schooler who went shopping on your own for the first time.

Steph. Good fashion sense, but dresses like a high school theatre kid. Enough said there.

Damian. Can dress himself perfectly well as a 13 year old boy, but is too formal for a 13 year old boy. But, his fashion sense and his eye for color matching is good, I share my designs with him sometimes and ask for his opinion.

Jason. Leather. So much leather. But, unlike Addi, he actually matches it well. (No offense sis). Also his color coordination is literally perfect.

Duke. Dresses like a normal person. Thank fucking god.

Cass. Normal, but with a step up. Glitter, ribbons, you name it. Her colors, accessories, aesthetic, literally amazing.

Harper. My punk queen. Enough said.

Aunt Kate. Lesbian icon, absolute goddess, stunning, I love her so much. I ask her to model for me sometimes because somehow EVERYTHING LOOKS GOOD ON HER

Me, I’m literally fashion designer

[quercus-queer]

A Slice of a Normal Life au

Grace and Simon Edition... this ones long lmao:

They met at a train station as little kids and didn’t see each other again until high school

High school was rough for both of them and was really shitty in general so i’ll just leave that up to you but i’m starting with college

Grace ends up going to Juilliard and Simon feels betrayed because they were supposed to stick together no matter what 

Plus Grace lied about it and put off confronting the issue until right before she left but Simon already felt something was up and his abandonment issues and other problems pop off so he distanced himself from her and started being a dick (sorry they’re still codependent and problematic at this point) until Grace goes off on him

She leaves and Simon has a breakdown and ends up in a psych ward but he does finally get some actual help and diagnosis (the high school counselor was trash), he never reaches back out to Grace and skips town afterwards which really impacts Grace and she’s just like... bro... do i need therapy too? 

And then she actually seeks out a therapist with the intent to get better and does! She has pretty great time in college and makes actual friends in her dance program and ends up getting a girlfriend at some point... it was a long and pretty healthy relationship but ended on kinda bad terms, but she navigated her first relationship! Yay!

Simon is a dumbass and got with this girl he met while he was institutionalized... it didn’t go well but it was a relationship... it was like a few months long... but yeah... she also tells him to get a grip lol

I also changed my mind Simon doesn’t live with Samantha in high school, he tracks her down after his breakdown since he’s a legal adult and can do whatever he wants and lives with her and Frank afterwards

Simon starts working in a bookstore The Apex (its called that because they live on a mountain and its in the downtown of the city thats at the peak of the mountain) and actually really likes it and Samantha and Frank are good parental figures and he goes to actual therapy

There’s a little reading club for kids at the bookstore which is comprised of the Apex kids that he is in charge of now because the owner has her hands full (her, Simon, and a high school girl are like the only workers there)

Simon also gets a boyfriend he actually manages to keep and its a pretty good relationship and ends on relatively good terms since Simon’s actually getting therapy and has a good life set-up now so yay! He managed an actual relationship!

Samantha and Frank live in a cabin on this mountainous city btw which has a popular resort that Samantha manages and Frank is a chef there... it’s a very popular resort... a very common place for a retreat...

Grace and her dance crew in college take a trip there and she sees Simon and nearly dies, no seriously she was walking and then slipped and hit her head

She ends up in the hospital and her friends (she has actual good friends now) are like Grace what the fuck just happened you’re not that clumsy?

But you know who is? Simon, who is at the same hospital because Lucy from the kids club who is also a clumsy disaster got a fucking pencil in her eye and he had to drive her to the hospital

He sees Grace and doesn’t know whether to laugh cry or say hi so he just stares at her blankly like the dumbass he is and then leaves

Anyway, this kicks off a 200k mall-rats slowburn that goes harder than Tulips and Mikayla’s 

Grace doesn’t see him again until the next night when he’s in the lobby and he actually goes up to her and they talk because he had time to process it, they awkwardly talk... mostly sit though, and then Grace’s friends call her over and Simon quickly offers for her to come over another day

Grace doesn’t know what to do and her friends ask her whats up and convince her to go, not alone obviously Jennifer is gonna go with her to make sure she doesn’t get murdered 

Its awkward again, there’s small talk between Samantha, Frank, Jennifer and the two idiots and they play card games until Frank decides to finish up dinner and Jen ditches Grace because Frank is the coolest mf on the planet so Grace and Simon are alone again

They just sit there until Simon asks about her dance program and college and then they talk about that until Grace mentions her therapist and Simon’s like??? and Grace is like whoops and then they eat dinner and Grace and Jen leave

Simon goes by the resort more often but they don’t rlly talk until Grace is about to leave and Simon just apologizes for everything and Grace says she’s sorry too and Simon just doesn’t know how to respond to that so he’s like if you ever want to come back here I’ll be here

Grace does not know how to respond to that so she’s just like uhhh okay bye

The dance team comes back the following year and she sees Simon again and he’s like “sorry for fucking you up” and Grace is like “don’t give yourself so much credit I already needed therapy unless you forgot about the fact I had counseling right after you?” “I try to block out everything from before 19 tbh” “fair enough... I suppose there wasn’t much to want to remember huh” “I’m... I remember telling you, you were the best person I ever met and I meant that” Grace doesn’t know how to respond to that and then they don’t talk for the rest of the trip, they just wave at each other and smile in passing

The dance troupe grace joins after college goes on annual trips to the resort so Grace and Simon continue to have three conversations each year plus Jennifer makes sure a visit to Samantha’s and Frank’s happens

the yearning... the pining... WHEW its a lot and Samantha, Frank, and Grace’s entire dance troupe, plus the family that always vacations at the same time are SICK of it

They don’t even become close friends again until their late twenties. 

The kids club thinks Grace is amazing and Kai bases their whole look off of her

Mall-rats officially happens in their thirties and they get married in their forties

when I say slowburn i meant it

Idk where to put this: 

Samantha lost custody of Simon as a kid because of a hoarding problem she still struggles with but Simon is an adult now and him and Frank help keep her in check

Simon was with Samantha from a couple weeks after entering foster care and most of middle school

Samantha and Frank are actually just roommates 

Grace is like “so Samantha and Frank...?” “They’re roommates” “Simon... is that what they told you?” “well yeah, but they’re seriously just roommates” “ummmm...” “Grace they’re both gay” “OH”

Simon works at the bookstore his whole life and he loves it, Grace is a professional dancer, they’re both happy

They look the same as in canon except Simon can shave and Grace gets be the fashion icon she deserves 

Simon still cant dress so most of the time he just wears different sweaters he’s been given and alternates between his three pairs of jeans

[woosansang]

run away together (spend some time forever)

Chapter 14: Three step plan

Summary:  December 1994 - February 1995. Richie nearly makes a mistake. Eddie nearly confesses something.

READ THE WHOLE CHAPTER ON AO3!

Previous Chapter (Chapter 13 on Tumblr)

Tumblr Masterpost

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The top five most emotional experiences of Richie Tozier’s nearly nineteen years of life were, in no particular order, as followed:

Killing a sewer clown at thirteen years old with his childhood friends.

The first time his mother got so drunk she forgot who he was.

Discovering he liked boys and was deeply in love with his best friend.

High school graduation, wherein he had to leave most of his childhood friends behind.

Coming out to his best friend whom he was deeply in love with.

As soon as he’d taken a sip of his drink, admitting to the world that he was a little bit gay, Richie vowed to never again consume a single drop of alcohol because it made him do stupid, stupid things. Even though Eddie’d had a drink, too, in Richie’s drunken state, he’d somehow convinced himself that his eyes were playing tricks on him and Eddie had not just, in fact, also confessed to having given a blowjob before. That became a little harder when Eddie then started grinding down on some sleazeball whom Richie had never seen before, and he resolved to find the girl he’d made out with during spin the bottle. She was easy to spot in the crowd because of her wild, frizzy black hair, and taking her into Lily’s room was an easy distraction from whatever Eddie was doing to the blonde boy on the couch.

Part of Richie had been fucking terrified when he got home the day after Lily’s party to find Eddie hadn’t been there. He almost drove himself insane trying to remember if he’d taken something to make himself misremember the whole night and maybe Eddie hadn’t sucked a dick and maybe now that he’d found out about Richie’s secret, he hated him and never wanted to see him again because Richie was right all along and Eddie wasn’t like him and now Eddie was disgusted by him and—

And then Eddie came home and talked to him, just like Stan and Bev always told Richie to do. And Richie had been wrong. Eddie was gay. Eddie kissed boys and had sex with boys because he was gay and Richie was a fucking idiot for not seeing it before. Thinking about how New-York-Eddie dressed and behaved and decorated their apartment, Richie could not understand how he had been so blind. Well, he supposed he was blinded by his own self-hatred and always put Eddie on a pedestal and since Richie felt like he was wrong and Eddie could do no wrong in his eyes, then Eddie couldn’t possibly be like him.

But he was. He was gay.

Which meant that Richie… Richie might have stood a chance?

No, Eddie deserved better.

Just because Eddie liked boys, didn’t mean he liked Richie. Why the fuck would he like Richie, anyway? Richie was a walking disaster, a mess of a human being with no emotional intelligence and way too many mom jokes and a fashion sense that even thrift stores laughed at. Richie had taught himself to play Creep by Radiohead and had been strumming away on his guitar non-stop for the past few days, convincing himself that Eddie thought he was still a weirdo so that he wouldn’t do something even more stupid like confess his feelings, because if he were certain he’d be rejected then he’d keep his mouth shut.

Christmas was two days after Lily’s party and was not particularly eventful, especially compared to the Christmases they usually had with all their friends, drinking eggnog with a record on in the background while they opened Secret Santa gifts. This year, they’d agreed to forgo tradition and not buy each other anything on account of needing to save money, but then the game store next to Richie’s work got their first PlayStation shipment in and Richie managed to convince Eddie to chip in for the console and a couple of games for them to play together, and they ended up throwing all Christmas traditions out the window to just sit in front of their tiny television playing some Japanese fighting game that they couldn’t understand. Richie beat Eddie by a mile, of course, and Eddie was so cute when he lost, when he pouted and groaned and smacked Richie’s arm. Richie did let him win one round just to see his face light up like the Christmas tree in the corner that Eddie had insisted on getting. As they did with Thanksgiving dinner, they cooked together, Richie following Eddie’s instructions even though he still had no idea where Eddie even learned to cook because he could not imagine Sonia allowing him near the stove or a knife ever. They borrowed Alex’s fruitcake recipe, as much as Richie complained about having fruit in his dessert, and dinner wasn’t half bad. Richie was getting better at not burning stuff and Eddie complimented his honey roasted carrots so really, lack of Losers aside, it was a good Christmas.

It was now early afternoon on December thirty-first and Richie was helping Eddie rifle through his wardrobe, trying to find the perfect outfit for their first New Years’ Eve in Times Square. Eddie rolled his eyes at Richie’s geometric printed sweater and decided to match his crazy attire with a colourful, striped sweater of his own. Richie thought they looked rather cute, standing in front of the mirror together in their bright clothing. He reached out to pinch Eddie’s cheek but his hand was swatted away after only one “cute”.

Eddie turned and put his hands on his hips. “Are you going to be warm enough?”

“Probably.” Richie shrugged. “I’ll just chuck a beanie on.”

“Make sure you’re warm.”

“Yeah, okay, mom.”

Richie started to grow suspicious soon after they left the house about why Eddie was so concerned about him staying warm, because Eddie’s arms were swinging back and forth and he had a giddy smile on his face that made Richie’s insides feel equal parts adoration and confusion. His fingers twitched instinctively and he couldn’t help himself when he reached a hand out to grab one of Eddie’s, giving it a squeeze.

“What’s got this Spaghetti all excited, hm?”

“Oh, nothing,” Eddie sing-songed, and Richie’s heart soared when he squeezed back. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

He was acutely aware of the fact that Eddie did not drop his hand as they kept walking, could feel sparks of electricity buzzing through the layers of their gloves, snow falling softly on the footpath in front of them. They’d left their apartment rather early in the day to avoid taking the subway when people were packed in like sardines, mostly for Eddie’s sake, and they’d decided to grab some lunch in Manhattan before joining the growing crowd in Times Square for the evening’s performances. After they exited the station, Richie was about to suggest a restaurant on 10th Avenue that Anton had once mentioned, when Eddie reached back out and took his hand, pulling him in the opposite direction, off towards Times Square.

“Where we goin’, Eds? What happened to our lunch date?”

“It’s not— Whatever, I have a better idea.”

“Better than a date with Eddie Spaghetti? There ain’t no such thing!”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a fucking date, dipshit; I said it was better than lunch.”

Richie was ignoring how his heart stuttered at Eddie playing along with the whole date thing. “But I’m hungry, Eds.”

“Grow the fuck up,” Eddie snapped and then, softer, he said, “You’ll like this, I promise.”

They crossed the road and went down into another station, hopping on the subway again on a different line. Richie was rather directionally challenged and Eddie had probably memorised all the train and bus lines and everything already, so he just held onto the railing and let Eddie direct him when they had to get off.

Richie might not have been able to tell one block in New York City from another, but he’d have to be actually blind to miss Central Park when it was staring him in the face.

“A walk in the park on New Years’ Eve? Oh, Edward, I never took you for such a romantic.”

“Shut up, it’s not a walk in the park. You’re here, how could it be?”

Richie grinned, glancing down at Eddie and taking his hand again. That wasn’t weird, right? They used to hold hands and fucking cuddle and shit all the time when they were younger and even a few weeks ago, and they’d both been gay that whole time, even if they didn’t know it. It shouldn’t have made a difference now that they knew. Treating Eddie differently because now Richie knew he was gay would surely be some kind of homophobia, wouldn’t it? Richie didn’t know and he did not care, either. He’d hold Eddie’s hand if he damn well pleased, provided Eddie wanted him to… And Eddie wasn’t pulling away, so.

They reached the end of The Pond and rounded one last cluster of trees, and all of a sudden, Richie realised where Eddie had taken him.

Wollman Ice Skating Rink.

“Just as you took me surprise-rollerblading,” Eddie started to explain, but he didn’t get another word in before Richie swooped down and lifted him into a crushing hug. “Fucking put me down!” Eddie wheezed, smacking Richie’s shoulder.

“Eds! It’s perfect.” He set him down as asked and squeezed his face between his hands instead, leaning down to kiss his forehead with a loud smack. “You’re perfect. Thank you.”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, but he was blushing. “We both know I’m gonna kick your ass at ice skating as well.”

“Fine by me. I get to watch you skate ahead of me,” Richie said with a wink.

After paying for entry and rental ice skates, they had roughly an hour before they wanted to head off for lunch and the performances, and Richie planned on making every second count. He waddled onto the rink, one hand on the barrier and one clutching Eddie’s, willing himself not to fall on his ass and make even more of a fool of himself than he usually did.

Eddie was right – Richie sucked at ice skating just as much as rollerblading and Eddie was flying around the rink, weaving through the kids and couples and making it back to Richie while Richie had barely skated halfway around. Eddie came up behind him and grabbed his waist, almost sending them both toppling to the ground, but Richie’s grip on the barrier was tight and he wasn’t moving very fast, so he stopped them falling, yelping embarrassingly. Eddie laughed, head thrown back and eyes crinkled with joy, causing Richie’s heart to thump loudly against his ribcage, so loudly and so aggressively that he wouldn’t have been surprised if Eddie could feel it through all their layers where his hands were still gripping Richie’s waist.

Eddie said they should be in Times Square by three if they wanted to be able to see the stage, so he insisted that they leave at 2:30pm to beat the rush of people pouring out of Central Park onto the streets of New York. The restaurants across the road were packed with lunchtime patrons, so they decided to take a longer route to Times Square, ducking into an alleyway off 50th street where a cute, twenty-four-hour cafe was tucked away. They ate quickly, Eddie periodically checking his watch and urging Richie to gobble down his sandwich even faster. Once they started walking again, making good time to get into the prime viewing position for Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, Richie’s heart jumped into his throat when Eddie let their hands fall together again.

“Think I’d make a good Danny Zuko?” Richie asked, pointing up to the Grease Broadway billboards and desperately trying to ignore how hard his heart was beating.

Eddie snorted. “You’d be more like if Kenickie’s charm and Sonny’s stupidity had a baby.”

“Aw, Eds, you think I’m charming?”

“I most certainly do not, but apparently other people do. Must be something in the water.”

“You’ve definitely got aspects of Rizzo,” Richie said, “Tough and taking no shit from anyone. But you’re also fuckin’ adorable like Frenchy.”

“Well, if we’re talking girls, then you’d definitely be Patty Simcox because you’re cheesy and your face is stupid and don’t need help making a fool of yourself.”

“If we’re talkin’ girls, I’m definitely Cha Cha, ‘cause she’s hot as fuck.”

“Is she? Can’t say I agree,” Eddie quipped.

Richie laughed. “Eds Spagheds gets off a good one, once again. You’re getting funnier every day, I swear. Must be how much time we’re spending together.”

“No, that’s definitely not it.”

“Hey!” Richie started to be offended, but Eddie shushed him and stepped in front of him as they got to the stage area, Eddie’s small frame allowing him to push through the crowd without too much trouble, hand gripping Richie’s tightly so he didn’t get lost. “This is a damn good view, Kaspbrak.”

“Are you talking about our proximity to the stage or my ass?”

“Why not both?” Richie chuckled, earning an eye roll from Eddie.

The point of arriving so early was to beat the crowds and actually be able to see the stage, but Richie had almost forgotten that they’d then be standing around for hours until the show started. He tried to keep them from getting bored by singing, firstly, but after a few songs, the people around them seemed to get annoyed, so he switched to whispering stupid observations into Eddie’s ear until the boy cracked, then rattling off a few jokes he’d been working on for the open mic stand-up night in a few weeks, mentally noting which ones made Eddie laugh the hardest.

The ball was turned on at six, lighting up brightly even though it wasn’t dark out yet. Eddie immediately started informing Richie about the light bulbs they used and how just a few years ago they’d turned the ball into a giant apple for some fucking reason.

The Primetime part of the show began at eight. When Dick Clark and the camera crew arrived, the crowd went wild, screaming and cheering and shaking their arms around like they’d get the man’s attention that way. Finally, the show began. After Dick Clark himself ran through the introduction of his show, giving the crowd their moments to cheer for the camera and wave their pom poms (why the fuck they had pom poms, Richie had no clue), the first performance started. Melissa Etheridge wouldn’t have been Richie’s first choice to listen to, but the two songs she sang had the crowd swaying.

Richie leaned down and sang Come To My Window softly near Eddie’s ear. “You don't know how far I'd go to ease this precious ache. You don't know how much I'd give or how much I can take, just to reach you.” Eddie tilted his head so that Richie’s lips brushed against his ear, his beanie pressing against Richie’s nose. “This could be our song, Eds. Like how I’d come to your window all the time.”

Of course, as soon as the words left his mouth, the lyrics took a rather romantic turn.

“I don't care what they think, I don't care what they say, What do they know about this love anyway? Come, come to my window. I'll be home, I'll be home, I'll be home, I am coming home.”

But Eddie just turned his head to look Richie in the eye. “Yeah, it could be,” he whispered. Richie must have imagined seeing Eddie’s eyes darting down to his lips. He swallowed, moving back and putting some space between them before he did something really fucking stupid like kiss Eddie.

The crowd whooped and cheered as the first song ended and the next began, Melissa Etheridge’s raspy voice and acoustic guitar echoing through the makeshift stadium, bouncing off tall buildings and smacking Richie right in the face as Eddie’s arm slipped around his waist and he started swaying them along with the rest of the crowd. Richie very nearly had a heart attack when Eddie’s head tilted to rest against his shoulder, lyrics mumbled just quietly enough that Richie could hear them.

“But I'm the only one who'll walk across the fire for you,” Eddie sang. Richie was sure his heart was about to give out. “And I'm the only one who'll drown in my desire for you. It's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from, when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.”

Richie took over for the second verse, ignoring how much the words rang true and instead focusing on how Eddie’s hand was gripping gently at his side.

The mood changed completely when Salt-N-Pepa came on stage, Eddie’s arm dropping from around Richie and sliding into his hand instead as the crowd bopped along to the girls rapping. Richie snuck a glance down at Eddie, admiring his profile, mouth stretched into a wide grin, lips moving along with the lyrics that Richie was surprised he even knew. He was so fucking cute, Richie’s heart nearly burst out of his chest just watching him.

The rest of the performances were just as enjoyable, but far less stressful, after Eddie finally stopped touching Richie every chance he got and Richie could let himself relax enough to just listen to the music and sing and dance along. He watched the soft blue and purple lights from the stage shining on Eddie’s face during Jon Secada’s set, the audience’s arms up and swaying. Eddie looked almost ethereal, the gentle lights playing on his soft features, making him look like a goddamn airbrushed dream.

Soon enough, the final portion of the show began – the last half hour before the countdown to the ball dropping. Dick Clark spoke into the camera and the crowd jostled them around, cheering madly and shaking pom poms and weird noodly things at the crew scanning their cameras over the people. Eddie tapped Richie’s arm and pointed up, seeing a helicopter above them, undoubtedly filming and commenting on the extent of the crowd gathered.

Ten minutes left. Richie looked up at the glowing ball with white light bulbs, bright in the night sky.

“You know that thing used to be made of iron?” Eddie said. “It’s aluminium now. Could you imagine how heavy it must have been?”

“Probably still lighter than your mother,” Richie quipped, earning himself a slap on the chest.

Five minutes left. Richie knew this because Eddie was checking his watch again every few seconds, as if that would make time go faster or something.

“Four hundred and fifty feet in the air,” Dick Clark’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“Ha,” Eddie said, listening as Dick Clark kept talking. “See, I told you. Three hundred watt bulbs. Two of them.”

“I never doubted you, Eds.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, how the fuck would you know some obscure detail about New York’s New Year’s Eve ball when we’ve never seen it even on TV before?”

“You should trust me, that’s why.”

Two minutes left. The first burst of fireworks went off, both of their heads snapping up to watch the colours fly through the sky, loud and bright and shining. The crowd was as loud as ever, screaming and jumping around, knocking Eddie into Richie’s side. Richie slid one arm around Eddie to keep him close and keep them together.

One minute left.

“This is the place to be,” Dick Clark was saying. “The heart of the crossroads of the world.”

The ball started being lowered. Eddie gripped onto his forearm, his heart rate picking up at the closeness and the atmosphere, the people shouting louder and grinning wider as the ball made its descent. It wasn’t as smooth as Richie thought it’d be, the giant object shaking slightly, tilting from side to side as it dropped incrementally.

People started counting.

Ten, nine, eight. There was a couple next to them already making out, hands sliding around each others’ shoulders.

Seven, six, five. The crowd was screaming the numbers out, the ball being lowered in increments as each second passed.

Four. Richie saw another couple lean in, knocking their foreheads together in anticipation.

Three. Eddie shifted, turning to face Richie, his wide grin faltering for a moment as they made eye contact. A stupid thought crossed Richie’s mind.

Two. Time slowed down. Was it stupid? Had Eddie not been holding him, touching him all night? Richie looked down at Eddie, with his pink nose and beanie and the ball had almost dropped but they didn’t notice because they were just staring at each other, Richie’s heart pounding, and in that single second, he decided that he was going to take the biggest chance of his life. He was going to kiss Eddie.

One.

...

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[slasherscream]

     billy loomis x reader x stu macher + ft. wearing/sharing their clothes

                                                     ——————– 

Stu wears the softest... best fucking clothes. You hug your boy because his hugs are state of the art but you also do it because he wears the softest shit. Someone who knows how to give a proper bear hug + the bliss of a sweater that feels like woven happiness? Indescribable high. Where the fuck are you buying this stuff, is often a question you mumble unintelligibly while you rub your face into his chosen top of the day.

Stu also doesn’t have a bad sense of style. Actually he’s got a pretty good one. Even a little bit aware of fashion trends. Is he following them? Not really. But he’s #Aware. Has summer, fall and winter wardrobe and no we’re not talking in terms of warmth/environmental protection. We’re talking colors. Certain cuts on certain clothing. We can go on and on here           The point is the boy is style conscious.

In other words despite the fact that he’s huge stealing his clothes is fucking CHOICE. The fabrics? Nice. Colors? Nice. Style? Nice. Even if his shit is just totally hanging off you it looks so good that you’ll look good. Besides you look cute drowning in all his sweaters and shirts. He has aww’d at you out loud when he’s turned around and there you are in his clothes again.

He was being an obnoxious dick about it but actually meant it lowkey. His heart? Soft. Bat him away from you with flappy sleeves (which he looooves watching you push up/adjust all day long).

Billy notices you doing this thing(TM) with Stu that you never do with him and he is ….irritated to say the least.

Trying not to get mad about it because outside of this one thing you and Stu show absolutely no favoritism towards each over him. He’s getting honestly 0 vibes that you prefer each other to him. Thus, he’s trying to be reasonable (for once in his fucking life). Besides, he and Stu have their own “special” thing they do together. Even if this is just a special “two of you” thing he should be understanding of it, right?? … riGHT.

So anyway he’s gonna blow his fucking gasket. 

Once he blows up. And yes it is a blow up (he’s physically incapable of discussing his feelings. Can only snap and yell them). Stu is actually the one who mediates this one. Gets up right in the middle of Billy bitching and yelling. Just walks upstairs. Billy is now absolutely losing his fucking mind becAUSE WHERE DOES STU THINK HE’S GOING-

Stu comes back and tosses a sweater at Billy's face full force. This did not make Billy less mad. Until he uses his one brain cell to realize it’s Stu telling him that if he wants to wear his shit he can and could’ve just totally been doing that all along. Why does he have to be so fucking difficult for? Nobody knows.

One part of his jealousy is fixed now even though he’s still trying to be huffy about it (he’s not putting on the sweater right now because he has to save face even though he wants to highkey).

"So why don’t you ever wear my shit, huh?“ Delightfully the focus is now on you. Your answer? Billy seems like the type to want his space/items/privacy/boundaries absolutely respected or God help you-

You didn’t really ask Stu to start wearing his clothes. It just happened naturally and increased in frequency naturally. You didn’t want to just do something with Billy and hope he went with the flow. Recipe for disaster right there.

Besides … you would’ve been embarrassed to just come out and ask if you can wear his clothes. It feels sappy and clingy to ask. Just doing it? Well the act is already done! Asking and then doing it? Flustered button has been pushed.

Silence settles in the room as you and Billy stare at each other wondering why you’re both like this. It’s rare that Stu gets to be the exasperated third party and he’s lowkey eating the shit it up.

Eventually Billy takes off his t-shirt and puts on Stu’s sweater. He tosses the t-shirt to you and you obediently put it on grinning the whole time.

The way you beam at him makes all his lingering insecurities melt away. Pretend this never happened anyone! Billy Loomis has never had a Moment of Vulnerability in his life. It was a false alarm. Shut the fuck up the both of you! Movie night is cancelled because y'all are laughing at him. He's going home! Fuck you! No he doesn't want a fucking hug-

You walk into school the next day wearing a white t-shirt that isn’t yours, a big ass cardigan that clEARLY isn’t yours and?? You look damn good. To the boys? You look very happily taken.

                                                     ——————–

[silent-era-of-cinema]

Janet Gaynor (born Laura Augusta Gainor; October 6, 1906 – September 14, 1984) was an American film, stage and television actress and painter.

Gaynor began her career as an extra in shorts and silent films. After signing with Fox Film Corporation (later 20th Century-Fox) in 1926, she rose to fame and became one of the biggest box office draws of the era. In 1929, she was the first winner of the Academy Award for Best Actress for her performances in three films: 7th Heaven (1927), Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927), and Street Angel (1928). This was the only occasion on which an actress has won one Oscar for multiple film roles. Gaynor's career success continued into the sound film era, and she achieved a notable success in the original version of A Star Is Born (1937), for which she received a second Best Actress Academy Award nomination.

After retiring from acting in 1939, Gaynor married film costume designer Adrian with whom she had a son. She briefly returned to acting in films and television in the 1950s and later became an accomplished oil painter. In 1980, Gaynor made her Broadway debut in the stage adaptation of the 1971 film Harold and Maude and appeared in the touring theatrical production of On Golden Pond in February 1982. In September 1982, she sustained multiple injuries when the taxicab in which she and others were passengers was struck by a drunken driver. These injuries eventually caused her death in September 1984.

Gaynor was born Laura Augusta Gainor (some sources stated Gainer) in Germantown, Philadelphia. Nicknamed "Lolly" as a child, she was the younger of two daughters born to Laura (Buhl) and Frank De Witt Gainor. Frank Gainor worked as a theatrical painter and paperhanger. When Gaynor was a toddler, her father began teaching her how to sing, dance, and perform acrobatics. As a child in Philadelphia, she began acting in school plays. After her parents divorced in 1914, Gaynor, her sister, and her mother moved to Chicago. Shortly thereafter, her mother married electrician Harry C. Jones. The family later moved west to San Francisco.

After graduating from San Francisco Polytechnic High School in 1923, Gaynor spent the winter vacationing in Melbourne, Florida, where she did stage work. Upon returning to San Francisco, Gaynor, her mother, and stepfather moved to Los Angeles, where she could pursue an acting career. She was initially hesitant to do so, and enrolled at Hollywood Secretarial School. She supported herself by working in a shoe store and later as a theatre usher. Her mother and stepfather continued to encourage her to become an actress and she began making the rounds to the studios (accompanied by her stepfather) to find film work.

Gaynor won her first professional acting job on December 26, 1924, as an extra in a Hal Roach comedy short. This led to more extra work in feature films and shorts for Film Booking Offices of America and Universal. Universal eventually hired her as a stock player for $50 a week. Six weeks after being hired by Universal, an executive at Fox Film Corporation offered her a screen test for a supporting role in the film The Johnstown Flood (1926). Her performance in the film caught the attention of Fox executives, who signed her to a five-year contract and began to cast her in leading roles. Later that year, Gaynor was selected as one of the WAMPAS Baby Stars (along with Joan Crawford, Dolores del Río, Mary Astor, and others).

By 1927, Gaynor was one of Hollywood's leading ladies. Her image was that of a sweet, wholesome, and pure young woman who was notable for playing her roles with depth and sensitivity. Her performances in 7th Heaven, the first of 12 films she would make with actor Charles Farrell; Sunrise, directed by F. W. Murnau; and Street Angel, also with Charles Farrell, earned her the first Academy Award for Best Actress in 1929, when for the first and only time the award was granted for multiple roles, on the basis of total recent work rather than for one particular performance. This practice was prohibited three years later by a new Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rule. Gaynor was not only the first actress to win the award, but at 22, was also the youngest until 1986, when actress Marlee Matlin, 21, won for her role in Children of a Lesser God.

Gaynor was one of only a handful of established lead actresses who made a successful transition to sound films. In 1929, she was reteamed with Charles Farrell (the pair was known as "America's favorite love birds") for the musical film Sunny Side Up. During the early 1930s, Gaynor was one of Fox's most popular actresses and one of Hollywood's biggest box office draws. In 1931 and 1932, she and Marie Dressler were tied as the number-one box office draws. After Dressler's death in 1934, Gaynor held the top spot alone.[9] She was often cited as a successor to Mary Pickford, and was cast in remakes of two Pickford films, Daddy Long Legs (1931) and Tess of the Storm Country (1932). Gaynor drew the line at a proposed remake of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, which she considered "too juvenile".

Gaynor continued to garner top billing for roles in State Fair (1933) with Will Rogers and The Farmer Takes a Wife (1935), which introduced Henry Fonda to the screen as Gaynor's leading man. However, when Darryl F. Zanuck merged his fledgling studio, Twentieth Century Pictures, with Fox Film Corporation to form 20th Century-Fox, her status became precarious and even tertiary to those of burgeoning actresses Loretta Young and Shirley Temple. According to press reports at the time, Gaynor held out on signing with the new 20th Century-Fox until her salary was raised from $1,000 a week to $3,000. The studio quickly issued a statement denying that Gaynor was holding out for more money. She quietly signed a new contract, the terms of which were never made public.

Gaynor received top billing above Constance Bennett, Loretta Young, and Tyrone Power in Ladies in Love (1937) but her box office appeal had already begun to wane: once ranked number one, she had dropped to number 24. She considered retiring due to her frustration with studio executives, who continued to cast her in the same type of role that brought her fame while audiences' tastes were changing. After 20th Century-Fox executives proposed that her contract be renegotiated and she be demoted to featured player status, Gaynor left the studio, but her retirement plans were quashed when David O. Selznick offered her the leading role in a new film to be produced by his company, Selznick International Pictures. Selznick, who was friendly with Gaynor off-screen, was convinced that audiences would enjoy seeing her portray a character closer to her true personality. He believed that she possessed the perfect combination of humor, charm, vulnerability, and innocence for the role of aspiring actress Esther Blodgett (later "Vicki Lester") in A Star Is Born. Gaynor accepted the role. The romantic drama was filmed in Technicolor and co-starred Fredric March. Released in 1937, it was an enormous hit and earned Gaynor her second Academy Award nomination for Best Actress; she lost to Luise Rainer for The Good Earth.

A Star Is Born revitalized Gaynor's career, and she was cast in the screwball comedy The Young in Heart (1938) with Paulette Goddard. That film was a modest hit, but by then Gaynor had definitely decided to retire. She later explained, "I had been working steadily for 17 long years, making movies was really all I knew of life. I just wanted to have time to know other things. Most of all I wanted to fall in love. I wanted to get married. I wanted a child. And I knew that in order to have these things one had to make time for them. So I simply stopped making movies. Then as if by a miracle, everything I really wanted happened." At the top of the industry, she retired at age 33.

In August 1939, Gaynor married Hollywood costume designer Adrian with whom she had a son in 1940. The couple divided their time between their 250-acre cattle ranch in Anápolis, Brazil, and their homes in New York and California. Both were also heavily involved in the fashion and arts community. Gaynor returned to acting in the early 1950s with appearances in live television anthology series including Medallion Theatre, Lux Video Theatre, and General Electric Theater.[8] In 1957, she appeared in her final film role as Dick Sargent's mother in the musical comedy Bernardine, starring Pat Boone and Terry Moore. In November 1959, she made her stage debut in the play The Midnight Sun, in New Haven, Connecticut. The play, which Gaynor later called "a disaster", was not well received and closed shortly after its debut.

Gaynor also became an accomplished oil painter of vegetable and flower still lifes. She sold over 200 paintings and had four showings under the Wally Findlay Galleries banner in New York, Chicago, and Palm Beach from 1975 to February 1982.

In 1980, Gaynor made her Broadway debut as "Maude" in the stage adaptation of the 1971 film Harold and Maude. She received good reviews for her performance, but the play was panned by critics and closed after 21 performances. Later that year, she reunited with her Servants' Entrance co-star Lew Ayres to film an episode of the anthology series The Love Boat. It was the first television appearance Gaynor had made since the 1950s and was her last screen role. In February 1982, she starred in the touring production of On Golden Pond. This was her final acting role.

Gaynor was romantically involved with her friend and frequent co-star, Charles Farrell, during the time of their work together in silent film, until she married her first husband. Choosing to keep their relationship out of the public eye, Gaynor and Farrell were often assisted by mutual friend Douglas Fairbanks Jr. in maintaining the ruse. Looking back, Fairbanks would later recall, "We three were so chummy that I became their 'beard,' the cover-up for their secret romance. I would drive them out to a little rundown, wooden house well south of Los Angeles, near the sea. I'd leave them there and go sailing or swimming until [it was] time to collect them and then we'd all have a bit of dinner."

According to Gaynor's biographer Sarah Baker, Farrell proposed marriage during the filming of Lucky Star, but the two never followed through with it. In her later years, Gaynor would hold their different personalities accountable for their eventual separation.

Gaynor was married three times and had one child. Her first marriage was to lawyer Jesse Lydell Peck, whom she married on September 11, 1929. Gaynor's attorney announced the couple's separation in late December 1932.

She was granted a divorce on April 7, 1933. On August 14, 1939, she married MGM costume designer Adrian in Yuma, Arizona. This relationship has been called a lavender marriage, since Adrian was openly gay within the film community while Gaynor was rumored to be gay or bisexual. The couple had one son, Robin Gaynor Adrian, born in 1940. Those rumors were never hinted at in newspapers or magazines. Gaynor and Adrian remained married until Adrian's death from a stroke on September 13, 1959.

On December 24, 1964, Gaynor married her longtime friend, stage producer Paul Gregory, to whom she remained married until her death. The two maintained a home in Desert Hot Springs, California and also owned 3,000 acres of land near Brasília.

Gaynor and her husband traveled frequently with her close friend Mary Martin and her husband. A Brazilian press report noted that Gaynor and Martin briefly lived with their respective husbands in Anapolis, state of Goiás at a ranch (fazenda in Portuguese) in the 1950s and 1960s – both houses are still there nowadays. There is a project by the Jan Magalinski Institute to restore their houses to create a Cinema Museum of Goiás.

On the evening of September 5, 1982, Gaynor, her husband Paul Gregory, actress Mary Martin, and Martin's manager Ben Washer were involved in a serious car accident in San Francisco. A van ran a red light at the corner of California and Franklin Streets and crashed into the Luxor taxicab in which the group was riding, knocking it into a tree. Ben Washer was killed, Mary Martin sustained two broken ribs and a broken pelvis, and Gaynor's husband suffered two broken legs. Gaynor sustained several serious injuries, including 11 broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, pelvic fractures, a punctured lung, and injuries to her bladder and kidney. The driver of the van, Robert Cato, was arrested on two counts of felony drunk driving, reckless driving, speeding, running a red light, and vehicular homicide. Cato pleaded not guilty and was later released on $10,000 bail. On March 15, 1983, he was found guilty of drunk driving and vehicular homicide and was sentenced to three years in prison.

As a result of her injuries, Gaynor was hospitalized for four months and underwent two surgeries to repair a perforated bladder and internal bleeding. She recovered sufficiently to return to her home in Desert Hot Springs, but continued to experience health issues due to the injuries and required frequent hospitalizations. Shortly before her death, she was hospitalized for pneumonia and other ailments. On September 14, 1984, Gaynor died at Desert Hospital in Palm Springs at the age of 77. Her doctor, Bart Apfelbaum, attributed her death to the 1982 car accident and stated that Gaynor "...never recovered" from her injuries.

Gaynor is buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery next to her second husband, Adrian. Her headstone reads "Janet Gaynor Gregory", her legal name after her marriage to her third husband, producer and director Paul Gregory.

For her contribution to the motion picture industry, Janet Gaynor has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 6284 Hollywood Blvd.

On March 1, 1978, Howard W. Koch, then the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, presented Gaynor with a citation for her "truly immeasurable contribution to the art of motion pictures".

In 1979, Gaynor was awarded the Order of the Southern Cross for her cultural contributions to Brazil.

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

WhatsApp? Part 12. (Steve Rogers x reader)

Description: You’ve never been lucky with guys. You just wanted to catch someone’s eye, to be loved. One day, that’s about to turn completely - with one fake, completely imagined number a guy gave you

A/N: Here we go for the first time.

Word Count: 2.6 K

Warnings: Full of nervousness.

Tagging: @missdictatorme, @songforhema, @mikariell95, @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

Read the rest here: Part One  Part Two  Part three  Part four  Part five  Part Six  Part seven  Part eight  Part nine  Part ten  Part eleven

If you like to have your readings in order :):  H E R E  

"You've told something to him?" - You looked Bucky in the eyes with a serious frown. You almost exploded after you hung up on Steve's call.

Steve Rogers asked you out after soon to be six months of testing. You were out of your mind. The wanted to go fucking out with you on a date. You immediately called to Deena and she was excited as well, she told Bucky in the next few seconds because he was apparently staying over at her place.

"He finally got his thoughts together." - You heard Bucky yell. The excitement was shaded by a little frown. Was this Bucky's work? Did he nudge Steve to do that? That was the question you were thinking about the whole night. So naturally, when James drove Deena to the office, that was the first thing you asked. You basically jumped at him.

"What? No. I didn't do anything." - Bucky smiled with all of his nonchalance. You were sure that he's lying. One hundred percent sure. You began to know his expression when he was there almost every day. Even Peter befriended him by the course of the time. And when you texted Peter those exciting news, even he thought that James worked some behind the scenes magic.

"Yeah. Right. If you've told him anything, you can tell me." - You said with a slight furrow. Bucky smiled widely again.

"I just encouraged him. That's all that I've done. A slight friendly help." - Bucky answered and took another bite from his plum. He already gave you yours - so you two just stood in the middle of the office and chew on plums while talking. You were waiting for some papers the other girls will give you to work the economic accountant magic with them.

"I hope you didn't make him do it. Because then it would be really cringy." - You raised your eyebrows. Then the door to your office opened and May with Peter was coming in. Peter had a day off of school, so May told him to come over. He liked to do some paperwork to help you and the other girls.

Although Peter was a seriously chaotic person, he was good with papers. He found paperwork pretty fun. He waved at your and James, having his back lazily over his shoulder and he was grinning like an idiot.

"What you're doing here? You're having a crush talk or what? I can discuss with you." - Peter finished your circle of losers and he got a plum himself from Bucky as well.

"You do, youngling?" - Bucky raised his eyebrows playfully. You just nodded with a serious face, finishing your first plum. You were sure that Bucky will restock his supplies the very same evening and you'll have two others.

"Oh yeah, he does. Our Lil' Pete can talk for hours about his Liz." - You nudged his side. Peter looked at May, he was horrified that she could've heard something, but he exhaled loudly when he was sure that May is still oblivious about Liz.

"Shut the hell up, dude. May would larb to tell everybody then." - Peter held your shoulder tightly and rolled his eyes.

"Should I say it louder then?" - You teased Peter and everyone giggled when Peter tensed for a minute. - "Come, dummydumdum. We'll go through some archives. I need to find some financial report from the last quarter." - You bobbed your head in the direction of the archive room and smiled at James as you left him in the middle of the room with a swift conversation.

You were really grateful to Buck for what he has done in the end. He was a good friend to both you and Steve.

---

The evening when Steve was about to leave for your date, he was worse than a mother who had her first child. He matched together a few outfits, freaked out as hell and talked faster then Eminem rapped.

"Should I take a tux or not, should I go formally dressed or should I go just..." - Steve mumbled to himself and Sam watched him intensely ever tho he had an opened newspaper with a seriously interesting article, but let's be honest - this was way funnier.

Sam was sad about Bucky being absent. This would make Bucky laugh so much. So Sam had to keep his eyes opened to remember every little detail so he could tell Bucky.

"Should I use cologne?" - Steve stopped all of a sudden, shirtless with his hands on his hips and a frown, looking directly at Sam.

"Yo talkin' to Mr. Match Maker?" - Sam pointed at himself and Steve nodded with an innocent frown. He was so pure it hurt. - "So yo talkin' to me. Let me see what ya have in stock." - Sam stood up from his chair, entering Steve's room slowly, licking his lips.

He watched Steve's outfits like a fashion disaster. This old man had a funny idea of being seductive or sexy. Sam looked at Steve with a question in his eyes but Steve just shrugged his shoulders.

"Ya don't mean any of this seriously, do ya?" - Sam asked with a smile. Steve frowned even more at that point. - "Man, I'll teach ya somethin', alright? These would maybe impressed ladies back in your day, but now it's the 21st century. You're a handsome, well-built hunk. Don't be afraid of showing some of dat meat to your girl." - Sam opened Steve's not so huge wardrobe without asking, taking one specific shirt out.

Yeah, Steve took some shirts out, but those were terrible. This one was sewed from a silky material, it was in the shade of a dark ocean blue and it made Steve seriously appeal like the biggest trophy in the game. It was a bit lose around Steve's shoulders, but tight around his waist and hips, bringing attention to it.

"Are you sure about this one?" - Steve asked and he was not entirely convinced by Sam's devilish grin.

"Are ya blind? Look at it, boy. This is your key to her heart and her panties." - Sam gave him the shit to Steve. His face was deadly serious at that moment because he didn't catch that it's a joke from Sam.

"Sam, I don't it's appropriate to talk about this stuff right now." - Steve mumbled with a dead face.

"I'm joking, ya moron. But don't you try to make an idiot out of me. You thought about that nasty shit. Ya a man, so don't ya try to play that saint card on me." - Sam laughed and fetched him old jeans which were practically worn out. They used to be from Wrangler, but at that point, you could probably easily miss it.

"And wear those. Just nudge the shirt inside on the front, let it be a bit loosed around the hips and that's that. Let the magic of your charisma work. You'll be good." - Sam patted his friend's shoulder and went to the table again. Steve was redder than some bio tomato at that point of the conversation.

He would not say it out loud at any costs. Of course, he had thought about you in that sense. In the sexual one, of course. You were sweet, unintentionally racy and sexy in his eyes. For example, when you were sending him some selfies from the bed, all messed up, your hair fell out of the bun, your lips curled in a smile, sun shining on your skin.

In his opinion, that was way better than some Maxim or Playboy full of those models who did it mostly for the money. You were natural, so... Normal and yet you didn't stop to take his breath away.

"You didn't answer my question." - Steve leaned into the doorframe and Sam raised his eyes up from the newspaper while drinking some black coffee. - "Should I wear some cologne?"

"I don't know. Maybe a bit of aftershave water or balm, that smell usually goes well with the ladies, but I'm not entirely sure about that cologne. That can be a bit too much for now." - Sam answered honestly without thinking.

"And are flowers still a thing these days?" - Steve asked before he left the room completely. Sam had a poker face at that moment.

"Ya know. We are barbarians, on the first date, we take them out with a club and then we drag them to out the cave, ya nonchalant ass prince. Was that question even necessary? We, as real men, value our women. Flowers are still a real thing.” - Sam answered unbelievable tone of his voice. 

“Flowers, okay.” - Steve nodded and pointed at Sam when he slowly closed the door to his bedroom so he could calmly dress. 

---

You were a lot of more ok that poor Steve. For you, it wasn't the first date from the century ago like it was for him. To be fair, you dated two years ago for the last time and that guy was a dick to say at least. He acted like a complete idiot with no sense for public opinion whatsoever. And he came dressed like a fucking Texas cowboy.

You were sure that this will be different. But nobody could stop you from being at least partially worried. You stood in front of your mirror in a loose black blouse, jeans that reached your waist and some boots on slight platformed high heels and you looked at yourself with a frown. Was it showing too much for his taste or should you show something more? The slight valley showing your cleavage being pushed up was pretty visible, but nothing more could be seen. Only your naked shoulders.

Some scenarios crossed your mind - what if he takes you to the church? That was the most obvious bullshit you could come up with, but you were worried about your shoulders and jeans not being accepted in that scenario. Or a fancy restaurant? Or... Your head was full of what-if plans which were totally shitty, but you just couldn't stop yourself from thinking about them.

Let me say one thing as the narrator as I am, girl, you were looking burning hot. Trust me, I'm into girls, I can judge those things. Only you knew which makeup suits you the most, your hairstyling was absolutely adorable and you looked like a cute little bean.

Even girls in your group chat confirmed it. And Deena's text could be count as two because of course, she had shown Bucky. They sent a selfie back - they were eating grapes, not plums for this instance, Deena had a creepy black facemask on and she even made Bucky wear one. His was the typical white one; but while Deena looked like a demon, he had his typical big smile on and those blue eyes were piercing you even through the display, his hair somehow messily.  She overall made him do such girly things, whether he did it willingly or not.

But their compliment made you flattered and confident as you texted them back in a short text. Maybe that's why the bell surprised you as much as it did. Steve was there physically, standing in front of your house, waiting for you. That made your head stop for a second. Steve, a real one, was just waiting outside for you to come down. 

It was your completely first time seeing him, seeing his face and his overall look just as he was, you were about too see just him and nothing else. Just the way you’ve sighed and drooled about the whole time; the thing you’ve imagined for so long was just at the gasp of your fingers. The battle was on and you had no intentions to lose it. 

You felt strangely numb when you checked your apartment for the last time and then locked your door. It was the jitters hugging you everywhere on your body, that made your fingers tremble and breath to be stuck more and more. The last steps felt like the biggest hell because it was so close that you could just hold your hand, opened the front door and opened them up.

You were acting like a child, just about to slap yourself to concentrate and behave like the adult you are. So you opened the door up and let me say - he was huge. It made you shocked, surprised. You just stood there for a few seconds, watching the enormous silhouette of his back.

Even this man’s back was impressive as hell, he was huge and truly muscly. Naturally, your eyes slowly fell down to his butt. And that butt was a really nice butt, round and nice to look at.

“So that's you? I am still not allowed to see your face?” - You laughed nervously and just as he heard your voice, Steve stopped to look around the street and turned his attention only to you.

You were much shorter and your body was gentle, just as you would expect with a woman’s body. You took his breath away for a few seconds. 

But you studied him with a frown. A huge puget of roses was the first thing you’ve noticed in his hands. But then you travelled higher and higher on his body. And when you saw the face for the first time, your jaw just dropped down in shock. 

That wasn't just some random Steve. Nor some random Steve Rogers. This was the Steve Rogers, the Captain America you’ve seen on so many news, on so many internet pages, his photos were everywhere. 

Well, that must've been destiny pulling a prank on you - a seriously not funny prank on you. You knew him from the many texts you’ve exchanged. He was a romantic, gentle soul, so well mannered man that it was almost unreal. You almost didn't understand the situation at all. So, was it him, Captain America, all the time, or was it just a coincidence. Maybe Steve Rogers was around the corner and Mr America was just waiting for that hot widow on the second floor? 

“I'm so sorry, Captain. I... I thought you were someone different.” - You stuttered, ready to go back to your flat, ready to let him leave. But his warm, huge hand gently touched your arm. 

His magical made you weak - he had a boyish, bright smile and baby blue eyes. You felt like a fangirl who encountered their idol. He was really beautiful when he was leaning forward to you, his hand was warm and gentle on your arm. Captain was handsome, he reminded you of Adonis, the Greek god himself. 

You couldn't find the words to describe him at all. Captain looked like a man, but he had the energy of a boy in him. But somehow, even though he was tall and huge, he was so warm and nice, it just shined from his eyes. You liked him.

“I'm pretty sure you’re the one who am I waiting for.” - He stopped you from going back inside, making you close your eyes and giggle as you definitely closed the door, stepping on a socially acceptable distance from his body.

“So you’re Captain America.” - Your cheeks reddened and you covered your face in your palms. You giggled like hell. - “Oh my God.”

[theculturedmarxist]

My dad was born in 1917. Somehow, he survived the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918-1919, but an outbreak of whooping cough in 1923 claimed his baby sister, Clementina. One of my dad’s first memories was seeing his sister’s tiny white casket. Another sister was permanently marked by scarlet fever. In 1923, my dad was hit by a car and spent two weeks in a hospital with a fractured skull as well as a lacerated thumb. His immigrant parents had no medical insurance, but the driver of the car gave his father $50 toward the medical bills. The only lasting effect was the scar my father carried for the rest of his life on his right thumb.

The year 1929 brought the Great Depression and lean times. My father’s father had left the family, so my dad, then 12, had to pitch in. He got a newspaper route, which he kept for four years, quitting high school after tenth grade so he could earn money for the family. In 1935, like millions of other young men of that era, he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), a creation of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal that offered work on environmental projects of many kinds. He battled forest fires in Oregon for two years before returning to his family and factory work. In 1942, he was drafted into the Army, going back to a factory job when World War II ended. Times grew a little less lean in 1951 when he became a firefighter, after which he felt he could afford to buy a house and start a family.

I’m offering all this personal history as the context for a prediction of my dad’s that, for obvious reasons, came to my mind again recently. When I was a teenager, he liked to tell me: “I had it tough in the beginning and easy in the end. You, Willy, have had it easy in the beginning, but will likely have it tough in the end.” His prophecy stayed with me, perhaps because even then, somewhere deep down, I already suspected that my dad was right.

The COVID-19 pandemic is now grabbing the headlines, all of them, and a global recession, if not a depression, seems like a near-certainty. The stock market has been tanking and people’s lives are being disrupted in fundamental and scary ways. My dad knew the experience of losing a loved one to disease, of working hard to make ends meet during times of great scarcity, of sacrificing for the good of one’s family. Compared to him, it’s true that, so far, I’ve had an easier life as an officer in the Air Force and then a college teacher and historian. But at age 57, am I finally ready for the hard times to come? Are any of us?

And keep in mind that this is just the beginning. Climate change (recall Australia’s recent and massive wildfires) promises yet more upheavals, more chaos, more diseases. America’s wanton militarism and lying politicians promise more wars. What’s to be done to avert or at least attenuate the tough times to come, assuming my dad’s prediction is indeed now coming true? What can we do?

It’s Time to Reimagine America

Here’s the one thing about major disruptions to normalcy: they can create opportunities for dramatic change. (Disaster capitalists know this, too, unfortunately.) President Franklin Roosevelt recognized this in the 1930s and orchestrated his New Deal to revive the economy and put Americans like my dad back to work.

In 2001, the administration of President George W. Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney capitalized on the shock-and-awe disruption of the 9/11 attacks to inflict on the world their vision of a Pax Americana, effectively a militarized imperium justified (falsely) as enabling greater freedom for all. The inherent contradiction in such a dreamscape was so absurd as to make future calamity inevitable. Recall what an aide to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld scribbled down, only hours after the attack on the Pentagon and the collapse of the Twin Towers, as his boss’s instructions (especially when it came to looking for evidence of Iraqi involvement): “Go massive — sweep it all up, things related and not.” And indeed they would do just that, with an emphasis on the “not,” including, of course, the calamitous invasion of Iraq in 2003.

To progressive-minded people thinking about this moment of crisis, what kind of opportunities might open to us when (or rather if) Donald Trump is gone from the White House? Perhaps this coronaviral moment is the perfect time to consider what it would mean for us to go truly big, but without the usual hubris or those disastrous invasions of foreign countries. To respond to COVID-19, climate change, and the staggering wealth inequities in this country that, when combined, will cause unbelievable levels of needless suffering, what’s needed is a drastic reordering of our national priorities.

Remember, the Fed’s first move was to inject $1.5 trillion into the stock market. (That would have been enough to forgive all current student debt.) The Trump administration has also promised to help airlines, hotels, and above all oil companies and the fracking industry, a perfect storm when it comes to trying to sustain and enrich those upholding a kleptocratic and amoral status quo.

This should be a time for a genuinely new approach, one fit for a world of rising disruption and disaster, one that would define a new, more democratic, less bellicose America. To that end, here are seven suggestions, focusing — since I’m a retired military officer — mainly on the U.S. military, a subject that continues to preoccupy me, especially since, at present, that military and the rest of the national security state swallow up roughly 60% of federal discretionary spending:

1. If ever there was a time to reduce our massive and wasteful military spending, this is it. There was never, for example, any sense in investing up to $1.7 trillion over the next 30 years to “modernize” America’s nuclear arsenal. (Why are new weapons needed to exterminate humanity when the “old” ones still work just fine?) Hundreds of stealth fighters and bombers — it’s estimated that Lockheed Martin’s disappointing F-35 jet fighter alone will cost $1.5 trillion over its life span — do nothing to secure us from pandemics, the devastating effects of climate change, or other all-too-pressing threats. Such weaponry only emboldens a militaristic and chauvinistic foreign policy that will facilitate yet more wars and blowback problems of every sort. And speaking of wars, isn’t it finally time to end U.S. involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan? More than $6 trillion has already been wasted on those wars and, in this time of global peril, even more is being wasted on this country’s forever conflicts across the Greater Middle East and Africa. (Roughly $4 billion a month continues to be spent on Afghanistan alone, despite all the talk about “peace” there.)

2. Along with ending profligate weapons programs and quagmire wars, isn’t it time for the U.S. to begin dramatically reducing its military “footprint” on this planet? Roughly 800 U.S. military bases circle the globe in a historically unprecedented fashion at a yearly cost somewhere north of $100 billion. Cutting such numbers in half over the next decade would be a more than achievable goal. Permanently cutting provocative “war games” in South Korea, Europe, and elsewhere would be no less sensible. Are North Korea and Russia truly deterred by such dramatic displays of destructive military might?

3. Come to think of it, why does the U.S. need the immediate military capacity to fight two major foreign wars simultaneously, as the Pentagon continues to insist we do and plan for, in the name of “defending” our country? Here’s a radical proposal: if you add 70,000 Special Operations forces to 186,000 Marine Corps personnel, the U.S. already possesses a potent quick-strike force of roughly 250,000 troops. Now, add in the Army’s 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions and the 10th Mountain Division. What you have is more than enough military power to provide for America’s actual national security. All other Army divisions could be reduced to cadres, expandable only if our borders are directly threatened by war. Similarly, restructure the Air Force and Navy to de-emphasize the present “global strike” vision of those services, while getting rid of Donald Trump’s newest service, the Space Force, and the absurdist idea of taking war into low earth orbit. Doesn’t America already have enough war here on this small planet of ours?

4. Bring back the draft, just not for military purposes. Make it part of a national service program for improving America. It’s time for a new Civilian Conservation Corps focused on fostering a Green New Deal. It’s time for a new Works Progress Administration to rebuild America’s infrastructure and reinvigorate our culture, as that organization did in the Great Depression years. It’s time to engage young people in service to this country. Tackling COVID-19 or future pandemics would be far easier if there were quickly trained medical aides who could help free doctors and nurses to focus on the more difficult cases. Tackling climate change will likely require more young men and women fighting forest fires on the west coast, as my dad did while in the CCC — and in a climate-changing world there will be no shortage of other necessary projects to save our planet. Isn’t it time America’s youth answered a call to service? Better yet, isn’t it time we offered them the opportunity to truly put America, rather than themselves, first?

5. And speaking of “America First,” that eternal Trumpian catch-phrase, isn’t it time for all Americans to recognize that global pandemics and climate change make a mockery of walls and go-it-alone nationalism, not to speak of politics that divide, distract, and keep so many down? President Dwight D. Eisenhower once said that only Americans can truly hurt America, but there’s a corollary to that: only Americans can truly save America — by uniting, focusing on our common problems, and uplifting one another. To do so, it’s vitally necessary to put an end to fear-mongering (and warmongering). As President Roosevelt famously said in his first inaugural address in the depths of the Great Depression, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Fear inhibits our ability to think clearly, to cooperate fully, to change things radically as a community.

6. To cite Yoda, the Jedi master, we must unlearn what we have learned. For example, America’s real heroes shouldn’t be “warriors” who kill or sports stars who throw footballs and dunk basketballs. We’re witnessing our true heroes in action right now: our doctors, nurses, and other medical personnel, together with our first responders, and those workers who stay in grocery stores, pharmacies, and the like and continue to serve us all despite the danger of contracting the coronavirus from customers. They are all selflessly resisting a threat too many of us either didn’t foresee or refused to treat seriously, most notably, of course, President Donald Trump: a pandemic that transcends borders and boundaries. But can Americans transcend the increasingly harsh and divisive borders and boundaries of our own minds? Can we come to work selflessly to save and improve the lives of others? Can we become, in a sense, lovers of humanity?

7. Finally, we must extend our love to encompass nature, our planet. For if we keep treating our lands, our waters, and our skies like a set of trash cans and garbage bins, our children and their children will inherit far harder times than the present moment, hard as it may be.

What these seven suggestions really amount to is rejecting a militarized mindset of aggression and a corporate mindset of exploitation for one that sees humanity and this planet more holistically. Isn’t it time to regain that vision of the earth we shared collectively during the Apollo moon missions: a fragile blue sanctuary floating in the velvety darkness of space, an irreplaceable home to be cared for and respected since there’s no other place for us to go? Otherwise, I fear that my father’s prediction will come true not just for me, but for generations to come and in ways that even he couldn’t have imagined.

[timeless-hollywood-classics]

Janet Gaynor (born Laura Augusta Gainor; October 6, 1906 – September 14, 1984) was an American film, stage and television actress and painter.

Gaynor began her career as an extra in shorts and silent films. After signing with Fox Film Corporation (later 20th Century-Fox) in 1926, she rose to fame and became one of the biggest box office draws of the era. In 1929, she was the first winner of the Academy Award for Best Actress for her performances in three films: 7th Heaven (1927), Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927), and Street Angel (1928). This was the only occasion on which an actress has won one Oscar for multiple film roles. Gaynor's career success continued into the sound film era, and she achieved a notable success in the original version of A Star Is Born (1937), for which she received a second Best Actress Academy Award nomination.

After retiring from acting in 1939, Gaynor married film costume designer Adrian with whom she had a son. She briefly returned to acting in films and television in the 1950s and later became an accomplished oil painter. In 1980, Gaynor made her Broadway debut in the stage adaptation of the 1971 film Harold and Maude and appeared in the touring theatrical production of On Golden Pond in February 1982. In September 1982, she sustained multiple injuries when the taxicab in which she and others were passengers was struck by a drunken driver. These injuries eventually caused her death in September 1984.

Gaynor was born Laura Augusta Gainor (some sources stated Gainer) in Germantown, Philadelphia. Nicknamed "Lolly" as a child, she was the younger of two daughters born to Laura (Buhl) and Frank De Witt Gainor. Frank Gainor worked as a theatrical painter and paperhanger. When Gaynor was a toddler, her father began teaching her how to sing, dance, and perform acrobatics. As a child in Philadelphia, she began acting in school plays. After her parents divorced in 1914, Gaynor, her sister, and her mother moved to Chicago. Shortly thereafter, her mother married electrician Harry C. Jones. The family later moved west to San Francisco.

After graduating from San Francisco Polytechnic High School in 1923, Gaynor spent the winter vacationing in Melbourne, Florida, where she did stage work. Upon returning to San Francisco, Gaynor, her mother, and stepfather moved to Los Angeles, where she could pursue an acting career. She was initially hesitant to do so, and enrolled at Hollywood Secretarial School. She supported herself by working in a shoe store and later as a theatre usher. Her mother and stepfather continued to encourage her to become an actress and she began making the rounds to the studios (accompanied by her stepfather) to find film work.

Gaynor won her first professional acting job on December 26, 1924, as an extra in a Hal Roach comedy short. This led to more extra work in feature films and shorts for Film Booking Offices of America and Universal. Universal eventually hired her as a stock player for $50 a week. Six weeks after being hired by Universal, an executive at Fox Film Corporation offered her a screen test for a supporting role in the film The Johnstown Flood (1926). Her performance in the film caught the attention of Fox executives, who signed her to a five-year contract and began to cast her in leading roles. Later that year, Gaynor was selected as one of the WAMPAS Baby Stars (along with Joan Crawford, Dolores del Río, Mary Astor, and others).

By 1927, Gaynor was one of Hollywood's leading ladies. Her image was that of a sweet, wholesome, and pure young woman who was notable for playing her roles with depth and sensitivity. Her performances in 7th Heaven, the first of 12 films she would make with actor Charles Farrell; Sunrise, directed by F. W. Murnau; and Street Angel, also with Charles Farrell, earned her the first Academy Award for Best Actress in 1929, when for the first and only time the award was granted for multiple roles, on the basis of total recent work rather than for one particular performance. This practice was prohibited three years later by a new Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rule. Gaynor was not only the first actress to win the award, but at 22, was also the youngest until 1986, when actress Marlee Matlin, 21, won for her role in Children of a Lesser God.

Gaynor was one of only a handful of established lead actresses who made a successful transition to sound films. In 1929, she was reteamed with Charles Farrell (the pair was known as "America's favorite love birds") for the musical film Sunny Side Up. During the early 1930s, Gaynor was one of Fox's most popular actresses and one of Hollywood's biggest box office draws. In 1931 and 1932, she and Marie Dressler were tied as the number-one box office draws. After Dressler's death in 1934, Gaynor held the top spot alone.[9] She was often cited as a successor to Mary Pickford, and was cast in remakes of two Pickford films, Daddy Long Legs (1931) and Tess of the Storm Country (1932). Gaynor drew the line at a proposed remake of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, which she considered "too juvenile".

Gaynor continued to garner top billing for roles in State Fair (1933) with Will Rogers and The Farmer Takes a Wife (1935), which introduced Henry Fonda to the screen as Gaynor's leading man. However, when Darryl F. Zanuck merged his fledgling studio, Twentieth Century Pictures, with Fox Film Corporation to form 20th Century-Fox, her status became precarious and even tertiary to those of burgeoning actresses Loretta Young and Shirley Temple. According to press reports at the time, Gaynor held out on signing with the new 20th Century-Fox until her salary was raised from $1,000 a week to $3,000. The studio quickly issued a statement denying that Gaynor was holding out for more money. She quietly signed a new contract, the terms of which were never made public.

Gaynor received top billing above Constance Bennett, Loretta Young, and Tyrone Power in Ladies in Love (1937) but her box office appeal had already begun to wane: once ranked number one, she had dropped to number 24. She considered retiring due to her frustration with studio executives, who continued to cast her in the same type of role that brought her fame while audiences' tastes were changing. After 20th Century-Fox executives proposed that her contract be renegotiated and she be demoted to featured player status, Gaynor left the studio, but her retirement plans were quashed when David O. Selznick offered her the leading role in a new film to be produced by his company, Selznick International Pictures. Selznick, who was friendly with Gaynor off-screen, was convinced that audiences would enjoy seeing her portray a character closer to her true personality. He believed that she possessed the perfect combination of humor, charm, vulnerability, and innocence for the role of aspiring actress Esther Blodgett (later "Vicki Lester") in A Star Is Born. Gaynor accepted the role. The romantic drama was filmed in Technicolor and co-starred Fredric March. Released in 1937, it was an enormous hit and earned Gaynor her second Academy Award nomination for Best Actress; she lost to Luise Rainer for The Good Earth.

A Star Is Born revitalized Gaynor's career, and she was cast in the screwball comedy The Young in Heart (1938) with Paulette Goddard. That film was a modest hit, but by then Gaynor had definitely decided to retire. She later explained, "I had been working steadily for 17 long years, making movies was really all I knew of life. I just wanted to have time to know other things. Most of all I wanted to fall in love. I wanted to get married. I wanted a child. And I knew that in order to have these things one had to make time for them. So I simply stopped making movies. Then as if by a miracle, everything I really wanted happened." At the top of the industry, she retired at age 33.

In August 1939, Gaynor married Hollywood costume designer Adrian with whom she had a son in 1940. The couple divided their time between their 250-acre cattle ranch in Anápolis, Brazil, and their homes in New York and California. Both were also heavily involved in the fashion and arts community. Gaynor returned to acting in the early 1950s with appearances in live television anthology series including Medallion Theatre, Lux Video Theatre, and General Electric Theater.[8] In 1957, she appeared in her final film role as Dick Sargent's mother in the musical comedy Bernardine, starring Pat Boone and Terry Moore. In November 1959, she made her stage debut in the play The Midnight Sun, in New Haven, Connecticut. The play, which Gaynor later called "a disaster", was not well received and closed shortly after its debut.

Gaynor also became an accomplished oil painter of vegetable and flower still lifes. She sold over 200 paintings and had four showings under the Wally Findlay Galleries banner in New York, Chicago, and Palm Beach from 1975 to February 1982.

In 1980, Gaynor made her Broadway debut as "Maude" in the stage adaptation of the 1971 film Harold and Maude. She received good reviews for her performance, but the play was panned by critics and closed after 21 performances. Later that year, she reunited with her Servants' Entrance co-star Lew Ayres to film an episode of the anthology series The Love Boat. It was the first television appearance Gaynor had made since the 1950s and was her last screen role. In February 1982, she starred in the touring production of On Golden Pond. This was her final acting role.

Gaynor was romantically involved with her friend and frequent co-star, Charles Farrell, during the time of their work together in silent film, until she married her first husband. Choosing to keep their relationship out of the public eye, Gaynor and Farrell were often assisted by mutual friend Douglas Fairbanks Jr. in maintaining the ruse. Looking back, Fairbanks would later recall, "We three were so chummy that I became their 'beard,' the cover-up for their secret romance. I would drive them out to a little rundown, wooden house well south of Los Angeles, near the sea. I'd leave them there and go sailing or swimming until [it was] time to collect them and then we'd all have a bit of dinner."

According to Gaynor's biographer Sarah Baker, Farrell proposed marriage during the filming of Lucky Star, but the two never followed through with it. In her later years, Gaynor would hold their different personalities accountable for their eventual separation.

Gaynor was married three times and had one child. Her first marriage was to lawyer Jesse Lydell Peck, whom she married on September 11, 1929. Gaynor's attorney announced the couple's separation in late December 1932.

She was granted a divorce on April 7, 1933. On August 14, 1939, she married MGM costume designer Adrian in Yuma, Arizona. This relationship has been called a lavender marriage, since Adrian was openly gay within the film community while Gaynor was rumored to be gay or bisexual. The couple had one son, Robin Gaynor Adrian, born in 1940. Those rumors were never hinted at in newspapers or magazines. Gaynor and Adrian remained married until Adrian's death from a stroke on September 13, 1959.

On December 24, 1964, Gaynor married her longtime friend, stage producer Paul Gregory, to whom she remained married until her death. The two maintained a home in Desert Hot Springs, California and also owned 3,000 acres of land near Brasília.

Gaynor and her husband traveled frequently with her close friend Mary Martin and her husband. A Brazilian press report noted that Gaynor and Martin briefly lived with their respective husbands in Anapolis, state of Goiás at a ranch (fazenda in Portuguese) in the 1950s and 1960s – both houses are still there nowadays. There is a project by the Jan Magalinski Institute to restore their houses to create a Cinema Museum of Goiás.

On the evening of September 5, 1982, Gaynor, her husband Paul Gregory, actress Mary Martin, and Martin's manager Ben Washer were involved in a serious car accident in San Francisco. A van ran a red light at the corner of California and Franklin Streets and crashed into the Luxor taxicab in which the group was riding, knocking it into a tree. Ben Washer was killed, Mary Martin sustained two broken ribs and a broken pelvis, and Gaynor's husband suffered two broken legs. Gaynor sustained several serious injuries, including 11 broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, pelvic fractures, a punctured lung, and injuries to her bladder and kidney. The driver of the van, Robert Cato, was arrested on two counts of felony drunk driving, reckless driving, speeding, running a red light, and vehicular homicide. Cato pleaded not guilty and was later released on $10,000 bail. On March 15, 1983, he was found guilty of drunk driving and vehicular homicide and was sentenced to three years in prison.

As a result of her injuries, Gaynor was hospitalized for four months and underwent two surgeries to repair a perforated bladder and internal bleeding. She recovered sufficiently to return to her home in Desert Hot Springs, but continued to experience health issues due to the injuries and required frequent hospitalizations. Shortly before her death, she was hospitalized for pneumonia and other ailments. On September 14, 1984, Gaynor died at Desert Hospital in Palm Springs at the age of 77. Her doctor, Bart Apfelbaum, attributed her death to the 1982 car accident and stated that Gaynor "...never recovered" from her injuries.

Gaynor is buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery next to her second husband, Adrian. Her headstone reads "Janet Gaynor Gregory", her legal name after her marriage to her third husband, producer and director Paul Gregory.

For her contribution to the motion picture industry, Janet Gaynor has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 6284 Hollywood Blvd.

On March 1, 1978, Howard W. Koch, then the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, presented Gaynor with a citation for her "truly immeasurable contribution to the art of motion pictures".

In 1979, Gaynor was awarded the Order of the Southern Cross for her cultural contributions to Brazil.

[arelosers]

pia robinson, twenty-four, grad student, zendaya

born and raised in france, moved to the states in her teens after her dad got a job in nyc / her parents split up when she was a wee babe so she stayed with her dad in europe while her mom remarried in america / when she finally moved back in with her mom it was kinda awkward and intense because she didn’t really know her brother elijah too well??? or her step-mom, for that matter / they’re all over it now and livin it up as an odd family bc her dad would always come over for dinner and they kinda just took him in as part of the fam again / used to speak with an accent but it’s gone away, for the most part / decided to pursue poetry in college and is currently pursuing her masters in literature / can be pretentious as hell but usually means well / loud-mouthed and unapologetically herself / tries to be 100% that bitch a little too hard / a surprisingly good chef / still can’t decide if she wants to eventually move back to france or not, even though she’s made unbreakable bonds ezra in the states / what you would get if you mixed katarina stratford with a disney princess

needs: exes!!! she went to high school + middle school in constance county, so definitely needs some ppl who distracted her from the fact that she was in love w one of her best friends / roommates pls. she thrives in purely chaotic environments / people who thought she was just the overrated french transfer student in high school / gal pals / someone to bicker over the classics with

tyler jeong, twenty-seven, popstar, charles melton

basically shawn mendes and harry styles rolled into one??? / left constance right after graduating high school to pursue music and hasn’t ever looked back since / kinda cocky, kinda cute / was finally convinced to come home for the holidays for the first time in five ish years / super overprotective over his younger sister tamsin, even though she’s an adult now and he’s rarely around / a workaholic to the core / incredibly concerned about his style and aesthetic, even more so than how much of a dick he comes off as / needs a reality check and to be taken down a notch tbh / was dumped by his model girlfriend via a public instagram post a few months ago and hasn’t yet recovered / just needs a hug / isn’t super afraid to be feminine, kinda a softie / wants to just hit the reset button on life honestly, canceled his national tour to be here :/

needs: maybe a childhood best friend he hasn’t seen in like, ten years??? and now they rly despise him because he’s a changed man and total asshole. they definitely couldn’t care less that he’s hot shit now and it’s irritating bc all he wants is their attention. romance may b involved who knows / fans, pls / a best bro from high school he’s stayed in touch with since graduation, but they’re a disaster duo and always stirring up trouble / ex girlfriends from high school 

foster ingram, twenty-two, delta rho idiot, nick hargrove

oh god i’m sorry you have to meet this one / son of two very successful surgeons / wears gucci loafers every day, it’s a problem / carries around cigarettes because he thinks they look cool but doesn’t smoke them in true agustus waters fashion / but he hits that juul tho / always making up some lie or excuse to ease his parents’ suspicions of his whereabouts / very clean-cut on paper, charming and groomed to become a politician / but then you see him at a frat party going buckwild and think maybe we don’t want this guy as the future potus / breaks hearts with ease / has trashed far too many hotel rooms / this is the guy your mom warned you about, fuccboi to the max / whenever he actually gets his heart broken (dumping him is a valid move) he spends like three days locked up in his room moping around / majoring political science but also getting a degree in women / that’s some shit he would totally say / wears sunglasses inside / pulls dramatic, public logan huntzberger type stunts all the damn time, just wants that attention sadface

needs: the rest of his delta rho bros pls / some girl that thought they finally changed him and got him to settle down only for him to dump her on her birthday!!! yikes / party buddies / other kids of well off families in constance, perhaps a band of rebellious children of the elite / all the exes / someone he totally screwed over in one of his little pranks, so now they’re hellbent on ruining his life

[pjoveteran]

Leo Valdez in High School. A thrilling saga, part 9.

Got bullied a LOT in the beginning.

But it never affected him.

"Hey, Valdez, you are scrawnier that a dried grape"

"clearly your dick begs to disagree"

All the teachers judged him initially because he LOOKS like a prankster.

He is one though, just never gets caught.

Flirts with Everyone. Including the Principal.

That one landed him a week's detention.

Is kind to literally everyone.

Asks the cleaning staff how their day was.

Follows Jason around everywhere.

Is always tinkering with something

Does things "For Science"

Is interested in the weirdest stuff.

Aces math with ZERO effort.

Plays with fire when he is bored. Literally.

(it's difficult to explain to the mortals) (and funny)

Has The Grin™ which is more iconic than Percy's.

Is literally the biggest fashion disaster to ever walk on earth.

"what are u talking about? I look FABULOUS"

Piper got him a "All da ladies love Leo" t-shirt and he will NOT take it off.

Feel free to add more

[thesinglesjukebox]

ARLO PARKS - ANGEL'S SONG

[5.50]

A 19-year-old Londoner whom the BBC says "channels the malaise of a generation"...

Thomas Inskeep: I dig Parks's voice a lot, but this is way too stripped-down and minimalist. She improves with more/better production. [3]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Arlo Parks is at her best when she opts for simple pleasures -- the rolling beat and sticky bassline on "Cola," the guitar chords peeking through the haze on "Paperbacks," the druggy dance of "Romantic Garbage." Her predilection for knowingly lyrical phrases is her downfall, rendered obnoxious when presented in awkward, mannered fashion -- it reads as unearned self-satisfaction, even if it's just the sound of a young singer-songwriter finding their voice. Such is the case with "Angel's Song," a song that grants primacy to lyrics and their over-labored delivery. Imagine: if the song were just the instrumentation it'd be innocuous, but with Parks it carries a self-serious tone. [3]

Kylo Nocom: "Angel's Song" is just one of many unfortunate results of post-Frank Ocean songwriting: expositions for faceless people that rely on Gen Z cool without a narrative to build upon. The first verse is an Instagram caption disaster: "the afterglow of the '60s" (screaming "vintage!" out into the void and saying nothing else), "getting high in the basement pretty" (Arlo won't judge you for using drugs, but she'll describe you with awkward phrasing as if you should know better!), "a heart full of blood and Courtney Love" (redundancy and a rock star name-drop, something she's done before), a Lana song title reference, more shit talk. I don't like being a dick about these kinds of songs, not when I know people close to me who write pure nostalgia bait lyrics in songs I adore, not when I value giving more credit to artists that are constantly accused of being inauthentic Spotify-bait. But I can't accept what seems to be a cynical attempt to make a character out of somebody's despair without extending any sympathy. You can't drop "fuck, I love you" after the limpest description of suicidal ideation -- it just amplifies how the line doesn't register as desperation nor as sincere adoration. Generosity would give more leeway to how Arlo dares to not emote as fitting for the subject matter; I've already given my fair share to somebody who actually bothered to sound hurt. When the top comments describe reflection and contemplation, one wonders if they looked enough to find anything at all. [2]

Iain Mew: In "Angel's Song" Arlo Parks turns limitations into strengths in an unusual way. The fuzz and the acoustic loop are basic and detached from her performance. Helped by the strong Life is Strange vibes, the music doesn't sound like something she's together with, but like a soundtrack to a scene which sets a constant mood and isn't otherwise interacting with her. That makes her words sound unadorned and intimate. In turn, their failure to cohere works because of that combined with where they eventually get to. She loves someone who wants to die, and in the face of that what could possibly be adequate? Sitting with the total inadequacy feels an honest and affecting response. [8]

Katherine St Asaph: Folk written, mercifully, to better reverberate in the grottos than the YouTube pre-rolls. Specifically, hypnotic loop that evokes Mazzy Star (if fucking "Lover" earns the comparison, then that one particular bit that arcs close to "All My Sisters" certainly does). Parks's voice has a scratchy quality I'm sure will be written off as "indie girl voice" but well predates thinkpieces; it's strikingly like acoustic Emiliana Torrini or Carina Round. Her songwriting voice has that early Laura Marling quality of setting lines like "fuck, I love you" and "heart full of blood and Courtney Love" to a staid acoustic arrangement. That's a lot of comparisons, perhaps to be expected singer-songwriter still finding her voice; but I'd so much rather be reminded of specific people, rather than everyone and no one. [6]

Jonathan Bradley: Arlo Parks has tape fuzz and an acoustic guitar that wanders through its chord progression so carelessly it might not even know where it's supposed to go. In her callow evocations, she sounds like previous BBC Sound Of shortlister SOAK ("You've got the pawn shop blues in this bitter city" is the right kind of adolescent purple), and in her barely present murmur, she reminds of the way early Laura Marling would threaten to turn spectral if the wind shifted too suddenly. "You're my angel; fuck, I love you" is direct in the way the rest is not, but it is arresting more because the person she sings it to isn't formed enough to justify the devotion. With the subject such a blank, Parks's gaze is reflected back upon itself: hers is the plaintive void of the more lo-fi songs by Will Oldham or Jason Molina. It ends, but it can't fall apart. "Angel's Song" fades away. [8]

Ian Mathers: So suffused and shot-through with the sad, deep knowledge that our love (no matter how real and how huge) can sometimes be insufficient or even immaterial in the face of others' trauma that it's almost hypnotic. We don't know what "happens" in the "end," if there is one. "You wanna jump off the roof" and "fuck I love you" circle around each other, neither able to answer the ache in its counterpart. [9]

Brad Shoup: The from-the-other-wall consideration and high school class angst combine for a quiet stasis. When Parks whisper-sings "fuck, I love you," it feels like practice. The "doo doo doo" provides the barest hint of a melodic progression, but it feels like a placeholder. So does the "city/pretty" rhyme, which makes the earlier (and much more clever) "Sixties/pretty" pair feel like the flash that got Parks to pick up that guitar. [5]

Alfred Soto: She sings this lament to a girl who doesn't pay attention as if still afraid she might expose herself. It's not clear whether the "you" whom she hopes won't take her own life is herself: subject and object mesh with poignant slippage. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: I write you now from my childhood home, and so my fondness for this piece of underwritten, sub-Sheeran singer-songwriter pop is stronger than it would be at any other time of the year. It's achingly high school in its references to '60s and '90s cool, its understated compliment game (kind and cute!), and its casual references to wanting to die. The arrangement is just as amateurish (though less charming), sounding like a voice memo demo more than anything else. Parks' vocal performance is the main thing that elevates "Angel's Song"; regardless of anything else, she sounds fully committed to the song, in all of its sketchy details. [4]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

[proheromidoriyashouto]

Quirkless Hero!Deku and Artist/Youtuber!Shouto AU expansion

Shouto was expelled from the Hero Course by Aizawa after the Sports Festival for his refusal to use all his might (neglecting half his quirk) when the chips are down. Shouto went to General Studies and after some serious introspection post-Hosu (he was dragged along by Ende*vore to do grunt work as punishment and happened to come across Tenya and an Idaten intern he didn't know facing off against Stain) began to find solace in art and writing classes and decided to take his life into his own hands.

Shouto started a gaming channel because Ochako- while introducing him to Super Smash Bros Ultimate- noted that he has a nice voice and he likes the story-telling capabilities of games, so why not? What does he have to lose? His striking appearance and slight fame will surely garner him a boost in viewership early on, and they do.

He initially has to run the channel from Tenya's home since Ende*vore would never allow it. He starts off playing multiplayer games because those are what his friends introduce him to so they can play together, but he inevitably shifts toward single-player games that devote quite a lot of time into compelling story campaigns and exploration. His first delves are into Horizon: Zero Dawn, God of War, the Fallout series, Portal 1 & 2, the Witcher series, and the Last of Us since these are the most prominent games at the time (remakes of games in 22XX tend to release in the same year and order the originals did to get the most playtime out of fans). He’s not good at it to start. He reads from a script and he’s stiff and uncomfortable in front of the camera. He thought he was desensitized to that given his time in the limelight thanks to his name but there’s something about talking to a small webcam that feels, well, silly, and... intense. Personal. It’s a serious detractor, and the comments he receives about it are almost enough to shut down the channel for good. His friends’ support gets him through though and he starts to develop a considerable following.

Before he realizes, he’s spending all his free time playing games with purpose, creating new videos on a nearly daily basis, brainstorming how to structure  theory and lore episodes, and worrying about how his uploads are perceived. He runs charity live streams, plays fan-picked hero games, scours every last hint of lore from side-quests, get those sweet sweet completionist Platinum trophies that only like 1% of players get for every game.

Ende*vore cuts him off from his money, and inheritance. Shouto tentatively starts support pages and is surprised by the number of people willing to shell out for him. He starts to really feel the burn-out as he struggles to create more video content for awards before Momo suggests making things. Real, physical things for awards that will give him a break for the grind, and that he can use to improve his art skills. He smacks himself when he realizes that he can also use art as a way of re-connecting with his mother.

Visits at the hospital become days spent drawing, painting, sculpting, and knitting. His mother shocks him in a display of lace-making and he feels a pang of grief when he learns that it was a tradition in her family that she hadn’t been able to pass down to him. She’d taught Fuyumi and Touya a bit but Ende*vore found out and put a stop to it, saying that his legacy was the only one they needed to concern themselves with. She was too afraid of the harm her husband would bring upon the children if she tried again with Natsuo and Shouto. After hearing that there’s nothing more Shouto wants to learn (lace-crafts are his awards for months, and then on occasion for years to come).

His channel, SpicyHeathenGaming, steadily grows over the years and once he graduates from U.A., he devotes himself entirely to running it. By the time he has the formal encounter with Deku, he has millions of subscribers and has become quite comfortable in the public persona he’d crafted (it’s easy to slip into given his natural penchant for straight-man-esque dry humor). He’s almost 25, successful in a precarious field, and... happy. Genuinely at peace. There are days when he misses the rush of a fight, the satisfaction of post-rescue, and on bad days, he thinks of all the people he never saved. He schedules an appointment with his therapist and moves on.

Deku is the one to note that the Day They Met wasn’t at the construction site as he thought, but during the battle of Stain vs Team Idaten Round 2 (and U.A. Students) as the media has labelled it. Shouto is shocked but not for long. The similarities to his then-Idaten costume are prevalent in Deku’s short white mask, midnight leg guards, and heavy black soles but the rest is substantially changed. He’s vaguely reminiscent of a teal/aqua All Might- especially with his cowl on- rather than the Ingenium line now.

He’d become infamous for becoming a hero “the old fashioned way“ through interning and shadowing directly with Pros for years, foregoing hero-high school altogether.

While none of the schools outright forbid quirkless students from applying, Deku had said in his debut press conference, despite passing Ketsubutsu, Shiketsu, and U.A.’s entrance exams, I was denied admittance. They all said something to the effect of ‘I had a “weak constitution”’, ‘my “supposed passion” had been deemed insufficient hot air,’ and ‘my “heroic spirit” wouldn’t be enough to match the rigor of a top-rated hero-course’s training.’ A good friend of mine, Tenya Iida, had been at the same U.A. entrance exam as myself and after learning about my struggles put in a word for me with his family. I didn’t ask for a handout, but when the legitimate options are not truly available to you, what choice even is there? I wasn’t going to turn down the one chance I had left. Team Idaten was good to me and I wouldn’t be the man I’ve become if not for them. In all honesty, Deku shrugged, an almost apologetic look on his face, almost. I was starting to fall into a pretty dark place. I might have become a villain.

Deku had faced ire from Pros, alumni and non-alumni from the schools alike for those remarks, and public opinion had been torn between disdain for slandering the institutions of hero education or support for him having become a hero despite all the odds against him- a true, old-school origin story. All Might had surprised many by showing Deku support, and many U.A.-borne Pros had followed in his example. Ketsubutsu and Shiketsu had not been nearly as kind, with few exceptions. Deku’s rivalries with Dynamic Blitz (one-sided feud in reality), Magnitude, Cloudburst, and Sideburn Tress were almost as well-known as All Might and Endeavor back when they were heroes.

Deku was a world-wide icon for the roughly 2 billion quirkless people in existence, only one of a hand-full of quirkless Pros throughout the world since the dawn of quirks, and the first ever in Japan’s history. He was leagues above Shouto. Shouldn’t have paid him any more mind than any other civilian he’d saved. If not for Shouto’s disastrous inability to handle situations like anything resembling a normal person. He’d seen a strong, handsome, trend-setting, status-quo defying, internationally known hero up close in person, who not only recognized him for his channel but his private art blog and shop, reaching toward his evidently panicking self and had activated his right side as though it was the neglected half, and frozen their hands together.

He’d made a fucking fool of himself... but still... wound up with a number in his pocket and a wink emoji. He never got such lascivious flirting sent his way. Curses, that wink emoji. Not with his scar and eye-straining coloration and lack of proper skin and hair care. No way. What if Deku winked at him in real life? In public? Scandalous. What was he going to do?

Fuyumi. Tenya, help me.

Um, sure?

With what?

...kill me.

-Shou-!

W-why would you-!!

Please, just, vaporize me right now, I’m staring at the moon just take me by surprise, I’m begging you. Actually call Aoyama I have money.

Little brother! What’s brought this on?

That’s not an explanation! If you need help-

I... I have a date.

(Shouto is verrrr out of practice with his powers and dating and is a complete disaster gay. Izuku’s kinda suave and you can thank Tensei’s Big Brother Influence for that. Izuku saved Eri and Kouta okay I promise I have an explanation. All Might was a dick and never found Izuku to apologize. Izuku’s kinda bitter about it but he’s living his best life so :///////. OFA? Never met her. Mirio would be OFA’s 9th in this AU after losing Permeation. Will expand into a proper fic and post to AO3 when its done- I already have too many AUs at once going on.

Population estimates put humans stabilizing at about 11 billion in the 2200s - BNHA was already in modern day when quirks came and its been 200 years since then as per canon- and 20% of the population is slightly more than 2 billion. 2 billion quirkless people.

Dynamic Blitz is that motherfucker. You know who Magnitude and Cloudburst are~. Three guess as to Sideburn Tress’ identity. He wasn’t outwardly hostile but something about him set off red-flags for me. Also strikes me as having a lot of school pride.)

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Bebe Stevens

Is she still playing truth or dare in treehouses? Bebe has been accepted! Please submit your blog to the main, and a faceclaim to be featured on the main blog!

out of character info

Name/Alias: Grace

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 23

Join Our Discord: Yes - [REDACTED]

Timezone: GMT

Activity: 8 (at least every other day)

Triggers: N/A

Password: jimmy can fast pass my ass 

Character that you’re applying for: Bebe Stevens

Favourite ships for your character: Bebe/Chemistry!!

in character info

Full name: Barbara “Bebe” Stevens

Birthday: 11th August 2000

Sexuality, gender, pronouns: Female, She/Her, Bisexual

Age and grade: 18

Appearance:

Face of angel, body of a goddess, posture of a queen. That’s what she’s been told will get her far in life, and that’s what Bebe strives for. She’s slim build but – with thanks to frequent gym tips (for the Instagram likes) and rigorous cheerleader training – Bebe is toned, tanned and seriously strong. Her fair falls halfway down her back and, without proper styling, it’s a big nest of yellow frizz. Since hitting puberty, Bebe’s mom has enforced regular trips to the salon to tame her curls and highlight her tips, meaning only those really close to her have seen how much of a disaster it’s natural state is.

She has brown eyes, plump lips, and dresses largely in sportswear – crop tops, sports bras, leggings, shorts, high tops and hoodies. On nights out, she likes to ‘Go Ho’ with tight dresses and her signature red lipstick. Bebe is rarely seen without makeup; since entering High School, she’s grown to dislike her natural face – pale and imperfect, with dark patches under her eyes and freckles on her arms. Fake tan, foundation and fad diets are a necessity, if only to get her mom off her back.

Personality:

Bebe doesn’t let anyone see more than her outward appearance. Since childhood, discouraging comments about pursuing an education and becoming an independent career woman have twisted her dreams and shattered her personal image. She works hard at school, but often struggles more than her classmates and is too stubborn to ask for help. Bebe wants to follow Wendy to an Ivy League School, become a Marine Biologist, and change the world for women in STEM. Constant reality checks from failed exams and her mom’s patriarchal view of the world have made that goal unobtainable, so now she’s relying on Instagram fame, a rich college boy proposing, and being widowed at 35 with diamonds to spare.

Bebe is bold, to the point, and surprisingly witty. However, she often disguises her wit behind ditzy or vain observations and a vapid obsession with whatever’s fashionable at the time. She’s driven, though, and even with the world seeing her a certain way, she’d like to become a bigger, brighter person. At parties, she’s a loud personality; she likes drink, dick, drugs and dancing in any order, and isn’t afraid to announce it. She’s also a natural born leader. People are drawn to her, be that because she’s got great boobs and bad reputation, or because she knows how the world works (a little too much) and isn’t afraid to grab it by the balls.

History:

Deborah Thornton met Harvey Stevens when she was 17 and he was 25. Harvey was everything Deborah wanted: well-dressed, well-spoken, and heir to a successful stationary company. Her dating strategy was relentless; Deborah knew what she wanted, and she was damn well going to get it – but how was she going to keep it? That much was easy: have his baby.

Bebe knows she’s not a child born of love, but of circumstance. Her parents like each other well enough, but there’s no spark, just a dull-witted woman who dresses nicely for her boring, business-minded husband. Luckily, their poor parenting techniques have resulted in Bebe getting almost everything she asks for, and Deborah encourages that want-all attitude with pride. Bebe is the spitting image of her mom at 18: voluptuous body, sweet voice, and unwavering social status. Now all she needs is a husband.

The world has blessed Bebe, but as a ten-year-old, that wasn’t enough. She wanted everything she could get her hands on: all the boys, all the power, and all the shoes. Sure, stealing her dad’s gun and pointing at her best friend wasn’t her proudest moment, especially when it was just to keep her hands on Clyde fucking Donavon, but that decisiveness has remained to this day. She’ll dress slutty if she wants to, snort coke if she wants to, and get down if she wants to. Nonetheless, not even Deborah could have planned for Bebe’s independence. Bebe Stevens wants the world.

Sample paragraph:

There’s a riot going on outside, and Bebe can see most of her class in the middle of it. Knowing that lot, they probably started it. A few look worried, the majority bored (oh, a riot in South Park? Must be, like, a Tuesday) but they all know it’ll die down tomorrow when the next bullshit scenario rears its ugly head.

At least they’re involved, right? Bebe hasn’t been dragged into any non-squad drama for months. Sometimes, the guys will give Wendy a taste of their bizzare-o world, and Wendy will complain and call them assholes, but Bebe has this secret feeling that all those whacko, dangerous shenanigans might be kinda … fun.

Fuck. All she wants is the chance, just once, to take the wheel and get fucking WILD with it. Unfortunately, she has a reputation to uphold, an Instagram to keep active, and no one really trusts her after the whole, like, ‘pointing-a-gun-at-her-best-friend’ business.

Bebe blames some of it on society. That’s what Wendy would say to to cheer her up (and, thanks girl, but a pair of shoes or some ice cream would do a better job of it).

She blames the rest of it on her mom. Her mom, who’s dragged Bebe to yet another salon, because “you won’t marry rich with dry skin and crusty cuticles, honey.” Bebe’s fingers fucking ache after the trials they’ve been put through today, just for a French manicure and a couple gems on the thumbnail.

“Hey, mom,” she ventures, and her mom looks up from her copy of The Boob Job: Use your Tits to get Hitched to address her little girl.

Her mom only cares about two things: potential boyfriends (and how Bebe can use her body to bag them), and any girl-gang gossip that’ll make her feel young again.

“Can I go outside? I think I see Annie out there..”

“And ruin your nails, baby? What if that Clyde boy sees you acting like a common whore? Or Token, he’s rich, right?”

“Then they’ll be more likely to fuck me, right? Come on, mom. I can see robots out there.”

Bebe knows that the idea of her daughter becoming just another white-trash, Tomboy Tina terrifies Deborah to the core. But they’re in South Park, and the alternative options are pretty slim. 

“Fine,” her mom says, “but I want you to get three good selfies and at least one date out of it, you here? Tell them you’re a cheerleader, they like that. And look out for college boys - they’re smart.”

This town is tiny and suffocating, Bebe wants to say, they all know I’m a fuckin cheerleader. But instead she says, “sure mom, whatever, kisses,” and bolts out the door, wondering if she’ll be brave enough, today, to break a nail.

Head canons:

Bebe still has her fluffy white cat, Thumper, who she adores, even if half of his fur has gone and his legs don’t work anymore. Deborah hates the thing, but Harvey still makes sure its fed if Bebe’s away.

Bebe has some lingering drug issues. She rarely goes out now without dropping some MDMA or a line of coke, and she sometimes sneaks out at night to smoke a joint at Stark’s pond. It’s got the point that she thinks it’s a necessity to be the ultimate party girl, and she’s got no plans to stop anytime soon. It’s what Paris Hilton would have wanted.

Bebe has MAD body-image issues and will not let anyone see her without her makeup on. The only exceptions are Wendy and her dad.

Anything else: nope, nada!

[cfroyharper]

I would absolutely love to get some new threads going for some of my kids so please COMMENT HERE with who you would like a starter with & which character of yours: roy harper, dick grayson, itsuaki akihiro, adrianne rayner, tobias osborn allan, apollo west, nadir dane summers, thomas curry II, t’charra, uriah fries, eli rasputin, elana dent, natasha romanoff, coralie beaubier jinadu, or ronen haller

Info on each below the cut:

roy harper - fc: domhnall gleeson, 45, he/him, archer, weapon specialist

archer, formerly speedy, formerly red arrow, former addict, now arsenal & archery instructor, giant dork, dresses like he’s camping 24/7, full of quips and sarcastic jokes, tinkerer, creates weapons, whatever gadgets come to mind, ‘rockabilly genius’, loving father godfather and uncle, engaged to jason todd

dick grayson - fc: adam rodriguez, 45, he/him, acrobat, expert hand to hand combat, highly skilled detective

acrobat, the first Robin, ‘boy wonder’, former circus kid turned billionaire’s first son, now nightwing & gymnastics teacher , high rises, daring jumps, overdramatic, very openly a giant dork, big heart, loves his family, too much trauma, genius level intellect, fashion disaster, adores his family, would die for his children

itsuaki akihiro - fc: ryan potter, 22, he/him, son of Daken Akihiro, bone adamantium claws, accelerated healing, pheromone control/manipulation

not quite a villain but not a hero either, traveled with his father until he was 15, never knew his mother, more shadows than light, more friends than he realises, expert fighter, skeptical and cynical, loves soft things more than he cares to admit, hot drinks and nights in, has more aunts and uncles than he can count

adrianne rayner - fc: cierra ramirez, 19, she/her, daughter of Kyle Rayner and Soranik Natu (biological), green lantern ring

green lantern, space baby, part alien, yellow eyes & pointed ears, grew up on Oa, trained and skilled fighter, ray of sunshine, loves exploring, travelling, optimistic to a fault, serious mother issues, artist, paints and watercolour, always has a sketchbook in her bag, wild imagination but wildly innocent, a little naive, loves learning but hates school

tobias osborn allan - fc: francisco lachowski, 23, he/him, son of Liz Allan and Harry Osborn (biological), goblin serum enhanced

normal kid turned rich, enhanced with advanced goblin serum, former party boy, law student, avid studier, loves music written by his boyfriend, gym addict, genius level intellect for business and law, loves exploring, learning, experiencing as much as possible, reading, studying, lazy afternoons in parks with books and snacks, huge hopeless romantic, way too charming for his own good, knows he’s hot and he’s not sorry about it

apollo west - fc: cameron monaghan, 26, he/him, son of Wally West (biological) and Artemis Crock (adoptive), conduit of the speedforce

speedster, twin, police officer, kid flash, future flash, terrified of death, terrified of failure, full of energy, desperate to be a hero, runs and runs and runs, being outdoors, visiting city upon city in a day, loves going home to central city or keystone, adores his family

nadir ezra dane summers - fc: avan jogia, he/him, 22, son of lorna dane & alex summers (biological), light manipulation

mutant, twin, full of light literally, childhood trauma, quite days in, movies and books, more for observation than talking, small groups over large crowds, psychology student, late nights and bad sleep, old books, music blaring through headphones, mutant rallies, suppressed memories

thomas curry II - fc: keahu kahuanui, 27, he/him, son of arthur curry & mera (biological), aquatic telepathy, superhuman enhancements, hydrokenisis

part atlantean, eldest living son, heir to the throne, honour and duty, determined to bring land and sea together, currently aqualad, future aquaman & king of atlantis, travelling, learning, growing, genius intellect, determined to learn as much as possible about both of his worlds, will always love the sea the most, swimming, beach days, big waves, road trips

t’charra - fc: chris o’neal, 20, he/him, son of t’charra & nakia (bioligical)

party boy, disaster, reckless, late nights, strong drinks, VIP, tech nerd, science geek, future head of science and information exchange in wakanda, youngest prince, father issues, self-destructive, hangovers, sunglasses, nightowl, too smart for his own good but no where near clever enough, one night stands, long days in labs

uriah fries - fc: jordan fisher, 27, he/him/they/them, son of nora & victor fries (biological), weaponry & combat, freeze technology

future doctor, mob connections, shades of grey, long days and double shifts, raised by the rogues, so much coffee, ballet dancer, long practices & pointe shoes, hopeless romantic, falls hard and fast, affinity for the cold, never quite a villain, dramatic gestures, mask of charm & suave

eli rasputin - fc: james reid, 24, he/him, son of illyana rasputin (adoptive), mario falcone (biological, unaware), wind manipulation

v soft, mutant, filled with hope, giant bookworm, loves his cat more than he loves most people, english lit ta, huge nerd; named his cat matilda after the character, you can find him in the library most of the time, loves his baby brother more than anything, always has a book in his hands or in his bag, will always use his powers for fun before fighting

elana dent - fc: nathalie emmanuel, 24, she/her, daughter of harvey dent (adoptive), highly skilled thief & advanced combat

all sharp smirks and charm, does absolutely everything with reckless abandon, loves a challenge - just to prove you wrong, mask of manipulation, huge abandonment issues, constantly channeling her inner selina kyle, master thief in training, entirely dedicated to her big brother ; terrified of losing him, late nights full of adventure, great wall of china built high around her heart

natasha romanoff - fc: jamie chung, appears 30 (biologically 90), she/her, black widow, highly skilled spy & ballet teacher

espionage, extreme ballet routines, tough but fair, pointe shoes & messy buns, oversizes sweaters probably stolen from Clint, highly protective of all of the avengers kids, still in mourning for her own baby, will do anything for family, highly perceptive, giant dork, probably knows more pop culture references than you, always good for a hug

coralie beaubier-jinadu - fc: alisha wainwright, 26, they/them, child of jean paul beaubier & kyle jinadu (adoptive), winged flight & empathic healing

glowing marks on their skin, brown wings (think maleficent style), highly empathic, loves children, midwifery is their calling, broken hearted high school sweetheart situation, crazy hair, big smiles, protective big sibling complex, will always put you before themselves, photography nut, loves to fly as often as possible, endless optimism even in the face of the worst

ronen haller - fc: suraj sharma, 20, he/him, child of david haller & jonathan starsmore (adoptive), gabriel summers (biological, unknown), energy manipulation

explosive & emotional, naive to a fault, reckless & ready to dive into anything, looking for the next learning curve, ridiculously attached to his dad, hates enclosed spaces, cold rooms & examination tables make up most of his childhood, constantly fighting for control of his powers, deep purple energy, late nights and early mornings, aspires to make his fathers proud one day, socially awkward pretty much always

noah rogers - fc: toni mahfud, 28, he/him, son of Steve Rogers (adoptive), enhanced vision, skilled assassin

raised by the league of assassins until 14, arrogant and cocky to no end, cool calm and collected, very guarded, not a good guy, charming to a fault, will manipulate you for his own ends, widowed father to an 18 month old son, do not touch his child, freelance assassin graphic designer, trusts very few people but will use anyone he can to get what he needs