#POV switching

[dansconcepts]

Balloons

A (not so) little Komahina drabble with a Kyouko (and hints of Naegiri) preamble based on this interaction from the Danganronpa Summer Camp game (and yes I 100% bought it and for full price because I'm really silly but I'm so committed for the interactions like JSKAJSKSKA I want them to be happy so bad):

Hajime: You make the flower petals like this, attach the stem… and there ya go, done! Kyouko: Huh, you're surprisingly dexterous. Kyouko: Would you mind if I took this flower? Hajime: Sure, no problem at all. Kyouko: Thanks. Keep up the good work. Kyouko exits. Hajime: I know it's a fake flower, but… giving it to a girl is still kinda embarrassing. Hajime: And to Kyouko, no less. I hope she doesn't tell the boys that she got it from me…

The detective thumbs at the rubbery material, indeed appreciating Hajime’s workmanship. He truly does seem capable of plenty, even if it was like a jack of all trades. But oftentimes is better than a master of one. She retorts her silent conjecture. And indeed, it shows in the way his determination seems to spark around people who are motivated in their passions.

It is just like the creation of this flower. The happy yellow it sprouts reminds her of a certain classmate. She has no need to act coy to herself, it is prevalent to her that her emotions have strayed to a place she never anticipated them to go.

Makoto Naegi, the Ultimate Luck. He has shown time and time again he was more than such a title. Every time he asks questions, remarks on a viewpoint she hadn’t considered, provides patience and calmness when she is unable to compose herself quickly enough… he was endearing and dependable, the type that she can’t help but be drawn to in the midst of the chaos that was her detective duties.

Perhaps she will present this flower to Makoto. It may not be overly affectionate, but she knows Makoto enjoys small acts with messages as simple as “being thought about”. It’s an idea to scoff at, with his easy going personality being the most digestible compared to her fellow classmates. He is, quite often, considered by everyone as the de facto leader of their class the moment he stepped up in second year. His development was quite admirable and impressive. Everyday, he will be greeted by everyone and talked to in one way or the other.

In that sense, it is easier to dismiss his more anxious side, melancholic and self-loathing. Although caring for others is not very easy for her despite the strides being taken by her classmates, there is something about Makoto that makes her feel adequate in giving him an ear to listen to rather than forcing physical affection.

“Kirigiri?” A soft voice pushes through her reverie. Lavender eyes trail up to stark white hair, and a more casual outfit than she has ever seen him wearing. It reflects the setting of the festival however, and she endeavours to say as much-

“I apologize for interrupting you with my presence. I know you must have more important matters than looking upon trash like me,” Kyouko’s mouth closes. Nothing has prepared her to treat this sudden situation. She is aware of Komaeda’s low self-esteem and the way it manifests, but she has never been on its receiving end and is uncertain how to proceed. Komaeda continues on regardless, “I saw this flower balloon had flown out of your hands and I managed to get it back in one piece. How lucky!”

Indeed, in his hand is the yellow flower balloon that she must have let go of during her musings. She takes it from him and nods. “Thank you Komaeda.”

He beams. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, I’m very happy to help. It’s really the least I could do for an Ult- for such an admirable person.”

She notices the intentional slipping of the word “Ultimate”, but does not make any move to indicate her recognition of it. Clearly, it was a habit of his he was trying to stop, if his behaviour is any indication.

“Although," Komaeda says, "I did find it strange you had a balloon with you.”

“Hinata is the one making them. Although his repertoire was limited, he does what he offers quite well.”

The Ultimate Lucky student hums, turning his head back in the direction of where Hinata’s table was. “Really now? How fascinating.” He looks to the ground, and she wonders what he is pondering about.

She remembers seeing them together often, albeit in passing. She notes that their position relative to the celebration is quite distant, out closer to the beach, but still close enough to see most of the attractions. Hmm… “From what I observed, he still has about half a package of balloons left. I’m quite certain you can get one from him.”

Kyouko studies the way Komaeda turns to her warily. She has a hunch now though, and she states, “He would gladly give you one, regardless of what occurs. I think he will appreciate a more familiar presence supporting him.”

Some emotions seem to dart across Komaeda’s face, but she cannot process them all in time before it settles. He sighs. “Ah, I suppose you figured me out. As expected of the Ultimate Detective!” He praises. She sees the way he glances back to the festival tents. “I suppose I can pay a friend a visit.”

She allows herself a smile, hoping it comes off as encouraging. “Good luck.”

He laughs. “I sure hope I'll have it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Nagito hugs himself loosely, clutching onto the soft fabric enveloping him as he walks past stands and tents. He looks around, biting his lip. A sigh inevitably escapes, much like his resolve always does.

He listens. Chatter, laughter- so much, so loud... But no cries or sobs. No cracks of wood or thumps of metal. And most thankfully, no screams. Regardless, he checks around him anyway. His presence here can change so many things. He can bring so much despair just by simply existing. Why did he possibly come in here again?

A glimpse of spiky brown hair and a familiar tie fills his vision. Right. It always traces back to Hajime.

The Reserve Course student goes to finish up shaping a red balloon into a flower, and hands it over to the Ultimate Astronaut, although his name escapes him. He can hear the “Awesome!” all the way from where he's standing, which is kind of impressive. The man makes his way to the Ultimate Caregiver, who he immediately tries giving the flower to. She looks pleased. Yet, she shouts “Do you want to die!?” so maybe he misread her?

Nagito turns back to Hajime, who’s already gesturing to him to come over. “Hey!” He smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you here!”

He frowns. “I know that my presence isn’t deserved around U-.”

“Okay, shut the fuck up. You know I’m just glad you’re out here. How are you enjoying it so far?”

“Ah. What if I said I only came to see you?” He can’t help but tease. Hajime’s ears, as predicted, turn red.

“You can’t be serious. Out of everyone else?” that are Ultimates isn't spoken, but heavily implied.

“Now who’s the one who needs to stop talking about status?” He teases.

“H-hey! I didn't even say anything!” Hajime coughs. “I know what you’re doing. Don’t change the subject.”

Nagito hums. “I’m not joking though, I did come here because of you. Kirigiri told me you made her flower balloon and I just had to see what that was about.”

Upon sharing that info, Hajime averts his gaze, clearly blushing. How interesting…

He feels tempted to smirk, but doesn't in favour of sounding noncommittal, “Something wrong about what I said, Hajime?”

“Nope, nothing.” He trails off. “…You don’t think she’s told anyone else, do you?”

Nagito crosses his arms. Why would Hajime care? Is he embarrassed? How silly. He eyes the bag of balloons and lets out an amused puff. “Well, it certainly benefitted you if she did, considering you’ve emptied the whole bag.” The sigh escapes him before he can stop it. He didn’t even realize he wanted a balloon before it was taken away.

Just his luck. How disappointing.

“Huh?" Hajime asks. "It’s empty?”

He swiftly lifts the bag. "Aha!" He calls out triumphantly. Turns out, under the opaque portion of the packaging sits a deflated green balloon.

Nagito grins. “How lucky!”

Hajime responds with a smirk. He adds as much air as possible to the balloon, and when satisfied, says, “Alright, I know you’re going to make fun of me, but I can only manage a flower and a dog. Which one do you want?”

Although he probably would’ve been quick to tease Hajime about his skills “befitting a Reserve Course student”, the mention of a dog makes the words freeze on his tongue.

“A dog would be nice.” Nagito admits.

“Oh, sure.” Hajime says, a little disconcerted by the honesty, and his eyebrows are furrowed. Adorable. He doesn’t know how Hajime isn’t an Ultimate. In a way, he almost likes that he isn’t.

Within a few minutes of tanned hands twisting and turning rubber, he is finally presented with a cute little dog.

The ends of his lips tug upwards. He gently grabs the balloon, being extra careful to transport it into his arms.

“This is wonderful.” He says breathily.

Hajime looks at Nagito, bemused. “Your eyes are sparkling. I’ve never seen you so happy.” And almost as if it was an afterthought, he adds, “It looks good on you.”

What? “H-huh?”

“It seriously can’t be that surprising. It’s… nice to see you happy. Not that you don’t already look nice! You tied your hair and even wore a jinbei for the festival. You’re looking pretty good.”

The lucky student just stares at Hajime, who grows steadily more red under the gaze. The Reserve Course student swipes his hand through the air, as if that'll somehow dispel the flurry of thoughts going through his head. “Alright, what’s with that look?”

“I’m glad you think I look ‘good’, Hajime." He starts, "I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, much less someone like yourself, but I see your eyes would be more used to seeing trash in your everyday life and thinking it’s beautiful.”

Hajime stares him down. “Nagito, anyone at this camp would agree you’re good-looking. And I know you’re just saying that shit about me being a Reserve Course because you’re spiraling a little bit.” Ah. He looks at the ground. “Hey, it’s fine. We kinda talked about this, remember? I know we’re friends.”

He doesn’t reply. How could he? To be read so easily…

A warm hand grabs his shoulder. His gaze immediately whips to Hajime's face. “D-don’t think too much about this." A flustered Hajime spits out. "Let’s just go. We’re going around and enjoying this damn festival together.”

How is Hajime Hinata real?

“Is this your way of getting a date, Hajime?” He says playfully instead. “You could have just asked, you know. I’m sure Chiaki- or anyone else really- would not have declined.”

Hajime gives a raised eyebrow at the mention of Chiaki, but doesn’t seem to press it. Instead, he goes, “I’d rather be here with you, to be honest. I said it already, but it’s nice to have you out here. I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

Nagito shuts up at that. While judging Hajime the whole time, his face isn't any better, probably looking crimson at this point.

“And you dropped this.” Hajime waves the green balloon dog that ended up in his hands. The Ultimate blinks, surprised he had let go of it. However, the wind picks it out of Hajime’s hand and starts carrying it on its currents.

“Shit!” Hajime exclaims. He jumps, but it flies out of his reach.

“Fuck! I’m sorry Nagito, I didn’t mean to lose it.”

He easily waves it off with a chuckle. “No, it’s alright. Besides, you could always make another one.”

“I mean, honestly, this was pretty fun." Hajime admits, "I wouldn’t mind doing it again…”

And Hajime trails off, and he knows exactly why, considering he’s leaned in in that cutesy way he’s seen girls in dramas do. He smirks at Hajime’s bewildered face. While amused, he backs off, as if it was merely an accidental brush.

He sends him an innocent smile. Olive eyes narrow in response, but they face forward again in silent acceptance. It would be quite impressive, if Hajime’s face wasn’t flushed.

“There’s a restaurant here. You’re coming with me.”

He nods happily.

Things could always be worse because of my luck, but for some reason I feel like, perhaps, I'll be okay. But can I hope? Do I dare hope?

Nothing hurts more than hope getting crushed.

…But maybe…

Maybe this is worth it.

[asmfic]

There was initially going to be a moment in this upcoming chapter that was basically

But then it somehow became a mini exploration of how Kyoko handles uncertain situations and how Homura has something that- if you squint- could be a soft spot for Kyoko.

[blindmagdalena]

All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual. 

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most. 

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. 

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. 

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. 

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head? 

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words.  “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more. 

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you. 

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home). 

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep). 

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that. 

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite. 

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back. 

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket. 

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle. 

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed. 

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth. 

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle. 

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him. 

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor. 

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue. 

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later. 

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes. 

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind. 

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself. 

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away. 

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave. 

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please—promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction. 

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that. 

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

[retrogamingblog2]

[discard-celestia]

USE MOUTHWASH / DO NOTHING

[somewhereincairparavel]

maybe if jason's or just everyone's pov in heroes of olympus was written in the first person's, they would've been liked way more? i swear I feel like if jason's pov was written that way, it would've been way more hilarious, and would've made his dry offhand remarks alot more funny? (like say, percy's 'i said hello to the poodle' it's sort of the dry kind of thing jason says in his chapters all the time, but they're not considered funny because it's told through third person limited) and even leo's humor would've been tripled. it was, in my opinion, a wasted opportunity truly.

[moonstruckme]

James Potter x Reader where reader is in a different house (Hufflepuff if you don’t mind) and she ends up on the receiving end of one of their pranks which makes her angry so she avoids James and the other marauders, forcing him to grovel/beg for forgiveness? Thank you so much xoxo

Hi, thanks for your request! This got a bit long haha, but I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy reading :)

cw: mentions of blood

James Potter x Hufflepuff!reader ♡ 1.8k words

Though no one tells him it’s happening, Remus sees the prank coming from a mile away.

Primarily, this is because James and Sirius appear to be playing an entirely ordinary game of frisbee. Just tossing it back and forth, no hexes or nifflers or anything. A simple pastime between two boys on a lovely warm afternoon. 

Secondly, they haven’t asked Remus to join them. While they know from experience he’s content to read his book in the grass, they always make a point to ask just to be sure Remus doesn’t feel excluded. The fact that they haven’t suggests that they’re well aware that whatever they’re up to, Remus will want no part in it. 

Lastly and most importantly, James Potter has the worst poker face Remus has ever known. 

When the curly-haired boy slyly drops the frisbee they’ve been using into his bag, trading it for another, he can hardly keep the giddiness from his face. Which is probably why, when he tosses it well away from his companion and towards a crowd of gathered students, Sirius is the one who has to say, with theatrical volume and distress, “Merlin, can somebody grab that?”

Remus watches warily as several students turn to track the progress of the disk as it sails overhead, and after a moment one breaks away, chasing after it. Remus feels a pang of sympathy for you, your yellow and black scarf flying behind you as you run, needing no further evidence than the eager look in James’ eyes to know that you’ve fallen for a trap. 

You jump up to grab it out of the air, beaming in triumph for a moment before a yelp escapes you. You fling your catch to the ground, cradling your hand as the fanged frisbee twitches and snarls at your feet. 

“Shit,” he hears Sirius breathe, and the excitement is gone from his and James’ expressions as they jog over to you, Remus standing to follow them. 

You pick your head up as they approach, eyes wet but fierce. 

“What the hell?” you snarl, and Remus realizes with a stab of concern that there’s a small puddle of blood forming in your palm. “You’ve begun targeting your stupid pranks at anyone who’s dumb enough to help you now? How’s that funny?”

Remus looks at his friends in bewilderment, aggrieved on your behalf but unable to believe they’d do something so cruel. The fanged frisbee—a cheap trick, which really should be banned in Remus’ opinion—twitches closer to your ankle, and Sirius flicks his wand at it, its teeth retracting as it goes silent and motionless. 

“We…I charmed it so its teeth would be dull and harmless.” James scrubs a hand through his hair, at a loss. “It was only supposed to scare you, not hurt you.” 

You shake your head at him disbelievingly and bite your lip, face reddening as the pain sets in. James steps closer to you, blocking you from view of the small crowd of gawking students, none of whom, Remus notes with some bitterness, have come to help you or see if you’re okay. 

“I’m really sorry,” James says softly. “Let me help.” But when he reaches for your hand, you step back, holding it close to your chest. 

“Just leave me out of your fun in the future, yeah?” you hiss, stalking inside. 

James looks pained as he watches you go, and though Remus doesn’t begrudge you your justified anger, he feels for his good-natured friend. It had been an honest mistake, though the cost turned out to be far higher than either of his friends had expected. But knowing James, he’ll find some way to make it right. 

“Sorry, mate. They can’t all be winners.” Sirius claps him on the back, and Remus knows his light tone is more to make James feel better than it is true carelessness. Sirius is loyal that way; he’d probably lock you in a broom closet rather than have you upset James again. 

“It wasn’t meant to hurt anyone,” James says quietly.

Sirius’ smile is unfaltering, though Remus spies the worry in his eyes. “She’ll get over it. C’mon, there’s still time to go into Hogsmeade if we hurry.” 

And though Remus hopes you’ll feel better soon, he knows it will take James a long time to get over it himself. 

James shuffles from foot to foot, feeling silly and anxious as he waits for someone to leave the Hufflepuff dorms so he can go inside. He’s fairly sure you’re supposed to have potions together, but you hadn’t shown up to class, and though James had kept an eye out all day in the hallways, he’d never spotted you. He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of you in the great hall during lunch, but you’d darted out of sight before he could be sure, and then there’d been no sign of you at dinner. Luckily, it had only taken a quick consultation of the map he shared with his friends to find out that you’d holed up in the Hufflepuff common room, so here he was, draped in his invisibility cloak and fidgeting like a nervous date at your front door. 

The door creaks open, and James slips in before it can shut, the exiting Hufflepuff shivering slightly at the breeze he makes whisking by them. It’s not difficult to spot you where you’re sitting painting your nails, lips pursed just slightly in concentration. The common room is mostly empty as other students enjoy the nice weather outside, and James is grateful for the privacy as he takes off the cloak and goes to sit beside your feet where they’re stretched out on the couch. 

You look up at the intrusion and startle to find James, pulling your feet closer to you reflexively. He hopes it’s an instinct to make room for him and not to protect yourself from him, though given recent events he could hardly blame you for the latter. 

“What’re you—how did you get in here?” you ask, eyes darting between James and the door in bafflement. 

Never mind that. “You weren’t at dinner,” James says, holding out his small stolen dish of chicken curry, “so I thought you might be hungry. Sorry, it’s barely warm now.” 

You take it from him suspiciously, careful of your wet nails, and James feels a stab of guilt at the sight of your bandaged hand. 

“I’m really sorry about yesterday,” he goes on, throat burning with shame. “I know I’ve already said it, but it was supposed to be harmless. I wasn’t careful enough.” 

You don’t look at him, not rejecting his apology but not quite accepting it either. “Pomphrey fixed it good as new anyways, so we can just say it never happened.”

James appreciates the attempt to ease his conscience, but your kindness only makes him feel that much more villainous. This would be so simple if you were one of those pureblood gits, or even just a bit ruder, but you’re you, and that’s so much worse. 

“Can I see it?” he asks softly, and you hesitate only a moment before scooting a bit closer and extending your hand to him, palm up. 

James unwraps the bandage with care, keeping one eye on your face to ensure he’s not hurting you, and so he notices the faint blush that colors your cheeks as he cradles your hand in his. The last layer of your dressing falls away, revealing three tiny white scars. Though they’re healed over, he hisses in sympathy, drawing your hand further towards him protectively but forgetting you’re attached to it. 

Your inhale is soft as you lean forward awkwardly, and James huffs a laugh at his enduring idiocy. “Sorry, love,” he says, letting you lean back. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though. “Were they deep?”

You give a one-shouldered shrug, as though it’s nothing to you. James worries you’re putting on a performance of exaggerated blasé for his benefit. “They bled a lot, but a charm sealed them up quickly enough.”

James nods, remembering with sickening clarity the blood that had pooled in your palm and dripped from between your fingers. 

“I’m glad,” James says, and it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough. But he can’t stop himself, even if it’s all inadequate. “I’m really sorry.” 

You sigh, and James knows enough about you to guess that being upset is exhausting you. It isn’t in your nature; you’re someone who always has a kind word for everyone, who he’s seen lend your quill to a student that forgot theirs and offer them an understanding smile when they broke it, who would rather spend all day avoiding James than let him feel the wrath of your grudge. 

Your very warranted grudge, by the way. 

It’s terrible luck that someone as sweet as you was on the receiving end of his mistake. But, as you’d pointed out, that was how the prank was designed, wasn’t it? Though James and Sirius hadn’t thought that part through at the time, the victim was always going to be whoever stepped forward to help. Normally it might not matter, but they’d gotten so caught up in the excitement of trying out their new toy that James had somehow gotten the spell wrong. And as a result, you’d been forced to pay a price for your kindness and his incompetence. 

“It’s okay,” you say.  

“It’s not,” James insists. “And I can’t fix it, but let me do something else. I can do your potions’ homework for the rest of the year, I can give you my dessert every night, I can…I can sneak into Hogsmeade and bring you whatever you want, anytime you ask, I can…what?”

You’re smiling at him, and it’s familiarly lovely but, James can’t help but think, entirely undeserved. 

“I don’t need any favors from you, James,” you say, and he realizes it’s the first time you’ve said his name. It’s not a long name, but somehow your voice gives it a cadence he quite likes. “Just be more careful, okay? I ended up fine, but next time someone might not.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” he promises swiftly, and means it. “But sweetheart—” if he notices how you soften at the endearment, he doesn’t mention it “—you’ve gotta let me make it up to you somehow.”

You sigh again, though it’s lighter this time, seemingly both exasperated and amused by his persistence. After a moment spent within your own head, you ask, “Could you help me study for the potions exam next week?”

“Yes!” James grins eagerly. “Of course. That’s a start. How’s tomorrow after class? I’ll bring study snacks as well, and we can make it a regular thing, if you like.” 

He’d like to make it a regular thing, debt or not. 

You smile. “Tomorrow is perfect. And can I call in another favor right now?”

If James weren’t sitting, he’d buckle at the knees in relief. “Yes. I’m at your service.”

“Can you tell me how you got into the Hufflepuff common room?”

“That,” he says smoothly, “is just one in my arsenal of skills now at your disposal.”

[paper-birdies]

I've been reading a Gravity Falls fanfic called "The Therapist" by @bapple117, where you - The reader- are Bill Cipher's Therapist in the Theraprism. I was on Bapple's Discord server and came across a conversation asking "What if Bill had a secret collection of art he made of the therapist and got super flustered when the therapist finds them."

Posted that and then someone mentioned that in a panic, Bill would probably try to eat the art and tries to eat the pages.

Anyways, I freakin' love this fic and this funky lil' guy.

[dansconcepts]

Quirky RC!Hajime - Erasure

Have a Reserve Course Hajime canceling Ultimates as if they were quirks. It's yet another silly post with no logic whatsoever. "Cancelling Ultimates", in this case, is just causing Ultimates to be less interested in their passion or, in Nagito's case, nullify strange luck occurrences.

Being at Hope’s Peak is honestly a blessing. This school is so reputable that it doesn’t matter that Hajime's not an Ultimate, there’s definitely a way he could become successful. Even though being an Ultimate would be…

He bumps into someone and his papers fall. “I’m sorry-”

“Watch where you’re going, Reserve Course,” sneers a white-haired guy. What the hell? Green eyes land on a brown uniform. Double what the hell? 

Fuck you. Hajime growls internally. 

“Right, sorry about that.” He says instead. Might as well be the bigger person.

“You should be.” The Ultimate scowls, dusting himself off. 

Nevermind. “Hey, what's your problem?”

“You should know your place. You’re scum of this Earth, a mere peasant, but that’d be generous of a title... you're barely even worthy of being a stepping stone, no, even a damn pebble to us Ultimates.” He replies snootily. What a dick.

The desire to shove him is visceral, but Hajime's got a tuition that isn’t going to pay for itself. He grits his teeth. “I didn’t realize all Ultimates were assholes.”

“Only to the ones that deserve it.” 

Fuck. 

This.

Guy. 

His fists clench. 

Scholarship. This was your dream.

Hajime's hands loosen. He glares at the other guy and turns on his heel. 

SHWING!

Is he resorting to throwing things now? What a child. Forget it. I don’t care. I have a test soon anyway. 

Not all Ultimates could be like that, right? Hajime frowns. He can't ignore the way his stomach plummeted at the interaction, the strange way his heart sank when he was so readily dismissed.

…Maybe this is why the saying “Don’t meet your heroes” exists.

Meanwhile, Nagito's left standing with his mouth wide open.

Did he… see that correctly? It reminded him of his luck, the way that the gray metal swung overhead, looking to land on the Reserve Course student’s head. He was thinking about “what a mess to clean up that would be”, internally cursing his luck for dirtying the grounds of Hope’s Peak with blood (the Reserve Course student wouldn't have even deserved it, no matter what he said), but instead it just- didn't? hit him? And launched itself into the ground next to where the other was standing before?

He’s never observed anything like it. His luck likes to force low probabilities into reality, but he’s never seen something completely ignore physics. 

And all around a Reserve Course student.

How... strange.

He shrugs it off, but his gaze lingers on the dark suit walking away.

[He doesn't believe in coincidences.]

✃ ┈┈┈┈ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

A brunette sits on a fountain, playing on her GameGirl. Hajime scrutinizes her warily when he approaches, but she continues staring at her console. He shrugs. That’s not his problem, he’s just here to eat lunch. The white-haired Ultimate rings through his mind, and he eyes her brown uniform distastefully. He knows the idea of an Ultimate Gamer sounds like a really cool person to talk to, and she looks nice, but so did the other guy, so…

Normally, Hajime would try to avoid her, but the campus is only so big for Reserve Course students and this is his spot. He ensures to sit a few feet away from her and digs into the eggs he made for himself. Man, being on a budget is rough. He grabs a spoonful of egg and rice and

Beep! 

Instinctively, he tilts his head to the sound. Her GameGirl is closed, so she must’ve turned it off. God, now he’s missing his old console. It sucks he left it when he came to Hope’s Peak. While in his thoughts, he does catch the girl blinking and looking confused. Right, definitely not his problem. He lifts his spoon again. 

“Um, hello.” The Ultimate again prevents him from eating.

He sighs. Are all Ultimates really this rude? 

He sends an admittedly pointed look at her, who has set aside her game completely, considering it’s nowhere in sight on the fountain. Wasn’t gaming her talent? Was his existence seriously bothering her so much she had to put down her game? “Look, I’m sorry, I’m just trying to eat. I can leave if it’s bothering you that bad, but you could at least be direct about it.”

“I’m not bothered.” She answers. “I just want to talk, I think.”

His eyebrows furrow. Talk? “About… what? Your games?”

She hums. “I normally would like to, but no, not really.” She hums some more. “Oh, actually, I’m tired.” 

The girl yawns, and lays her head on her bag and her legs on the fountain.

Some talk that was. Was he that boring? They barely even had a back and forth! Ultimates are so damn confusing…

He looks down at her sleeping form and sighs. He can’t just leave her here asleep by herself. Who knows what could happen? 

Well, at least he gets to eat. He finishes his food and checks his phone. Next period is going to start in 10. 

The girl is still asleep. Hmm. Is no one seriously looking for her? Besides that, doesn’t she have any friends from her class? Where the hell are they? 

He could take her back to the Ultimate building, but no one will take too kindly to that.

Damn. What the hell does he do? 

“Hey.” He says.

No response. 

“Hey.”

Still nothing.

He jostles her shoulder slightly.

That does the trick, and she blinks up bleary-eyed at him. 

“I don’t know how your class schedule works, but next period is about to start for me.”

She tilts her head. “Why are you telling me this?” 

He flinches. “Fair enough I guess, geez. I was worried about leaving you alone in your sleep, because you’re being left vulnerable, you know? But clearly I shouldn’t have bothered thinking any Ultimate would be grateful.”

And he stomps out. 

Chiaki watches him storm away with a pout. She was just confused and wanted clarification…

He does seem to have a low opinion of Ultimates. Why would that be? Maybe a bad interaction with someone else who’s an Ultimate? Did he enter a flashback sequence because she triggered something? 

Right, she paused mid-level for some reason. She pulls out her GameGirl. The Reserve Course student lore unlocking could wait, she needs to 100% this level. 

[usertoxicyaoi]

"I'm not here today to do serious birdwatching with you. I came to discover what you enjoyed doing. I came just for that. Despite unexpected things, if today ends well, it would have been fun."

TAKARA NO VIDRO (2024). EPISODE EIGHT.

[sighcomics]

this changes everything

[diorgirl444]

From one matt dilly girl to another...🤨

cowboy!dallas how do we feel

Like full on texan accent omggg- 🤭🤭

you get it oh my godddddd. maybe bcs i’m english but this is so mouthwatering to me i can’t even lie to you!!! so much that i’ve written a few cutesy lil hcs for it xxx

cowboy! dallas winston x farmer’s daughter! reader

warnings: bad writing! (girlies i’ve never kissed anyone or flirted so my expression only comes from writing fanfiction so it may not be the most realistic i’m afraid), fem! reader, very self indulgent, unspecified time period. poor understanding of american history i’m english please go easy on me, idk how many words <3

• okay so i see your cowboy! dallas winston and i raise you runaway outlaw! dallas winston posing as a farmhand on reader’s family farm

• i’m thinking he’s an outlaw because after getting in a fight with his alcoholic father he ran away with their horse and in order to survive he stole from carriages and things. a regular billy the kid you know?

• except it’s not easy for a seventeen year old out on his lonesome on all that land and with the law looking for you. but he has no choice so he keeps running till he reaches a farm far, far out west. that night he is so, so tired that he hides in their barn planning to wake up early so he doesn’t get caught.

• but he hasn’t been able to sleep properly in days so he fully crashes. he wakes up that morning with a girl leaning over him pressing her cool hand to his forehead, the sunlight from the open barn makes her hair like a halo and she’s in a beautiful white nightdress and so he briefly wonders if he’s died and she’s one of heavens angels.

• the allusion shatters when she’s realised he’s woken and she calls “daddy he’s alive!” and then his eyes widen and he realises there’s a whole family crowded around him. he excepts to be shouted, to be threatened maybe even hit but instead the wrinkled old man who he assumes is the father of the house says in a gruff but not unkind voice “you got a place to stay son?”

• dallas is vaguely aware that he doesn’t know these people that they could report him to their nearest sheriff or worse eat him or something gruesome like that. but something about the apple cheeked girl, the twin little boys in mismatched plaid and the kind eyes in the wrinkled faces of the parents has him feeling at ease and so he admits “no sir”

• the mother nudges her husband who nods before speaking “well sonny you’re in luck. i’m in need of a farmhand. can’t pay ya but i can offer ya food and board for you and that horse of yours. does that sound like a deal boy?” dallas nods, hardly believing his luck.

• the girl smiles widely and softly whispers to him “i told daddy we should keep you” he decides not to tell her that she could keep him forever if she wanted. maybe it’s a bit early for that yet.

• he falls into a routine pretty quickly at the farm. he does all the hard labour that the father of the house is too old to do now like cutting firewood or rounding the cattle up. he always catches sight of the girl picking fresh fruit and prancing around the farm in her cute little cowboy boots and his heart aches.

• what he doesn’t know is the parents have noticed the way him and their daughter look at each other or ankles press together under the table so they’re always trying little things to get them together. like sending her out to give him glasses of sweet iced tea or getting him to ride their horses with her.

• it finally happens though late one hot august evening. the farm is lazy for a change with most people napping trying to beat the heat. she’s eating cherries and staining lips and hands on the porch swing whilst intently a very sweaty shirtless dallas work on the farm.

• he catches her looking and grins saying “you know what they say about cherry stems?” she shakes her head, batting her lashes at him absentmindedly and he seems to grin even wider.

• “well if you can tie a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue. means you’re a good kisser” his honeyed southern tone drawls out.

• almost in a trance she hands him a cherry stem and flushes bright red when he cockily sticks his tongue out flashing the knotted up cherry stem. “my turn” she tells him trying to distract herself from the growing butterflies in her stomach.

• “nah doll i got another way to check for you” before she can ask what is, he’s leaning over the porch railings and kissing her. she eagerly kissed him back letting her cherry stained fingers grab onto his hair and he’s groaning slightly against his lips. they probably would of gone further has it not been for the cough behind them.

• they awkwardly pull away, her with red cheeks and dallas with red ears and they meet her fathers gaze “happy to see you two finally pulled it together but if you’re gonna act like dogs in heat do that where the lord can’t see you, hm kids?” he gives them a knowing smile as he walks off.

• and well they listen to him and disappear off the barn hand in hand just as they one day will leave the local chapel dressed in white….

[retrogamingblog2]

[cellgatinbo]

the two times tubbo almost told fit and pac to kill themselves and the one time he did (kind of)

[perplexingly]

Whenever I read fics that use Trucy’s supernatural perceptiveness so she can read how other people feel about each other, I can’t help but wish it was more focused on her like