#SO I REWROTE IT LOL

[willowser]

now i wake up by your side—

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 2.8k+

tags: u.a. college au, canon-compliant, reader has a telekinesis/telepathic quirk, references (and potential spoilers) for the current arc in the manga, angst, a lot of secret hidden feelies

tysm to @alrightberries for giving me the opportunity to bring this lil thought of yours to life 🥺 your patience and understanding during the time it took me to write this is so appreciated it, and tbh you're the reason i'm even still here right now LOL you're so sweet, and i hold your kindness so close to my heart. i wish i could convey how much it means to me. i hope i did this even a lil justice !! happy birthday dear !!!! 🥺🩷✨️

Sero dreams of watching the sunrise on top of the Roppongi Observatory.

It’s a beautiful sight, one you’ve never seen with your own eyes, but you soak in the warmth flushing across his cheeks and the anticipated break of morning through the clouds. When he takes in a hefty breath, you feel the spring chill sting inside his chest, crisp and clear, like it’s you breathing instead of him, and it’s almost comforting enough to lull you to sleep, too.

But a clay pot shattering against a nearby bench has your eyes springing open, ripped from the haven you’d been lost to. 

You have to blink several times in order to fight through the exhaustion wearing you thin, but the evening returns to you in small, bleary doses. It’s the middle of the night—or at least it was when you’d first wandered out to the training field, and you can’t be sure how many hours have passed since then. Across the yard, you’ve successfully managed to carry four pots from the garden plot near the entrance all the way to your feet with your Quirk— but number five sits in pieces in the grass.

You’ll have to clean that up by morning or Eraser will make you run laps until you puke. Again.

Kirishima flits through your mind in a suit and tie: not as a Hero, but a spy of some kind, chasing down men with masks covering their faces and wielding a gun that looks odd in his hands, even in his own dream. Despite being back in the dorms, stories up and near the end of the hall, you can see it—hear him yelling out at the criminal to stop, feel the thud of the ground under his feet. His own determination blares through you like a freight train, as strong and damning as he is, and you fight to force yourself back inside your own shoes as you try to carry another pot.

Recovery Girl used to tell you that you did this to yourself: all your worry about losing sleep psyching yourself out of it completely, chasing it away before it even had the chance. When everyone is getting ready for bed, heading out of the common room and hitting the showers, you can feel that suspense building; what will come across tonight while everyone dreams? Fantasies? Or nightmares?

During the day it’s easier to drown out the foot-traffic of everyone’s thoughts—you do it without trying, now—but your brain needs rest, too. Letting go of control for even a second, just to get some shut eye is—

Something frightening is outlined in your peripheral vision, the dash of a pale shape you aren’t able to discern before it’s gone. The air turns metallic and stale and you can hear water sloshing, though you’re nowhere near the pools. All your blood rushes in your ears and your fingers curl, like you’re gripping your seat—gripping the edge of the couch in the common room, where you’d been sitting beside Mina when Kaminari put on that horror movie. The one with the—

“The hell are you doin’?”

Your eyes snap open for the hundredth time that night—show over, credits rolling—and it’s Bakugou. Standing only feet away from the new set of clay shards of your failure, tangible and real and staring at you with an intensity not even your dreams could mimic.

You blink, eyes stinging and heavy. You must look insane. “Oh, hey,” the voice that comes out of you is far-away, chartered off to distant lands, and he notices immediately, focus razor-sharp despite how late it is. “What did you say?”

Bakugou wrinkles his nose, like he’s offended at having to repeat himself. “I said, what the hell are you doin’? It’s nearly 2 in the morning and you’re out here throwin’ shit around in your fuckin’ pajamas.”

Almost on cue, the breeze brushes past your legs, chilly enough to have you shivering, and you peek down at them as if you don’t know what they look like. The sweater you’re wearing is from second year and the U.A. logo is half-worn off, but it’s the comfiest thing you own and if you’re going to be plagued all night by the forced intimacy of your classmates’ dreams—you at least want to be cozy.

When you look back up at him, Bakugou is pointedly looking away, taking interest in something other than your wimpy state of dress. 

It dawns on you then that he’s out here, too, in sweats and a simple back sweatshirt, hair a messy, golden halo in the pale, buzzing field lights. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think his face was a little rosy, but—maybe you’re seeing things.

Still. Being out and away from everyone, alone with Bakugou, makes your stomach tighten horribly. Like you’ve done too many sit-ups.

You try to brush off your sudden bout of shyness, because you know he’ll clock that in no time, too. “Well, I could ask you the same thing.” At the raise of your eyebrows, he only tchs, and casts you a filthy look. “But I think maybe I’ll just mind my own business.”

The face he makes is so awful and hot-blooded that you laugh, truly and earnestly, enough that a headache pulses to life. You wince, and the stream of pain that shoots down the middle of your skull brings back that image of Kirishima’s action-thriller: blood and knives, the sound of skin on skin, a fist against cheekbones, the ugly snap of breaking—

“Oi.”

Bakugou is closer than before, when you’re grounded back inside yourself. At least no pots have been broken this time. Less to clean up.

“Sorry,” you shoot him an apologetic smile that you know he must hate. “It’s just so—” your hand feels like it’s made of lead, but you drag it up to massage slow circles into your temple, trying not to grit your teeth and worsen the pounding in your head. “So loud sometimes.”

He’s silent until the pain ebbs out, and when you can blink without flinching, you peek up to catch how intently he’s watching your face. In the night like this, his eyelashes seem darker, longer, a kind of haunting beauty you would dream about, if you could get some sleep.

Again, you think of Kaminari’s horror movie, legs pressed against Mina’s under the heavy comforter she’d brought down from her room. It’s warm, the kind of pink, fluffy thing you’d imagine a girl like her to have—but it didn’t stop you from shivering every time you chanced a glance at Bakugou and found him already staring back.

The heat in your cheeks spreads to the back of your neck, so immediate that you think you might start sweating. “Dreams and stuff,” you murmur, by way of an explanation, “nightmares, sometimes.”

Bakugou's frown deepens, the muscle in his jaw tightening once as he grits his teeth. “What, you can just…hear that shit all night?”

“Usually,” you shrug, “It just comes in, you know? And I—” you steal another glance at him, aware, then, of just how intrusive you might sound. The veil of privacy is thin between you and others, and they don't often like being reminded of that. “Not for you, though. I don't—I don't get anything from you.”

And it's true, frustratingly enough. Not that you are ever intentionally peeking into anyone's head, but things slip through, occasionally—sudden reactions, wild, loose trains of thought. 

Bakugou's face twists, regardless, and you're reminded of all the times you've been forced to spar together, at Eraser's behest. One of the smartest in your class, quick on his feet and never without a plan; every time you've managed to get a hand on Bakugou, there's been nothing but a sea-shore calm.

It's hard to do and, at this point in your life, you've seen a thousand people try it—but he's the only one that's ever succeeded in keeping you at bay.

Nothing in his expression changes, but all your nerves spread to your voice until it shakes. “You're—I don't look in there, of course, but it's—you've always been…” Bakugou is terrible at taking compliments, you know that, almost as bad as you are at giving them. “Pretty, I guess.”

Awful, at giving them.

Embarrassment floods him, suddenly stained pink as he curls into himself. “Piss off,” he barks, and though he’s scowling at you in what must be disgust—you can’t help but to smile at how aggressively bashful he is.

You almost get the guts to make matters worse, just because you can. Admit how handsome you’ve come to find him, after the last few years, until his face is steaming in the sweet nighttime chill; the kind of intimacy you wouldn’t mind dreaming about again and again.

The absence of his thoughts are a comfort for your tired mind, has all the harsh edges of night fading into something a little easier to swallow, to breathe in. You know he does it on purpose as a strictly defensive move, but you almost want to thank him. For the quiet.

You don’t know if it’s from you or him, but when you reach a hand up to hover near his temple, the air buzzes between you, gently. Charged with that same thing that had you unable to look away from him in the common room only days ago. “In here, I mean,” you murmur, and the smile you pull on feels lame, but it’s as genuine as ever. “I don’t know, I don’t know how you do it. But it’s…nice.”

You’ve seen him die a thousand times.

Mostly in Midoriya’s dreams, sometimes in Eraser’s when he nods off during last period, but that horror—like many others, from that day—stains you all. When dinner is put away and showers are finished and the lights go out and the flood gates open, someone almost always relives the ugliness of it all; you’re more familiar with that moment than you are with any of your own.

Here and now, you close your eyes and see Jirou staring back at you, face beautiful and full of hope. You see Kirishima’s torn suit jacket and the blood on his cheek and the empty gun in his hand, the most dedicated secret agent. Aoyama is dreaming of his mother, something warm that makes you feel like you’re dazzling, too.

And yet—Bakugou is silent. Even right in front of you. Even after everything.

If anyone deserves the peace and quiet, you suppose it ought to be him.

“When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

You blink until his blurry figure is clear, and it’s like you can physically feel whatever energy you had left seeping from your body at the mere mention of sleep. “Maybe a morning or two ago,” you tell him truthfully, “I usually pass out after a few rounds of ‘throwin’ shit around’.”

Bakugou only stares at you as he digests the words, and once he’s gotten them down, he shakes his head before looking out over the mess you’ve made of the training field. With his head turned like this, you can take in the full weight of his scar—the one that’s wide and still baby-pink across his cheek. 

You almost get the guts to tell him he’s handsome. Almost.

Frustration is evident on his face when he looks back at you, but his voice comes out softer than you expect, like he's struggling to get out any words at all. “Can’t keep doin’ this,” he chastises. “Can’t be a Hero if you’re half asleep all the time. Gotta figure this shit out.”

“I am,” you give a lazy wave to your pots, “What’s wrong with this solution?”

“It's ass.”

“Alright, you have any better ideas, pretty boy?”

He bristles, visibly enough to have you snickering, and—you’re not sure what you expect of him; to continue his griping or leave you to your own devices, building his walls up high as he always does. Ever the fighter, ever the protector; maybe it’s a good thing, you tell yourself, because you’re weak like this and one of you needs to be thinking straight.

Despite his flush, there’s a playfulness to his grouchy expression, his raspy tone—and it has you leaning too far into things you don’t know how to name.

You never know what to expect of him.

There’s the slightest brush of skin against the back of your hand, and when you drop your eyes to the slowly-dwindling space between you—the rough pads of his fingers are touching you, gently. Softly enough to be the breeze, if it weren’t so warm.

You’re afraid to look at him, suddenly, like it will break whatever spell the night is casting over both of you; instead you press your lips together to stop their wobbling and the smile fighting to give you away. You’re waiting for that sea-shore calm, that quiet comfort, whatever it is he’s trying to offer you, strangely enough, in this moment. When you turn your hand over to catch his, the air buzzes again and the blood rushes in your ears.

You focus and—all you can see is your own face staring back at you. In a flash, like he’s cycling through his cards in a hurry, trying to find the best one.

You, across the arena during the entrance exam. You, in the locker room before the Sport's Festival. You, sitting in the common room during Christmas. You, ruined with tears and your own blood and covered in grime, on the darkest day of your life.

You, now. On the field in the stale light, prettier than you think you must look, for being so exhausted, the lines of your smile deep as you grin up at him.

—And then there's nothing.

The absence of noise is louder than anything. A stark, white silence that cuts through; a different world trickling away. A single touch and a little focus is all it takes to take root inside someone’s head and that’s always felt like a weapon, but now it feels like coming inside from a snowstorm, relief shuddering down your spine. Everyone else's fears and nerves and heartaches dissolve until they’re only a bitter taste at the back of your throat. Something far, far behind you

There’s just Bakugou. A strong silence that feels impenetrable, invulnerable to the outside. The steady beat of his heart is comforting in a way you didn’t realize it would be, has that bloody, dead-eyed image of him shifting into something else: another moment in Midoriya’s memories, of his silhouette standing in the sun, tall and fierce and alive.

Returned. Here and now with you, after numerous, unforeseen turns of events. You wonder if the ease surrounding you is his own, something else he’s sharing—or if this is just how it feels to be with him after so long. Maybe in the past it was different—you know it was; during the entrance exam, during the Sport’s Festival—but now you feel more relaxed than you ever have. A reminder that, no matter how dark the nights get, the sun is only just beyond the horizon. 

Returned, comforting and quiet.

(You won't know this until much later, but your hand will go slack in Katsuki's and his fingers will tighten around your own because he's not ready to let go yet. When your knees buckle, he'll already be there, awkwardly holding you up against his shoulder as his face flames and his eyes dart around the empty field, checking for any shitty snoops.

Ears is always up damn late, too, and there's a decent chance he'd get caught trying to haul you back to your room on the third fuckin’ floor, so there's really no better option than to gently lower you both to the grass. After a couple of minutes with no movement, the field lights will shut off and only the distant glow of the stars will remain.)

(You won't know this until much later, but Katsuki will arrange the both of you so that your head isn't slumped on the hard ground, but resting on the plush of his bicep, an arm around your shoulders so that the warmth can be shared between you both. His heart will pound hard enough in his chest to be worrisome, and every time you shuffle and scoot closer to him and nudge your nose into his sweater—Katsuki will fight to stay open and true, only honest with you in this wordless way.)

(You won't know this until the sun rises high behind your lids and your bones ache and he’s shown you things he could never say, but it's the best sleep you think you've ever gotten. With him, under the stars, surrounded by his calm and his constant.)

(You won't remember this but in your dream—your real dream, born from with solace Katsuki offers you—the morning will rise and settle in and he'll walk you back to your room despite the stares and in the elevator when you're alone, his lips will touch yours and you'll feel his  heart in your chest and his nerves in your stomach and his fear and relief all in one.)

(And right away, when you wake up, you'll finally have a name for this thing that's been blooming between you both for as long as you can remember—and he will, too.)

[muldersfingers]

College best friends AU

I got carried away headcanoning on Discord about these two college best friends, coming home tipsy from a party. (2700 words)

---

His apartment is closer, so she stays with him. 

Candice’s birthday party had been fun, and they were both a little drunk. She had leaned against him the whole way back to his place, a pleasant buzz coursing through her as she clung to her best friend’s arm.

They were giggling about… she wasn’t really sure, as they pushed into his apartment and she immediately plonked herself down on the floor and tore the heels from her feet.

“Ouch,” she complained sadly as Mulder took off his unbuttoned shirt.

Mulder groaned as he dropped himself down to the floor, too, leaning against the wall. 

He looked so cute tonight. His checked shirt was one of her favourites, and when he wore it unbuttoned she liked to tease him about being able to see his nipples through his undershirt.

“Stop looking,” he’d tease back.

They both tended to get quite handsy with each other after a couple of drinks. Scully’s girlfriends never believed her when she told them nothing had ever happened between them. Not even a kiss?! they’d ask. She would shake her head.

That was her best friend. Mulder. She had never even thought of him that way.

-

Nobody believed Mulder when he said he and Scully were just friends. Well, they weren’t just friends. They were best friends. She was the best friend he could ever hope for. He never understood why someone so beautiful and cool would bother with him, but they had been close for over a year now. She took him how he was, in all his geeky idiocy, his unhinged ideas and his ‘overactive imagination’, so she called it.

She was staying with him because his apartment was closer. He loved having her at his place.

She was laying on the floor, on her front, soft and giggly from the shots she had been doing when he found her. Before he whisked her away from the party, away from the crowd and the noise and now… here they were. Alone, in the quiet.

“Let’s watch a movie, Mulder,” she said, and he knew what would happen. She would argue with him about movie choice, fighting to get her own pick, and she would fall asleep within ten minutes. Gentle snuffly snores as her head laid on his shoulder.

“Sure,” he said.

He could never say no to her.

-

She swung her legs under her on the couch and curled up against him as the movie started. She was tired, but she needed to unwind from the party, and she loved spending time alone with Mulder, just the two of them, quietly watching a movie together. Perfection.

There’s no way nothing has never happened between you.

Sara’s words echoed in her head. It was so silly. Scully knew, even if her other friends didn’t, that men and women could have a solid, genuine friendship without attraction coming into it.

She looked down. Mulder’s hand was spread on his thigh, and she shifted slightly, her bare knee bumping into his fingers. He looked down absently for a second, shifting slightly before returning his attention to the television.

She supposed… she supposed she wouldn’t mind if he kissed her. Friends kiss sometimes. Even make out, when drunk. It didn’t mean anything. She wouldn’t mind, either, if he wanted to place a warm, large, protective hand on her knee. That sounded quite nice.

Alcohol did silly things to her.

-

There she was, head on his shoulder, arms curled around his elbow, fast asleep.

Her bare knees were pressed against his thigh and he couldn’t let himself look. Not Scully. Pretty, vibrant, stubborn Dana, clever enough to be an intellectual sparring partner but loved trash movies. She was wonderful, really.

He could let himself fall asleep, too. Stay here, cuddled up with her. He could probably reach the blanket without jostling her, drape it over them both, cocoon them together from the world.

But… no. They would both ache like hell in the morning. He would put up with it as payment for staying here, like this, but he didn’t want that for Scully. He tried his best to hold her still as he slipped away before gently lowering her down on the couch, propping a cushion under her head.

“Hm?” She stirred, tilting her head to look up at him as he grabbed the blanket.

“Shock horror, you fell asleep,” Mulder whispered with a stupid grin. “I’m going to bed. Sleep tight.”

He draped the blanket over her, crouching down to tuck her in. He avoided her eyes which were fixed on his face. She was sleepdrunk, hazy as she watched him.

“Night, Mulder. Love you.”

“Love you too, pal.”

He leaned in to place a kiss softly to her forehead. She tilted her face slightly, his lips dragging over her eyebrow. He hoped she didn’t hear how his breath hitched.

Mulder skated his fingertips over her cheek before forcing his legs to push him upright and march him off to the bedroom, where he threw himself down on his bed and covered his face with his hands, groaning.

-

Twenty.

She was now a woman in her twenties. It was a momentous day, she thought.

“You’re almost legally allowed to drink all the alcohol you’re gonna consume tonight!” Mulder teased as he filled another bowl with chips.

Scully snorted.

“Who’s coming tonight?” she asked.

“You want the whole guest list?” Mulder rolled his eyes. “Baby, I invited the people you told me to invite.”

“Oh my god,” Scully sighed loudly. “Stop calling me baby.”

Mulder twisted the top of the half-empty bag of chips and whacked her with it.

“I’ll stop calling you baby when you stop acting like a baby.”

“Am not.”

“Are too. Anyway. You’re twenty. Just a baby.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” she stated simply. “After the party, after everyone leaves, I’m killing you. But not before, because I could use your help.”

“You should’ve let me host this party for you. It’s your birthday.”

“I don’t mind. Anyway, you’re helping. That’s enough.” 

Mulder unsheathed a stack of red Solo cups and placed them next to the empty punch bowl.

“So, uh… I know I was in charge of the guest list.” He cleared his throat. “But… you got a date for tonight?”

Scully let out a laugh. Little did he know.

“You’re my date tonight, silly,” she said lightly, tickling his ribs as she passed him.

She rolled her eyes at herself. 

-

Mulder considered it his duty to make sure Scully had the best time possible.

His self-assigned jobs were to make sure the punch and chips were always full, and to make sure Scully was having a good time.

“Yes, Mulder,” she said with a giggle and roll of the eyes on his third check. She placed her palm on the side of his head and thumbed the shell of his ear. “A wonderful time, thank you.”

Scully looked ethereal, dancing with her friends and chatting away and giggling. It was by design and not choice that she always looked incredible, but she somehow always managed to look perfect, pick the perfect outfit. Mulder tried not to look at her feet. Not only did he hate himself for how sexy she looked in those stilettos, but he knew her feet would ache later and she would seek his assistance.

As the late night turned to early morning people began to filter out and it was after 3am when the last guest left. She had somehow ended up sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs as she watched Mulder bring through the half-empty punchbowl and the completely empty chip bowls. 

“Thank you, Mulder,” she said dreamily. “Tonight was so perfect.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

“Come here.”

She held her arms out, parting her legs as he moved closer. His breath hitched as he positioned himself between them, letting her pull him close into an embrace, her body sliding on the counter to press against his.

“You’re the best friend ever.”

Mulder closed his eyes, trying not to think about all the places they were pressed together. He was insanely attracted to her but sex for him had thus far been about nothing but carnal desire, and he just couldn’t think of her that way. It was a bastardisation of everything she was to do that.

But her thighs were nestled either side of him and it was killing him.

They stayed holding each other for several agonising seconds, neither of them pulling away. He couldn’t help but let out a sigh when he felt her lips press into his neck, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Slowly, she pulled away from him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and leaned in. She pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth.

Smiling, she pushed him away, announcing her need to pee, so he held her hand as she jumped down from the counter.

-

Sheepishly, she returned from the bathroom, finding Mulder tidying up in the living room.

She threw herself down on the couch, watching him with his trash bag as he stacked Solo cups and threw them away. He stacked, and stacked, and a cup squelched, overflowed. Scully giggled at him, which earned her a look.

“Mulder,” she said firmly. “Tidy up later. Come sit with me.”

Like a robot that only responded to voice commands, he unceremoniously dropped the trash bag and crossed to the couch. 

They sat in silence as they easily moved into each other, entwining and slotting together, his arm around her shoulder and her head on his, her legs swung up to drape on his lap. His other hand was on her shin, hot and engulfing. Slowly, he slid his hand down to her foot, digging his thumb into her arch.

-

Scully let out a surprised moan and Mulder immediately regretted his actions.

Neither of them spoke. He continued, despite himself, to massage her feet, as best he could with one hand, knowing those wonderful stilettos made her feel sore. He loved and hated doing this for her. The thought that he was making her feel better, feel good, was fantastic, but the noises that came out of her when he did it were nothing short of absolute torture.

It was worse tonight. He removed his arm from her shoulder so he could work on her with both hands, digging deep into her arches. He was such a weak man. Those unholy noises were going straight to his dick, and he should move, throw her off him, but it might upset her, and he could never do anything like that to her. Especially not on her birthday. But she had to feel his half-hard dick against her calf, surely.

She keened as he ran his whole hand over the top of her foot, thumbing pressure gently on her arch. She lifted her knee nearest to Mulder, dragging her calf mercilessly over his dick.

There was no way she missed the bulge against her skin, and there was no way she missed the way his breath caught in her throat. Her movement had to have been deliberate. Hadn’t it?

She slid her leg back to its original position. Mulder turned his head to look at her, and she was staring at him, soft and insistent. She tilted her chin up defiantly. He knew her so well, and she was asking for something. 

He kissed her, achingly chaste in contrast to what was happening in his lap, where she had resumed slowly dragging her leg back and forth.

She licked his lips and he easily parted them, so pliant to give into her every whim. He was overwhelmed. The years of friendship, of yearning, the pain of watching her go on dates with the wrong guys, kiss them at parties all came down to this moment and he clung to her, frightened she would slip away if he let go.

She was in his lap now, fully, straddling him with knees on the couch either side of his hips. He couldn’t believe this was happening. 

The thought occurred to him to wonder her motivations. Was she looking for a fling? Was she just drunk, making out with him for some kind of comfort? Would they wake up tomorrow morning and go back to being just best friends? He wouldn’t be able to deal with that.

“Mulder,” she whispered as she pulled off of his mouth. She sighed. “I don’t want to jeopardise our friendship.”

She was going to slide off his lap, halt the journey they were on. Too good to be true, as he suspected.

“But I’ve just wanted this for so long,” she continued. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

He had never loved anyone else. She was so precious to him. His guy friends would laugh at him, but he struggled with picturing Scully in sexual situations, even through dark lonely nights, because it felt as though he was defiling her wonderful, ethereal beauty. The perfect image of her in his head. The pedestal he had placed her upon.

But now, she had slipped off of his lap and was standing with her back to him.

“Unzip my dress?”

He was too weak to resist. Too adoring to question anything she said. He slowly unzipped her dress, drawing his eye to the milky white skin of her back. She was without a bra, but he had bashfully taken note of that earlier in the evening. The dress dropped to the floor, and she kept her back to him as she pushed down her tights and panties.

She turned around and she was perfect. She began to tug his white t-shirt from his jeans, bunching it up around his armpits until his stupid brain instructed him to lift his arms. She discarded his t-shirt and placed her hands on his chest.

“Mulder?” she asked. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he replied immediately, a little too loudly. 

She looked up at him insistently and he realised she was waiting for him to take the lead. Shit. He kissed her again, ignoring the little voice in his head that said you’re defiling her, cheapening her as he unbuckled his belt, popped open the button, dragged down the zip. Her hands tugged his jeans down and he moaned as her breasts pressed into his chest.

It all clicked into place and although the voice inside his head was yelling now, it was drowned out by white noise as Mulder lifted her, her legs wrapping around him as he carried her off to the bedroom.

It was all over embarrassingly quickly, and he wanted to cry. Regardless, she dotted kisses all over his face. It was perfect, she cooed at him, reassured him. You were perfect.

-

An hour of pillow talk and staring into each other’s eyes, pondering the enormity of what they had just done, Mulder disappeared under the covers and found his way between Scully’s legs. She felt positively giddy as he used his mouth on her, perfect perfect perfect as he left her with absolutely no doubt how he felt about her. The guilt she had felt for daydreaming about this was melting away with every touch, every kiss, every lick, knowing that all along, he had been yearning for her just as much as she yearned for him. It was a heady concept.

She was almost disappointed with how quickly she came, not wanting it to be over but happy to see Mulder’s face again. Her beautiful, quirky best friend, the evidence of her orgasm smeared around his face. It was impossible to comprehend.

The look in her eyes told him that maybe – just maybe – he loved her as much as she loved him.

-

Their friends couldn’t believe it. They couldn’t believe they finally did it, and couldn’t believe it took them so long.

If it was so fucking obvious, Mulder thought, why the hell didn’t you tell us?

He actually dreamed about the way she looked when she came. The way she gasped when he cupped her breast. The way she said his name in any context.

She always said thank you after Mulder made her came, and it drove him insane. His gratitude is through the roof.

He was still expecting for the novelty to wear off. To stop trembling when she undressed him to stop getting just a little hard every time she kissed him.

He never did.

[a2zillustration]

I carried this thing for MONTHS with the EXPRESS PURPOSE of putting Raphael in it (knowing full well Larian wouldn't let me do that, mechanically) and I had one major miscalculation.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

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[katasstrophy]

Bruh Nagi being buff as hell after Manshine's training 🥰🥰🥰

sammy you deadass bout to make me objectify this man on main SO BAD this has been running something of a small marathon in my head so 😵‍💫😵‍💫 pls accept my humble word vomit

cw. [n]sfw. mdni. pro player! nagi + aged-up characters. bit of body worship(?) you ride his abs. nipple play (m. receiving). subby nagi (but he's actually a switch >:) + some fluff bc he's so baby :(

note. a bit rambly oop soz it’s bc i went insane. i describe how he looks like to ME (re: hot as fuck) but i guess y'all can read it too hehe<3

1.4k words -> how could you ever hope to keep your hands to yourself when nagi's body looks like that.

i feel like unless you have prior knowledge of the fact that nagi is a pro athlete, from a cursory glance, your first thought upon seeing him wouldn’t be “hmm i bet that dude is built like a brick house.” it doesn’t help that nagi’s basically the unofficial king of athleisure — his closet’s chockfull of loose-fitting hoodies and sweats. he barely owns anything else besides those monochrome hooded tracksuits (and sportswear for practice, i guess he’d need some of that too lol) because he claims it’s the only outfit that gives him unlimited access to just lounge about basically anywhere he pleases. it’s what he genuinely finds to be the most comfortable style for him as well. but if you’re fortunate enough to get a peak underneath the layers of baggy clothes? dear god nagi’s built like a fever dream. amen you’ll eat so good then he’s a whole ass feast. 

i’m gonna brazenly speak my truth here so don’t come for me >:( but! from what you’d consider to be “a typical footballer’s physique”, purely from that perspective, nagi’s legs are… not that impressive. his stagnant motivation has much improved ever since he committed to making a career out of soccer, but that doesn’t mean his slacker tendencies haven’t followed suit. don’t get me wrong, he still puts his all into every game so his legs are still very much capable of making your mouth water, but you won’t catch him sprinting up and down the field at full speed if he can help it. packed with lean muscle, his thighs are thick, calves well-defined with a few bold veins thinly zigzagging down the taut skin like a lightning strike on the occasion you happen to catch him after a particularly gruelling conditioning session. but compared to some of his teammates whose legs seem to be carved from iron, he’s a bit.. overshadowed.

it’s a fairly similar story with his arms. (i promise i’m not just talking shit lol i could NEVER my poor meow meow it’s gonna get so hot in a second i swear just bear with me!!!) again, it’s most definitely a drool-worthy sight. the stretch of his arms is long and sinewy, rolling with a set of generous biceps that flutter under the gentle scrap of your fingerpads and nails when he (totally intentionally) flexes the swell of muscle there. in his profession, he mostly uses his arms for balance and to create distance between himself and his opponents. buried in his private nook back home, he has a tendency to hold his phone above his head while playing mobile games — that blissfully only rarely come crashing down on his face — but his unrivalled favourite will, of course, always be enveloping you in his arms <3 

nagi’s not the most expressive person, but his subtle social cues become much easier to pick up on whenever he’s sleepy, which let’s be honest is almost always. he’s in dire need of a snuggle in those moments and not only loves, but craves being close to you physically, his face a canvas of huffy evidence of what a Big Deal this is to him if you learn to read the hidden hints (it’s a pursed, pouty frown nine times out of ten he ain’t slick lmfao). he kind of regards your presence as his “recharging station” what a cringe fail soggy loser man i adore him with my whole heart 🥹 his lanky limbs will snake around you with the security of a vine until you’re all cosy and wrapped up in each other, his hold bearing enough strength to not budge against any playful escape tactics you might attempt — at least not until he decides he’s had his fair share of quality snuggle time with you. 

nagi’s a practical man, however — the world doesn’t call him a lazy genius for nothing. for these, albeit lovely, purposes, he determined there’s absolutely no need to overexert himself by lifting weights to buff up his arms. he can get by just fine! there are definitely more jacked arms out there i’m sorry :(

but here’s the kicker. nagi’s tall. you could even say he’s huge — he’d tower over most people if he actually straightened his posture for once. so his muscle mass kind of stretches out a bit… unevenly throughout his body. he does have muscle mass though, plenty of it, actually, and he needs only to do one tiny little thing to remind you of it: lift his shirt up. 

it’s a subconscious, everyday thing for nagi to toy with the hem of his cotton tees. his fingers often grow restless if they’re just lying about, so playing with the material of his clothes is not only stupidly ready at hand but also helps to soothe the itch brimming along his fingers to do something with them. in the process, you’re rewarded with glimpses of his stomach often when he involuntarily ends up exposing the skin clinging to those hard planes. but what’s objectively worse for your sanity is when nagi comes trudging into the kitchen to ease his thirst. he never bothers with a glass from the cupboard, just swoops down to drink from the open tap, his adam’s apple bopping rhythmically as he swallows. there’s water coating his lips when he rises, a few droplets still running down his chin that he tugs on the ends of his t-shirt to lazily wipe away. it’s an innocent endeavour to him, but a sinful display for you, as it essentially shows off his entire, deliciously shaped midriff. nagi might slack off in other areas, but his core strength is insane. his torso is like a gift from the heavens, chiselled after the image of their gods and heroes. don’t even get me started on his abs.

because i cannot stress enough how perfect nagi’s abs are for grinding your sweet, drooling little cunny on :( the ridges of muscle packed together at his abdomen are firm, but twitch almost uncontrollably when you slowly drag your cunt up and down the sculpted slabs of his stomach that bump against your poor, swollen clit in a way that makes you delirious. your thighs bracket his waist as you move, his waist that is so trim and almost tiny compared to the broad stretch of his shoulders. you can feel the coarse, light hair of his happy trail graze against your bare ass, leading to his heavy, stirring cock still confined in his sweats for now as you continue to leisurely rut your pussy down his abs, leaving a slick mess behind. the hard cut of his v-line is so prominent a thin contour of shadow clings to the underside of it.

nagi wishes desperately that he could help you, that he could sink his fingers into the plush of your skin and push you down along his abdomen to accelerate your high, dictate a more intense pace for you by his hands and make you take it, but he’s too busy being a moaning, blubbering mess underneath you to take initiative. his large palm lies dormant at your waist, the other tangled in his snowy, sweaty bangs so he doesn’t miss even a blink of the intoxicating vision you present above him. he’s drunk on every salacious sound that comes tumbling from your lips, every wanton contortion of your gorgeous face as the lewd squelching of your pussy fills his ears. his defined chest is flushed red from arousal, shuddering with shaky exhales as he all but devours the sight of you — he thinks you using him for your own pleasure is so fucking hot. 

if you want to turn him into an utter wreck, whining like a bitch in heat, please please play with his nipples :( paw at his pecs all needy first, ‘n don’t be afraid to grip the flesh with the blunt of your nails. he’ll mewl about it, but you only need to shush and praise him, tell him how good he looks like this for you and he’ll behave. pinch at the pretty pink of his pebbled nipples, gently circle his areola with your tongue, sucking on the bud and nagi will lose his mind, might even cum untouched :( but that’s okay because he’s so turned on his refractory period is barely an issue, he’ll sink into your tight, sloppy walls in one go and fuck you absolutely senseless on his cock. it’s all you can do to scramble for purchase with your trembling fingers, marking up the milky expanse of his broad back and mouthing at his collarbones to stifle your near pornographic keens and cries as he mercilessly splits you open.

in conclusion nagi seishiro is built like a wet dream and i want him carnally </3

[alizibtheterrible]

Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking

but my smile still stays on

wanted to draw this man for a while now. This song popped up on my recommended and all my brain cells started working overtime. Anyways Happy Thanksgiving!

[bbeelzemon]

as time goes on im realizing that describing your gender is tbh kinda similar to the naming of jellicle ca- hey wait no stay with me for a second here okay. im holding your hands and looking directly into your eyes now. listen to me. i have a public facing gender. a more specific and personal gender that i can share with my closest friends and family. and an innermost unique gender that only i can ever truly know. gender is just like a jellicle cats

[polux-aka-hyakunana]

Cooking my own food between projects pt.2

Pt 1 feat Tycoon and Buffa

And context on the rambling tags of this past post lol

[mimithealpaca]

愛しい魔女になるつもり

alternate caption: it's time for my yearly yasu redraw!!! jk, i don't redraw my yasu pictures every year, but every time i do draw anything umineko, i default to yasu. that part of umineko spoke to young me most directly, i guess. i find myself relating to yasu the older i get, actually

[omegalomania]

What are some of your favorite aro-/ace-coded fob lyrics?

oh fuck yes a little bowl of seeds just for me

boycott love from disloyal order of water buffaloes is a personal favorite of mine. its a lyric i really really want tattooed at some point. that's not the only lyric i latch onto from an aro perspective but it's probably the biggest one

basically the entirety of it's hard to say "i do" when i don't but a special mention goes to you are appealing to emotions that i simply do not have as well as the only ring i want buried with me are the ones around my eyes

it's true romance is dead / i shot it in the chest and in the head from the music or the misery is also a favorite of mine, also just that whole song in general

i thought i loved you but it was just how you looked in the light in hum hallelujah resonates with a lot of queer folks i've found, and it's no different for me

same goes for it's a strange way of saying that i know i'm supposed to love you from g.i.n.a.s.f.s.

i'm outside the door, invite me in / so we can go back and play pretend from alone together brings me back to when i was trying to perform heteronormativity/amatonormativity even if it was making me miserable

i also hold to a very similar vibe with she said "i love you 'till i don't" / i am just playing house, no idea what i'm doing now from sunshine riptide and also most of burna boy's verse, frankly. i fell in love but i didn't fall down and feel like i'm bulletproof, baby in particular

american beauty/american psycho, particularly the first verse. i think i fell in love again / maybe i just took too much cough medicine

golden is a big one for queer folks in general i've found. the chorus especially hits hard from an aro and/or ace reading. and i saw god cry in the reflection of my enemies / and all the lovers with no time for me

i've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth is a heavy song no matter how you slice it. but that chorus gets to me in particular: we can fake it for the airwaves / force our smiles, baby, half-dead / from comparing myself to everyone else around me

the kids aren't alright reads to me as one big anthem for platonic love above anything romantic, which resonates super hard with me. the second verse has a lot of good lines that i latch onto from an aroace lens too. your love is anemic and i can't believe / that you couldn't see it coming from me

pretty much the whole chorus of HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T does it for me, and those verses have got some good aroallo vibes too! i never really feel a thing... confidants but never friends...

the whole of fake out is a gimme. that chorus rings real true. starts with love is in the air, i just gotta find a window to break out and finishing with but it was all a fake-out

i've got all this ringing in my ears and none on my fingers is one that has another highly applicable title but the whole refrain of the truth hurts worse / than anything i could bring myself to do to you paired with the one-two punch of that second verse REALLY gets under my skin

and of course, the culminating one: you are what you love, not who loves you from save rock and roll. obviously there are a LOT of ways to read that line

there are a couple other songs i latch onto - wilson (expensive mistakes); a little less "sixteen candles", a little more "touch me"; the (after) life of the party to name a few - but the ones listed above are the big lyrics that resonate with me on a personal level

just in general i have a shitton of fob over on my aro playlist (which doubles as a general aroace/queer playlist but has a lot of emphasis on aromanticism) in case i forgot to mention anything but like i said those are the big ones

[wrencatte]

mini-fic! Cal and Merrin training, from Greez's POV. 1k words.

Cal and Merrin face off in a small clearing not far from the Mantis. She has a staff in hand, new and sturdy, just picked up from an outpost market, and Cal has…nothing. In fact, his lightsaber sits next to a nonchalant Cere, who’s scrolling through a holopad, seemingly unaware that Cal is about to get his ass kicked by an armed Nightsister.

Their resident Jedi Knight is a powerhouse, sure, and Greez is thankful every day he’s on their side, but without his lightsaber… Greez takes one look at the situation and decides he really don’t want to know.

He asks anyway.

“Training!” Cal says without opening his eyes. Greez isn’t going to question it. Not this time. Nope. Merrin watches Cal closely, one end of her staff buried in the soil, her hands folded on the other end so she can rest her cheek on the back of them. She waits patiently.

They all seem to be waiting for something. Even Greez, who still has no idea how this qualifies as ‘training.’ And Cere, who still doesn’t look up from her ‘pad, takes a serene sip of her drink. She’s probably using some freaky Force thing to sense what’s going on.

Cal looks like he’s meditating standing up. Deep, slow breaths. Calm expression. He keeps his hands lowered, like he’d used them to direct his breaths and then left them down on the exhale. Greez has seen Cal and Cere on early mornings, moving in sync with each other as they go through a fluid, tranquil set of movements without their lightsabers. It always started and ended with them directing their breaths like that.

Greez moves next to Cere, feeling like an intruder, but unable to stop watching.

The atmosphere is calm. Poised.

Then Cere says, “Go.”

Merrin is fast. She kicks her staff up and swings fiercely, devastating even without her magicks. She’s aiming straight for Cal’s head –

 – who doesn’t karkin’ move. Greez lurches, a shout on his lips, but Cere puts out a hand to stop him. Wait and see, she doesn’t say, but Greez knows that look.

Cal dodges without opening his eyes. Minimal movement, languid in a way Greez’s never seen before. Merrin’s eyes flash in determination and she’s quick to go in for another strike. He dodges again, body twisting, never taking more than a couple centimeters more than he needs to avoid her staff. Greez’s heart eventually calms as the two of them move in tandem. Like a dance. An elegant and mesmerizing back and forth.

It could almost be a performance. Something specially created for a dramatic stage.

Eventually, though, Cal’s calm expression starts to pinch. Mouth twisted into a grimace, sweat beads up on his forehead and darkens his training top. He falters. Dodges a second slower. Moves a little further out of the way than he was before.

Merrin swings her staff just has hard, just as fast as she has been, but Cal doesn’t dodge in time. He flinches and stumbles – and Merrin’s not stopping.

That determination slides into panic, Merrin’s eyes widening, but the momentum is too quick even for her. She tries to change the target from Cal’s head to somewhere safer, like his arm, because a broken arm is better than a broken skull, but she’s too fast and he’s fumbling and –

Just before the staff connects – it wasn’t going to make it to his arm, Greez realized with a sick horror – it flies out of Merrin’s grip into Cere’s hand. Holopad and drink forgotten, Cere twirls the staff in one hand before she plants the edge into the dirt. Greez hadn’t even seen her move. Hells.

Cal drops to the ground, heaving for breath. He groans out a heartfelt swear in some language Greez doesn’t recognize – Greez discovered early in their mission for the holocron that the kid knew way too many languages. Seriously, a kid that young, five years on a backwater planet like Bracca or not, shouldn’t know so many languages! Let alone all those karkin’ swears.

“Language,” Cere scolds mildly. Cal just groans again. “What happened?”

He props himself up on his elbows, hair in disarray and the side of his face speckled with dark soil. Merrin carefully pats the soil off the back of his head, her movements stiff. “It started to feel too easy, and I panicked,” he admits. “I started overthinking.”

“How do we fix it?”

“…Don’t do that?” Cal offers, grinning. Cere raises an eyebrow. He takes Merrin’s hand and allows her to heave him up. Greez doesn’t miss the way he subtly squeezes her hand in reassurance before he lets go. “I got complacent. If there was another opponent, I would’ve been taken out a lot sooner. It was only the Force and Merrin, and I freaked when I realized I didn’t know anything else.”

Cere nods. “In other words, you sank too deep. That’ll only be fixed with more practice. You can’t do that in the middle of real combat.”

Cal sighs gustily. “More practice,” he agrees as he holds out a hand and Merrin’s staff comes flying to smack into it. He twirls it with a flourish before presenting it in a low and dramatic bow to an amused Merrin just to make her smile. She does, helplessly charmed, before she quickly twists it into a smirk as she takes it back, a faint blush on her cheeks. Cere hides her own smile behind her hand.

“Next time, maybe don’t aim for his head?” Greez suggests.

Merrin looks disgusted by the very idea. “Then how will he learn? Training must prepare you for battle. If you do not fear for your life in training, then you will not fear for your life in true war. You will die.”

Cal laughs loudly over Greez’s sputtering. “Yeah, Greez, how will I learn? Merrin, aim for the head any time.”

“With pleasure. Someone must knock sense into you.”

Greez drags a hand down his face in despair. What did he get himself into?

[defiledtomb]

Looks like I'm gonna be able to get a PC here by the end of the month/mid november if everything goes to plan = I will be able to finish ouro (at least the new demo, at first)

BLESS.

[todayisafridaynight]

[googleeyes]

I would have been soo invested in Ezri and Julian's relationship if Ezri just liked him and they didn't try to convince us it was Jadzia all along. Dax joins Ezri and is so excited to see their good friend Julian again and Oh God No he's Hot

[incandescent-creativity]

I haven’t done a @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt in a while, but I’ve been neck deep in SOLE work trying to finish a draft by September and

I saw this and thought “You know, I’ve never written out how Agau told Beth about her powers…”

So that’s what I did! It barely squeaks under 1,000 words at 940 but hey—that counts.

The knock on the door startles her, but she doesn’t fall off the bed, so Beth keeps sticking glow-in-the-dark stars to her ceiling.

“Come in!”

She doesn’t have to ask or look to know who it is. The scientists never knock, so it will be Connor here to accompany her to breakfast. They didn’t eat together yesterday, but yesterday was her birthday. That means she got to make her own schedule, and she never sets a start time for her birthday schedules. It’s better to wake up without an alarm, even if she never wakes up more than an hour past the usual start time anyway.

As the door opens, she sticks the final star into place and admires her work. She had thought long and hard about what she wanted her present to be this year, and the sticky stars had won out. Fifteen is a satisfying number, and she wanted to celebrate with something just as beautiful.

So she had spent hours yesterday examining every star, organizing them by size, and running through iterations of display to decide which one she wanted to put up. The last thing before going to bed last night had been to line them up in order of placement and keep her lamp on all night to charge them. She hadn’t slept well, but it’s the first day back to her studies after her birthday. There shouldn’t be anything too intense today.

“Very thorough,” a feminine voice compliments.

That isn’t Connor Millard. Beth turns to see a figure that she associates with pictures and screen displays standing in her room: Dr. Barbara Agau.

Scrambling off the bed, Beth fixes her hair and hastens to meet her. She can’t help but be conscious of her appearance in comparison to Dr. Agau, who looks even more perfect in person than she does in her photos. Her hair is slicked back and captured in a bun, her clothes are pressed and clean, and her makeup is subtle but perfect. Beth, on the other hand, abounds in tangles and wrinkles.

“I—thank you,” she says, looking up at Dr. Agau.

“I trust you are hungry enough for breakfast?”

Dr. Agau turns without waiting for her answer, and begins to leave. Beth hurries to catch up, taking the wordless walk to review the lessons she has been taught on how to engage with her superiors. They should be easy: she has practiced silence and timing and general manners on every scientist who engages with her. But she’s never had to engage with the head of Agau Laboratories. The sudden change makes her heart twist in her chest.

Familiar anxiety creeps its way through her entire body. She barely tastes her food. Dr. Agau doesn’t select anything for herself, but seems to know exactly what Beth is prescribed to eat on all non-birthday mornings, and arranges it herself. She does fill two cups of water, though, and hands them to Beth to carry to their table.

“I understand it was your birthday yesterday,” she says as they sit.

“Yeah!” Beth says with a smile.

“Yes,” Dr. Agau agrees, a random note of reproach in her voice. As Beth is trying to figure out where she went wrong, she continues, “I had hoped to discuss things with you then, but my flight was delayed.”

Beth only partially understands this explanation. She knows what a plane is, of course, but she didn’t know Dr. Agau had been riding one. Beth had thought she would be where she always assumes the doctor is: overseeing her SOLE Project from her office, one of the currently restricted areas.

“Regardless, I am back now, and eager to bring you up to date on your role in the Project.”

Beth abandons her spoon and sits up a little straighter. She knows that Dr. agau is working on saving the world, but she never knew she would have a role in it. She simply understood herself to be here, at home, while Dr. Agau worked. There was promise of understanding when she was older, but Beth never expected it to happen the day after she got older.

Dr. Agau has paused long enough that Beth decides this is one of those predetermined places for her to respond.

“What do you need me to do?”

This is the correct response, as evidenced by the way Dr. Agau smiles at her.

“Now that my work preparing the world for your arrival is sufficiently in place, I have returned here to personally oversee your work strengthening your hydrokinetic abilities.”

Beth hardly got a word of that, and it must show on her face, because Dr. Agau sets her cup down and tries again.

“You spend hours in this facility’s recreational pools. You require strict time limits on your morning showers so that you do not fall behind in your studies. You frequently use the water coolers installed in every room, the ones we had to teach you to use from a young age to preclude your constant requests for water.”

Dr. Agau doesn’t recite Beth’s behavior with judgment or shame, but neither does she sound proud. She simply lists facts, none of which Beth can deny.

“You are intrinsically linked to the water, Beth. I designed you this way, so that you would use your abilities to help me and my Project.”

Beth hears the truth behind the doctor’s words: So that you help me save the world. She still doesn’t understand how, but the idea is so exciting that she couldn’t reject the doctor’s high expectations even if she wanted to.

“How do we start?”

[supersoftly]

I feel somewhat bad about Arcane being disappointing, but Riot fumbling godtier storytelling/worldbuilding is on par for the course of their decade long relationship of retconning foundational aspects of their characters and plot that just "didn't work out". Sorry you all had to find out this way.

[beevean]

“We were both marked by my Lord, a privilege no one else can boast, not even precious Hector. Don’t you think that it’s an honor?” After Dracula’s victory, Isaac learns that he has more in common with his consolation prize than he thought, and Trevor gains the smallest amount of respect for Dracula’s puppet.

After more than two years, I finally finished a project I wanted to complete for so long! Give it up for the three Isaavor shippers in the fandom 💖