#also sorry to people reading my handwriting

[darlie-charlie]

Extra

I made a little comic about clover being happy cause the bean deserves it! In not proficient in comics, so im sorry if anything is hard to understand!

(the order of pannels is top left, top right, bottom left, bottom right lol)

Also, even if theyre living with martlet in this, starlo and ceroba definitely have shared custody

The idea was based on the thought that clover coming from a not-so-good envoirment gets really exited at the smalles things, while martlet is overly worried about making it nice for them :)

Enjoy!

[angrybatart]

Not what he had in mind.

Close-ups under the cut! (With some captions because my handwriting is atrocious.)

"You're right! This really is delightful!"

"No, thanks! I'm good! Kinda crowded under there."

(For context, he's using his cape/scarf as shelter from the rain.)

[angstandhappiness]

LMAO POINTY EARS, BABS Bruce is a very solid base.

other batfam (nifty portmanteau!) doodles i’ve made lately. mostly based on the animated series except the last one, which i couldn’t resist adding. i’ve barely met damian but for some reason his dynamic with dick gives me a lot of…..chris fleming fearfully trying to rescue a potato bug with a blade of grass? for some reason?

[sakuravalenp]

Phantom letters - DPXDC PROMPT

The bats wake up one day to the internet going crazy; people around the world were getting letters from they're diseased loved ones. The reactions are mixed, from people being outraged for the "prank" to people crying in melancholy at getting closure.

All the letters have something in common: They're closed with a green sealing wax that had an stylize DP and the name Phantom beneath it. Posts about the cards were using the # Phantom Letters.

The bats are discussing the viral posts in the cave when Alfred comes holding a basket filled with letters, announcing they were left at the doors. The letters had the sealing wax that they recognize from the posts. Checking the cameras they can see how they glitch before the basket appears.

Alfred starts to distribute the letters that had only one destinatary. Letters from each Thomas and Martha to both Bruce and Alfred. Letters from each John and Mary to Dick. A letter from Catherine to Jason. A letter from the Drake's to Tim, and another one to Bruce.

Once they had calmed down enough from the shock, Alfred proceeded to read the shared recipients. From Thomas and Martha to "The grandchildren we never got to meet." From John and Mary to "the family that took our little Robin in." Letters from Catherine to "My little boys family." The letters were directed to people the deceased didn't get to meet.

As much as the mere existence of the letters tugged at their hearts, they decided to not read them until they verified that the handwriting actually belong to the ones it claimed. They checked each letter, and in the end confirmed the letters were in fact from they're lost love ones.

After much discussion, each person makes the decision to read they're own letters later in private, and they proceed to read the ones that shared recipients out loud. The letter mentioned specifics like names and events that the deceased shouldn't have been able to know, including they're vigilante abilities, which had them pause each time to panic a bit. But what was more interested were certain pieces of the letters that mentioned a Prince Phantom.

"Prince Phantom said to don't mention things past our death, but it wasn't a command, so we're hoping this won't be much of a problem." - John and Mary

"I still can't believe Prince Phantom is letting us do this, but I'm so glad." - Catherine

It finally paints the mystery in a more concerning light when at the end of Thomas and Martha's letter there is a call for help.

"We're sorry for ending the letter on a serious tone, but seeing the kind of job you all get involved in, we wanted to ask: Could you please help Prince Phantom? Phantom had asked us to not give information about this, but he's so young, and has already been hurt so much. Please, check on Amity Park, Illinois."

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Meanwhile, team Phantom has decided that they needed to get the news about the GIW out of Amity and ask for help. Two problems:

the GIW blocks any technological attempt made.

People might be afraid to learn that ghosts exist and side with the GIW.

As a way to deal with the public image, Phantom opens a possibility that the death have never had:

"All afterlives are open to write letters to their love ones that are still alive today. Nothing that includes threats, and don't go talking about the anti-ecto acts or Amity Park yet, we're trying to ease people into our existence first. Also, I know you all check on your love ones when the veil is thin, but please keep the things you shouldn't know out of the letters if possible. If you want your letter to be sent in the first batch, make sure to deliver your letter before the week ends."

Letters are a good way to reconnect people with the death, they aren't digital, and the GIW won't be able to intercept letters if they're send through inter-dimensional portals. Two birds in one shot.

[monochromed-elf]

Random astro notes 1

╔═══════°∴,*⋅✲══〖✰〗══✲⋅*,∴°═══════╗

Take what resonates! I'm no professional astrologer.

These observations are made from my experiences.

╚═══════°∴,*⋅✲══〖✰〗══✲⋅*,∴°═══════╝

✮⋆｡ 6h Jupiter and easily gaining weight. especially if you're also Jupitarian.

✮⋆｡ 6h Jupiter also makes you suck at managing your time and tasks (Overly optimistic about it).

✮⋆｡ Again, my experience with 6h Jupiter and being called big animals.

✮⋆｡ Cancer Mercury and what is that handwriting of yours omg I'm sorry you're getting complaints about it😭 I can understand a doctor's paracetamol but not your hello.

✮⋆｡ Cancer/4h Lilith, your mother is most likely to hate on your friend with a Cancer stellium/prominent Cancer placements for no reason whatsoever. Especially if the friend is healing your mommy issues. Your mother will automatically think they're brainwashing you.

✮⋆｡ 4h Lilith also means you always try to save your mother. Don't do it. Stop that. Because she won't appreciate your attempts and will side with what hurts her! Learn that she's not your responsibility.

✮⋆｡ I feel like Gemini Mars will certainly space out during anything sexual, literally getting railed while thinking of taxes or whatever is going on. It's definitely the ADHD lol.

✮⋆｡ Gemini Venus please stop accidentally flirting with us, oh and the mixed signals.

✮⋆｡ Heavy water placements but with an Aries Moon can give off the vibes of the therapist friend with heavy random outbursts when they're tired of therapitizing everyone. Especially if Moon conjuncts Uranus.

✮⋆｡ All of the Capricorn Moons I know have heavy sociopathic traits.

✮⋆｡ Meanwhile Aquarius Moons can't stop blaming body chemicals for their emotions (dopamine and all of that).

✮⋆｡ "Choose the person who has your Moon sign as their Venus sign" is actually true. But it won't last long (maximum 2 years) and you both will become strangers. (unless you both meet daily or live together).

✮⋆｡ Mars conjunct Saturn will make you like BDSM a lot.

✮⋆｡ 4h Chiron, please do not create a family UNLESS you are healed. You'll traumatize all of your kids but fucking be an angel parent to other families. Similar with 5h Chiron but it's mostly with kids.

✮⋆｡ 4h/5h Chiron could be an indicator of being a narcissistic parent too. I'm indeed traumatized.

✮⋆｡ Always remember that Neptune=Delulu. Be careful where it is, it's both a blessing and a curse.

✮⋆｡ A close person's Venus in your 12h and omg they fucking appear in your dreams.

✮⋆｡ 9h Saturn are one of the most closed minded people I've ever met. They are seriously unable to see other perspectives.

✮⋆｡ The Sun House shows you how you treat your own dad. 11h sun: your friend, 10h: your boss, 4h: an actual parent Imao. It also can show why your dad loves or hates you because of such status: "I'm your dad stop treating me like a: (11h) friend/(3h) older brother/(5h) kid".

✮⋆｡ Fire IC/4h ruled by a fire sign is really a strong indicator of a bad family.

✮⋆｡ 3h Saturn natives bond by talking shit about their siblings.

✮⋆｡ 3h Saturn also might indicate having a loud voice (especially with prominent air signs placements).

✮⋆｡ 3h Uranus and yes 90% chance your siblings were unexpected, or you may have an unexpected story of a sibling (like you had a sibling that died before you or smth wild).

✮⋆｡ I find that Lilith/Chiron placements are so...damn, similar. Except that Lilith is horny and Chiron is actually serious about the problem lol. An example: 9h Lilith might fetishize their religious trauma/an experience with a foreigner. While 9h Chiron will be disgusted and crying and trying to fix fix fix. Lilith needs to be embraced as it is, Chiron actually needs the fucking healing instead.

✮⋆｡ One vs one opposite Nodes will either fix or ruin your life. For example you're an Aries North Node. A Libra North Node will be quite the teacher for you.

✮⋆｡ 5h/7h stelliums have the juiciest stories about their love life. But 7h is more likely to give you great advice about love lol.

✮⋆｡ Pluto conjunct Ascendant is very likely to look young compared to their age (my bestie being called a high schooler while she's in college damn).

✮⋆｡ Give a 3h Neptune alcohol and watch them become a professional poet and creatively high (Like those old Chinese/Arabic/Persian poets lol).

✮⋆｡ Neptune conjunct Ascendant, always seen as lazy and sleeps a lot.

✮⋆｡ Cancer/Pisces Mars can be actually super violent and not the usual passive aggressive shit. Especially in men.

✮⋆｡ (Vedic!) We always hate the type of men/women with our DK planet energy somehow (But we end up being really good with them). Mercury DK hates young and childlike people. Venus DK hating overly romantic and artistic people. It's life's way of saying SIKE—

✮⋆｡ Having the South Node in a sign and someone having a stellium/prominent placements of such sign (like, you being Leo South Node and you meet someone with Leo Stellium). Please run away from them. Early meetings and encounters with them feel like heaven but will slowly ruin you.

✮⋆｡ The same goes with your Rising Sign. If someone's stellium/prominent placements is in the same sign as your rising. The stellium person will be better than you at the things the sign values and your rising will become bitter. It'll be ugly. Go for people with your descendant's energy.

Thank you for reading💜

@monochromed-elf

[kiwriteswords]

Florally Inappropriate [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 1.3k|| AN: Florist!Reader is making me miss my days as a florist! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, established relationship, secret relationship, flirty!reader, bold!reader, sassy!reader, reader kinda has acts of service/gift-giving love language, sexual theme (if you squint), teasing BAU members, The BAU giving Hotch SHIT. Summary: Aaron Hotchner is not a man who treats himself, but when he begins dating a florist, you make sure he knows what it's like to be doted on...and the team slowly catches on.

Dating Aaron Hotchner had always been quiet by necessity.

Subtle glances. Brushed fingertips. A softness only shared in private.

He didn’t like attention. Didn’t like being fussed over.

But you liked taking care of people. 

And he’d accidentally made the mistake of falling for someone who loved to dote.

So, naturally, you made it your mission to turn him into something he never asked to be:

A flower guy.

Not for others—

He’d already mastered that.

You’d heard all the stories by now: the bouquet traditions with Haley, the subtle elegance he insisted on for gifts, the ways he used flowers like quiet punctuation in the lives of the people he cared about.

But when it came to himself? His own space? His own peace?

Not once.

“A vase of fresh flowers,” you’d said once, teasing him as he stirred sugar into your coffee at your shop. “Just for you. No occasion. No apology. Nothing to prove. Imagine that.”

He had rolled his eyes, but not unkindly.

“Not really my thing.”

You smiled. “That’s what you think.”

So you took it as a challenge.

It started the first time he called you late one night from the tarmac, exhaustion in his voice and a subtle softness you now recognized as I miss you.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said, voice low over the hum of the jet engines. “Can’t wait to see you.”

You hummed a quiet, “I can’t wait to see you too,” already flipping open your planner to jot down the return date.

And then the next morning, with a smirk and a plan, you pulled one of your smaller house arrangements—crisp white anemones, soft lavender sprigs, dusty miller—and walked it over to Quantico. You didn’t even try to get upstairs. You already knew the drill.

Security didn’t question you. 

You were the flower shop girl with the kind eyes and security clearance just shy of trustworthy. They took the vase from you, promised it would be placed on his desk.

The next time, it was something different. Warmer. Whimsical. Ranunculus and chamomile. You tucked in a note that said:  

“Fresh blooms for your fresh start (aka post-case paperwork hell). You’ve got this, Mister Tall-Dark-and-Tired.”

Just your handwriting, which he’d definitely memorized by now.

And it became a ritual.

Every time he let you know he was coming home, you delivered a new arrangement to his office. Always tasteful, always different. Sometimes elegant—simple roses and clean lines. 

Sometimes soft and romantic—pale blush peonies, trailing jasmine, a note that read: 

“For when you miss holding me in your arms. These won’t talk back, but they also don’t smell as good as I do.”

And sometimes just… you.

“Here’s something cheerful in case the world is being insufferable again.”

He’d show up at your door later, late and exhausted, but with that rare smile—

That real one. The one that crackedthrough his armor and made you feel like something inside him had bloomed just for you.

He’d step inside, slide his arms around you, press his mouth to your neck, and murmur, “You really don’t have to keep doing that.”

And you’d say, every time, “I know.”

And then do it again anyway.

Because if anyone deserved a small piece of peace—of beauty—it was Aaron Hotchner.

Even if he’d never pick flowers for himself.

And it started innocently enough.

A vase of flowers on Hotch’s desk wasn’t exactly out of place. He was a thoughtful guy. The team had seen him organize flower deliveries for others before—

Memorials, birthdays, even that one time when Penelope had a “bad vibe” week and he sent her peonies from Gideon.

So when they first noticed a small vase on his desk—a clean arrangement of white tulips and baby’s breath—no one thought much of it.

Until it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Always different flowers. Always perfectly arranged. Always with a small card tucked into the side.

The first time, Emily made a passing comment while grabbing a file. “Nice centerpiece, Hotch. Didn’t peg you for a soft bloom guy.”

He didn’t even look up. “Gift.”

From who? she wanted to ask. But he was already mid-profile, and she figured maybe Jack’s teacher or Jess sent something. Whatever.

But by week four, when another bouquet—this time sunflowers and eucalyptus—appeared in his office with a small envelope and zero explanation, the curiosity officially became a thing.

Morgan was the first one bold enough to poke the bear.

He leaned in Hotch’s doorway, arms crossed. “You, uh…got a secret admirer, or is this part of your new mindfulness routine?”

Hotch didn’t even flinch. “Flowers improve workplace morale.”

Reid, walking past, chimed in without looking up from his tablet: “That’s actually true. Studies show that the presence of plants and flowers can reduce stress and increase productivity in office environments.”

Morgan raised a brow. “So you’re saying Hotch here is just…a flower guy now?”

Hotch flipped a page in his report. “Apparently.”

But it was Penelope who finally cracked the code.

Or, at least, peeked into the vault.

She was walking past his office on her way to the breakroom when the newest delivery caught her eye—

Velvety purple calla lilies and dark greenery. 

Very moody romance vibes. 

She stopped, admired it, and then saw the card tucked in.

And, of course, she read it.

She gasped so dramatically, it startled Reid halfway out of his chair.

“Oh. My. God.”

Morgan leaned over the back of JJ’s desk. “What?”

“Hotch has a lover. A secret lover. A saucy secret lover.”

Reid blinked. “How do you know it’s…saucy?”

Penelope held up the small card like it was evidence in court. “‘If you’re reading this before taking your tie off, just know I’m already thinking about undoing it with my teeth.’”

JJ choked on her coffee.

Morgan barked out a laugh so loud, Hotch’s office door creaked open.

He stepped out, perfectly stoic. “Something wrong?”

Penelope froze, the card still dangling from her fingers like a loaded weapon.

“Nothing!” she squeaked. “Just… admiring your very professional workplace foliage.”

Hotch walked calmly to her, plucked the note from her hands with two fingers, and returned to his office without a word.

Door shut.

Silence.

Then:

“Oh my god,” JJ whispered. “Who is she?”

“She’s bold, that’s for sure,” Emily said, now seated at her desk, clearly invested. “I like her.”

Reid blinked. “He has a…romantic partner?”

“Clearly,” Penelope said, fanning herself. “And clearly, she knows what she’s doing.”

“I bet it’s the cute florist,” Morgan said suddenly. “That case I stayed back for, I saw her delivering something at the receptionist downstairs.”

Everyone turned.

JJ narrowed her eyes. “What florist?” The gears began turning in her head. She’d almost forgotten. 

He shrugged. “You remember a few months ago? You said you set Hotch up with someone to help with a flower arrangement?”

JJ paused. Blinked. “No way.”

Emily’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, JJ. Did you set him up with a flower shop femme fatale?”

Penelope nodded slowly. “Makes sense. She’s got the access, the handwriting, the aesthetic.”

Reid, slightly concerned: “Should we be… teasing him about this?”

JJ smiled, sipping her coffee. “Only if you want to die.”

Morgan laughed. “You’re just mad you didn’t call it.”

Emily leaned back in her chair. “I’m not saying we stake out the next flower delivery. But I am saying if she starts sending him candles, I need to meet this woman.”

“I knew she’d be good for him,” JJ said with a sigh, wishing she pushed the two of you together sooner. 

Meanwhile, inside his office, Hotch sat at his desk, reading the note again.

His lips twitched just slightly at the corner.

 He didn’t even care they’d seen it.

Because later, when he got home, you would pretend not to know what they were talking about, wrap your arms around him, and ask, “Did my flowers brighten up your scary little office today?”

And he’d murmur against your skin, “They did. But I think your note is what caused the real chaos.”

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy

[creativesplat]

for @dimilethgarden, a silly doodle!

Transcript for people who can't read my handwriting:

Dimitri: I thought you might like these...

Byleth [thinking]: Flowers that bloom at night? probably because I glow... so cute! Don't those ones mean 'beauty emerging from darkness'? that is exceptionally sweet. WAIT Valerian flowers? My favourites! I love him. What do I say? 'Thanks' kind of lame 'marry me' too strong 'I love you' too intense. Urgh I don't know. What am I supposed to say? Jeralt why didn't you tell me more about romance. My heart is feeling funny. Am I going to die? why is he looking stressed? on no I'm taking too long to reply. Is he going to be upset. why am I such a failure at love and other emotional things. I love him.

Dimitri: I'm sorry, this was too forward.

Byleth: Marry me

Flower meanings:

Valerian flower (Byleth (3hopes) and Sitri's (3houses) favourite flowers): Strength, love, protection

Night Blooming Jasmin: Mysterious and enchanting, 

Evening Primrose: new beginnings and renewal 

Moon Flower: romance, beauty emerging from darkness, life's cycle

I figured Dimitri would pick ones that bloom at night because Byleth glows at night, and he thinks that's very cute. Also valerians because she likes them.

[bountycancelled]

(un)secret admirer

luke castellan x child of aphrodite!reader

tip me on kofi, if you feel so inclined

requested: nope, I'm just currently obsessing over pjo (aren't we all?) and Charlie bushnell is my pookie so luke is also my pookie (what about all the people he murdered– what murdaaaa?!)

warnings: none I believe!

content: probably ooc luke becusse I haven't read the books, I don't know if demigods even nap, I don't remember the movies and he's barely in the show lol, some cuddling, lowercase intended because fuck grammar, also I know demi gods are dyslexic i just dont gaf because i thought this concept was cute, that's all!

a/n: SEND ME PJO REQS! please. also this is short and I'm sorry, I've been having horrid writers block.

"I don't get what the big deal is." Lukes voice could be heard from where he sat on your bed, as you gazed at the piece of paper in your hand, pacing back and forth in your room as you analysed its every minute detail to the best of your abilities. "you get letters from the other campers all the time."

"I already told you Luke. this handwriting isn't the same as any other letter I've gotten, so that means it's from someone who's never sent me a note before, and I need to know who it is."

you had recieved a myriad of letters ranging from 'I think you're pretty' to 'I would sacrifice my right arm just to get a hug from you' during your time here at camp. beyond being drop dead gorgeous, you were kind, always wearing a charming smile on your face, and having the ability to comfort people with your presence alone.

that (coupled with the facts that most kids here had some kind of parental baggage and your kindness definitely filled some kind of void) meant that you recieved many a words from not so secret admirers. you were sure that you knew the identities of the people who had given you sealed envelopes and tightly folded papers, but you were currently stumped.

you were startled out of your staring contest with the scribbled ink by the feeling of Lukes arms around your shoulders as he spoke. "I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually, now can you please come back to bed? you know that I can't nap if you're not with me."

you sighed, letting him lead you back to your bed so that he could rest before you two inevitable of the two of you needing to help around the camp occured. you stared up at the ceiling as he slowly started to dose off beside you, before you gasped and shot up, effectively spooking him out of a peaceful moment.

"it's Percy!" you shushed Luke before he had the chance to complain about your sudden exclamation or the fact that you weren't letting him get a wink of midday sleep. "I mean, he's just met me, and one of my friends probably told him some stuff about me–"

"it's not Percy." Luke deadpanned, pushing you down by the shoulder from the upright postpone you were sat in to make you lay back down, and wrapping his arm around your waist. you were shocked into silence, because although Luke was an affectionate friend, he had never cuddled you while he was still awake. he would always wake up and discovering that he had wrapped around you in his sleeping state, apologising sheepishly while retracting his limbs.

after a few moments of stunned silence, you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion at his statement. "and how do you know it's not him, huh?" he simply blew air from his nose, tightening his grip around your waist.

"because it was me, sweetheart."

now that shut you up fairly quickly, as you bit your lip to try to hinder the giddy smile that wanted to form on your features. you opened your mouth to speak again, only to be interrupted by Luke placing a small kiss on the back of your neck.

"we'll talk when we wake up, alright?" but you weren't having any of that. "okay... but, before you go to bed. how long have you liked me? is this actually the first letter you've sent? why wouldn't you just tell me, you idiot. obviously I like you too. I know you said some stuff that you like about me in the letter, but I want you to tell me about everything you like about me, like every feature, every trait-"

Luke chuckled, sporting a big grin as you spoke. he would tell you all of that and more, he would do anything you asked of him, just as long as he got to hold you in his arms just like this.

[bleulikedaylight]

Ms. Delinquent, Natasha

pairing: delinquent basketball captain! natasha romanoff x student council president! reader

synopsis: Y/N L/N, perfect student council president, gets paired with the school’s worst nightmare—rebel basketball captain natasha romanoff—for a major project. she’s late, annoying, and impossible to work with. but one unexpected moment makes Y/N wonder… is there more to natasha than the chaos she brings?

warnings: mild cursing + tell me if i missed anything !! | wc: 3.8k | genre: wlw (as always <3), romance, fluff, high school au !! ;p

note: hii !! thank you so much for reading my work. just a quick heads-up—english isn’t my first language, so i’m really sorry in advance for any grammatical errors !! T^T

also, feel free to send messages, asks, requests, or literally whatever—i love hearing from people, and i swear i don’t bite (unless you want me to? jk, i'm so cringe 😔☝️)

anyway, i just noticed i accidentally made a second blog instead of a whole new account… so if you follow me and an account with the username @definitelynotbleu followed you—that's me. that’s my main blog, because apparently, tumblr said “you can’t follow people using your side blog.” like okay. thanks, i guess? ☹️💔💔

i’m lowkey considering just making a whole new account and moving all my fics there because this setup is slowly driving me insane. BUT I’M ALSO KINDA LAZY SO. WE’LL SEE. also i haven’t even made a masterlist yet. i’m cooked. actually beyond cooked. overcooked. burnt. ashes. 🥀🥀🥀

(ALSO I’M SO SORRY FOR VERY LONG AUTHOR NOTES I’M JUST A YAPPER OKAY T^T)

part one ♡‧₊˚ part two ‎♡‧₊˚

The next day, you show up to school with a venti coffee, three hours of sleep, and a list of tasks color-coded in pastel highlighters. You’re not thinking about her. You’re not. You have work to do. You have plans. You are a woman of discipline. You are the student council president.

And then she walks into the classroom like she didn’t just emotionally destabilize you twelve hours ago.

She’s in her varsity jacket, gym bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in. One of them falls out as she moves, and you catch the faint sound of Arctic Monkeys. Of course she listens to Arctic Monkeys. You hate that it suits her.

She sees you. She nods. Calm. Collected. Like last night’s heart-attack-inducing flirtation didn’t happen.

You scowl.

She smirks.

Wanda leans over to whisper, “You’re glaring like she stole your planner.”

“She might as well have,” you mutter.

—

You meet after school again, this time in the student council office. She shows up ten minutes early and eats all the jelly beans in your organizer tray. You tell her off. She just shrugs and asks for more.

Somehow, it becomes a thing.

Every day for a week, Natasha Romanoff shows up. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with new bruises. Once, with a notebook full of genuinely helpful project notes, written in messy, slanted handwriting. She has surprisingly good insights, you have to admit.

But it’s not just the work. It’s the way she listens. The way she leans back in the chair, arms crossed, watching you with something between curiosity and amusement, like you’re a puzzle she’s enjoying solving.

It’s unsettling.

It’s distracting.

It’s maddening.

Especially when she starts casually touching you. Nothing scandalous—just light taps on the shoulder when you make a joke, her knee brushing yours under the table, taking the pen out of your hand when you’re overthinking the sentence structure.

"Relax, President. You’re not writing the Constitution."

You swat her hand. “I am setting a standard.”

She grins. “Yeah. A very adorable, very high-strung one.”

You want to scream.

And then—she starts drawing on your notes.

Like, full-on doodling hearts on the margins when you’re focused on your laptop.

“You’re vandalizing school property,” you say, eyeing the tiny cartoon of a girl with your hairstyle next to one with her haircut.

“Correction,” she replies without looking up. “I’m customizing history.”

You blink. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Depends. Are you flattered?”

You throw a highlighter at her face. She catches it with one hand. You hate how cool that was.

—

It gets worse when she starts appearing outside of project hours. One morning, she joins you in line at the school caf. Orders black coffee and a muffin. Pays for your iced coffee without asking. When you try to protest, she tilts her head.

“What, you don’t like muffins?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

You don’t answer.

Next time you go to your locker, there’s a sticky note on the inside door.

You stare at it for an absurd amount of time.

Wanda finds you still holding it twenty minutes later.

—

And then there’s the basketball practice.

You don’t normally attend. But your vice president is managing the halftime event and drags you into helping.

So you’re there, clipboard in hand, head spinning with logistics—until the buzzer sounds and Natasha Romanoff is suddenly there, sweat-soaked, breathing hard, hair in a messy ponytail, grinning like she just won the world.

She finds you in the crowd. She winks.

You look away so fast you almost pull a muscle.

Wanda catches the whole thing. “Do not make me be the one to say it.”

“Say what?”

“You’re falling for her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“I can’t stand her.”

“You stood outside for three hours watching her throw a ball into a net.”

“It was for the halftime event.”

“You made the flyer.”

You have no comeback.

—

Then comes Friday.

Project submission day.

You meet in the library to print the final version. Natasha shows up with two drinks—your usual order and something new for you to try. You hate how thoughtful it is.

“So, we’re done,” you say, double-checking the pages.

“We are.”

“No more late-night messages.”

“No more weekly meetings.”

“No more walks home.”

She says nothing.

You look up. Her face is unreadable.

“We’ll go back to being classmates,” you offer, almost as a question.

She nods slowly. “Right. Classmates.”

Why does that feel like a loss?

Before you can say anything else, someone calls her name.

A girl you vaguely recognize—varsity, volleyball, always surrounded by people. She walks over, all smiles and confidence, and hands Natasha a note.

“From me,” she says, touching her arm.

You freeze.

Natasha takes it, unreadable again. “Thanks.”

The girl walks away, not even sparing you a glance.

You stare at the paper. Then at her. You’re not sure what expression you’re making, but Natasha blinks.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Jealous?”

“What?! No!”

She leans in, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Relax, president. It’s just a love letter. Happens all the time.”

You bite your tongue. You’re not jealous. You’re not.

But you go home annoyed.

And when she doesn’t text you that night, you keep checking your phone anyway.

—

—

The next week is chaos.

Event week. Schedules, permissions, venue requests. You bury yourself in work. You avoid the gym wing. You skip the caf. You go out of your way to not see her.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because Natasha doesn’t chase you. She doesn’t text. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

You don’t want her to. Except you do.

You hate her.

Except you don’t.

And then it’s Thursday.

You’re reviewing final logistics with your committee when the door opens.

Natasha walks in.

Everyone freezes.

You blink. “Can I help you?”

She walks up and hands you a folded paper.

“Coach needed this signed.”

You take it. “Okay.”

She doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just wanted to see you.”

You almost drop the pen.

Wanda chokes on her drink.

Natasha leaves before you can reply.

—

Later, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Because maybe you miss working with her too.

Maybe you were wrong about her. Maybe she’s not a complete walking red flag. Maybe she’s just... complicated. Rough around the edges. Mysterious in a way that makes you want to keep learning more.

Maybe you’re in trouble.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

—

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

Just a message. Just a moment. Just Natasha being… Natasha.

And yet, three days later, you're still re-reading that "i miss working with you" text like it’s a published poem.

It’s embarrassing.

Wanda calls you out during lunch. “You’re staring at your phone like it owes you tuition money.”

“It’s none of your business,” you reply, stabbing your salad with unnecessary force.

Yelena snorts. “She still hasn’t asked you out, huh?”

“I am not waiting for her to ask me out.”

Kate raises an eyebrow. “Would you say yes?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe you would.

—

The rain starts mid-afternoon.

Hard. Fast. The kind that floods the quad and knocks down your color-coded event posters. Not metaphorical, poetic rain. Actual, annoying, soak-your-socks rain. You’re standing under the broken awning outside the school gym, binder clutched to your chest, watching your hard work dissolve into paper mush.

You’re in the school grounds, fuming, clipboard soaked, when she finds you.

“Event prep not going well?” she asks, casually offering her umbrella.

You don’t take it.

She holds it over both of you anyway.

“I worked so hard on those signs,” you mutter. “And now they’re dead. Murdered. By the sky.”

Natasha looks at the puddles like she can beat them up for you. “Wanna make new ones?”

You blink at her. “Why would you help me?”

She shrugs. “Because I like you.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You what?”

“I like helping you,” she clarifies, emphasis deliberate. “You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

You sputter. She smirks.

“Also, I brought snacks,” she adds, pulling a plastic bag out of her varsity jacket. “Thought you might forget lunch again.”

You hate how well she knows you. You hate how that makes your heart do a thing.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

She hands you a rice ball. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”

You look up at her. Rain falling, your shoes soaked, everything a mess—and suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Plan is… save the event. Rewrite everything. Get glitter glue. Hope for divine intervention.”

Natasha grins. “Finally. A mission worthy of my talents.”

—

That night, you work together again. Just like before.

But it’s not just like before.

Now there’s this thing between you. A current, a tension, an almost.

She sits closer. Laughs more easily. Steals your pen, your snacks, your attention.

You tell her to focus.

She tells you to loosen up.

And at one point—when your hand accidentally brushes hers and you both freeze for half a second too long—you think: this might actually be something.

—

By Friday, everyone notices.

Wanda keeps sending you suspicious side-eyes. Yelena openly teases Natasha in front of you. Even the teachers are acting weird, like they’re expecting a plot twist.

You try to ignore it.

But it’s hard when Natasha keeps finding excuses to be near you.

“Forgot my book. Oh look, we have the same one.”

“Need help carrying that? You clearly skipped arm day.”

“You busy later? I found this new café. They have your favorite coffee.”

It’s maddening. It’s sweet. It’s maddeningly sweet.

You are losing your mind.

—

Then comes the night before the event.

You’re in the auditorium, double-checking lights and stage cues. Natasha shows up, of course. She’s holding a flashlight in her mouth and balancing a roll of tape on her head.

“You’re not on the logistics team,” you tell her.

She drops the tape. “Nope. Just here for moral support. And also to see your cute boss voice again.”

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“You’re annoying,” you say.

“I know.”

A pause.

“You’re… kind of important to me,” you say suddenly. Quiet. Unexpected even to yourself.

Natasha looks up. Serious now. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Just… thought you should know.”

She crosses the stage, stops in front of you, eyes soft in the dim lighting.

“You’re important to me too,” she says. “And not just for school projects.”

Your heart flips. Or malfunctions. Or possibly explodes.

She leans in. You panic.

You shove a clipboard between you. “I-I still have to check the mic system!”

Natasha blinks. Then laughs. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Pres."

—

Later that night:

—

And then, the day of the event arrives.

Everything runs perfectly.

The crowd cheers. The booths look amazing. Your team is killing it.

And in the middle of it all—between speeches, music, and chaos—you feel her watching you.

She’s not trying to hide it.

You glance at her.

She grins.

You grin back.

—

The event ends with a bang. A literal bang.

Someone in the STEM booth miscalculates the chemical reaction for their demo volcano. You hear the fizz, you smell the vinegar, and then—

Boom.

Foam everywhere. It explodes so violently it hits half the hallway. Your shoes are soaked. Your socks are crying. Your bangs are sticking to your forehead. And right next to you, Natasha Romanoff looks like she just walked out of a shampoo commercial—except her face is covered in pink foam, and she’s wheezing.

“You’re laughing?! This is your fault—”

“How is it my fault that the Science Club can’t count?!”

“You egged them on!”

“I told them to go big or go home!” she says, wiping foam from her jaw. “They just… went nuclear.”

You glare. She grins. And then she reaches out—

Flick.

Right on the center of your forehead.

“Relax, Miss President. You look like a very angry bubble tea.”

“I swear, Romanoff—”

She brushes foam from your nose. “Still the cutest bubble tea on campus, though.”

You stare at her.

You forget how to speak.

You nearly combust on the spot.

—

Later that night, the chaos finally dies down. You’re still buzzing from the noise, the laughter, the adrenaline of pulling off an entire school event without anyone setting the curtains on fire (the foam doesn't count, okay). You sneak off behind the gym—because it’s quiet there, and because you know she’ll follow.

She does.

Varsity jacket slung over her shoulder. Tired eyes. Twisted smirk. That lazy, confident swagger like she didn’t just help you keep the student body from collapsing into absolute anarchy.

“Hey,” she says softly.

You look up from your clipboard. “You survived the foam-pocalypse.”

“Barely.”

She walks over, sees you shiver, and wordlessly drops her jacket onto your shoulders.

You go still.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She leans against the wall beside you. You're seated on the bench, curled under her jacket like a burrito. She watches you. Quiet. Soft.

“You did good today, Pres.”

You glance at her. “I had help.”

She shrugs. “I just followed orders.”

You roll your eyes. “You literally yelled at a sophomore to stop lighting incense indoors.”

“He was summoning good vibes.”

“He was summoning a fire hazard.”

She laughs. You bite your lip to hide your smile.

“…Can I tell you something?” she asks, voice suddenly quieter.

You nod slowly.

She shifts. Leans down slightly, just enough that you can see the way her eyes flicker nervously before she brushes your hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek.

“I like you,” she says. “Not just for school. Not just for events. I like you, Y/N. Like, like-like you.”

Your heart stops. Your entire body goes still.

You stare.

Then—“Took you long enough.”

Natasha blinks. “Wait—what?”

You laugh—light and breathless. “You think I didn’t notice the forehead flicks? The snacks? The weirdly specific coffee orders? The way you walk me home and then pretend it’s not a big deal?”

Natasha looks faintly betrayed. “I was being subtle!”

“You’re literally six-foot-two and smirk at me like a YA love interest. Nothing about you is subtle.”

She gasps. “Are you comparing me to a Wattpad boy?”

“I shouldn’t, but yes.”

Natasha groans into her hands. “This is the worst confession ever—”

You reach up, grab her hands, and pull them down gently.

“I like you too, Delinquent.”

She goes silent.

Then she flicks your forehead again. “I knew it.”

“Ow?!”

“Deserved.”

You grab her collar before she can pull back and lean your forehead against hers, still giggling.

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

You kiss her cheek. She actually short-circuits.

—

—

You barely sleep that night.

Too giddy. Too electrified. Too busy replaying every second of her smile, her laugh, the way she short-circuited when you kissed her cheek.

The group chat keeps blowing up—Wanda’s in full meltdown mode, Yelena’s already planning the wedding, and you… you’re floating.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your crush finally confessed.

The next day arrives fast. Loud. Demanding.

And before you know it—

The interschool basketball match begins.

You shouldn’t even be in the gym.

You’ve got student council paperwork spilling out of your arms, a working list of urgent tasks highlighted in pastel chaos, and three missed calls from your VP asking where the sign-up forms are. Your planner is a warzone, your phone is blowing up, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast.

But you’re here.

Sitting beside Wanda, Yelena, and Kate in the front row of bleachers, legs crossed, hands clenched in your lap, trying very hard not to watch the court.

You tell yourself it’s just for school spirit. You're here to support the school. Support the team.

It’s not about her.

It’s never about her.

Except it’s absolutely about her.

Because Natasha Romanoff is on the court, and for the first time ever, she’s… off.

Her passes are sloppy. She misses two layups in a row. Her defense is late. Her rhythm? Gone. There’s a visible crack in her composure—she’s snapping at teammates, cursing under her breath, yanking at the hem of her jersey like she can pull herself together through sheer will.

“She’s spiraling,” Kate says quietly.

Yelena’s brows furrow. “She doesn’t play like this. Ever.”

“She looks—nervous?” Wanda says, watching closely. “She keeps glancing at the bleachers.”

You force yourself not to move.

Not to flinch.

Not to let the burn in your chest show.

Because she is glancing. Over and over again. Her eyes are scanning the stands, sharp and desperate, like she's looking for something—or someone—and not finding them. Each time she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, her face hardens. Her jaw tightens.

“She’s looking for you,” Yelena murmurs, like she’s just realized.

You press your lips into a thin line.

“She thought you wouldn’t come,” Wanda whispers.

And for a moment, you almost don’t.

But then—

Then she misses another shot. The crowd groans. She slaps her hands against her thighs, furious.

And suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“God,” you mutter, already standing, “if I get suspended for this—”

You cup your hands around your mouth and yell across the court before your brain can catch up.

“ROMANOFF! PLAY LIKE YOU MEAN IT!”

The whole gym stops.

Like, actually stops.

Every head turns. The air shifts. Even the referee pauses.

And Natasha?

She freezes.

Her eyes snap to you instantly—like she’d been waiting for that voice all game.

And when she finds you?

Her whole expression changes. Like she can breathe again.

The corner of her mouth twitches. A breathless laugh escapes her. Her shoulders roll back. Then—

She moves.

Sharp. Precise. Lethal.

The Natasha everyone knows is back.

She steals the ball from the opposing point guard like it’s nothing, darts down the court, and scores with a clean, perfect shot that wipes out the tension from the past ten minutes.

From that moment on, the game shifts. Momentum tilts.

Natasha becomes unstoppable.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the final buzzer sounds—Natasha’s team winning by two points. The crowd explodes into cheers.

You clap automatically. Just once. Then grab your things, ready to disappear before anyone processes what just happened—

But she doesn’t go to her team.

She doesn’t wait for the trophy, or the coach’s speech, or the photos.

She runs.

Straight. To. You.

Through her teammates, through the crowd, ignoring her coach yelling her name and the players trying to high-five her.

You blink as she stops in front of you—sweaty, panting, eyes burning with something so raw it makes your chest ache.

“Hi,” she breathes, like the world’s been holding its breath without you.

You stare. “Hi?”

“You came,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I thought—” she shakes her head, words failing. “You weren’t there. I looked and you weren’t—”

“I was late,” you admit softly. “I had council stuff—”

“I thought I ruined everything,” she whispers.

You frown. “Romanoff—”

“I couldn’t see you,” she continues, like it’s been sitting in her throat the whole game. “I kept looking and you weren’t—God, I thought I lost you.”

You blink fast, something thick in your throat. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, not a tease this time. Just desperate. Just honest. “I—I need to know this is real.”

Your heart is pounding.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You can.”

She kisses you.

Right there. In the middle of the gym. In front of literally everyone.

It’s messy. Breathless. Charged with too much feeling and not enough time. Her hands slide into your hair, holding on like she’s still scared you’ll vanish.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Wanda screams. Kate chokes. Yelena straight-up punches the air.

And when Natasha finally pulls back, she leans her forehead against yours and breathes, “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?” you ask, dazed.

“Disappear,” she says. “Make me play like a rookie. Make me lose my mind.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were that bad?”

She scoffs. “I nearly fouled out looking for you.”

You try to look smug. “Guess you need me around, huh?”

Natasha leans in, brushing her nose against yours.

“Guess I do, President.”

The crowd is still roaring. Someone’s taking photos. The coach is yelling in the distance.

But all you feel is her.

And for the first time in weeks, everything finally makes sense again.

You sigh, dramatic and hopeless. “I’m so doomed.”

She kisses you again, softer this time.

“Yeah,” she murmurs against your lips. “But at least now you’re doomed with me.”

—

The next morning, Natasha walks up to you in the middle of the hallway.

She’s in her varsity jacket.

You’re in her hoodie from last night.

Everyone sees.

She stops in front of you. Smirks.

You squint. “Why do you look like you’re about to say something embarrassing?”

“Because I am.” She flicks your forehead again. “Hi, baby.”

Your entire soul leaves your body.

Wanda SCREAMS from across the hallway.

Yelena fist-pumps.

Natasha leans in, lips near your ear.

“Now everyone knows you’re mine, Pres.”

You elbow her. Lightly.

She catches your hand.

Doesn’t let go.

Then threads her fingers through yours like it’s always been that easy.

And maybe it is.

Because from the way your heart leaps, the way her thumb brushes yours—

You realize you’ve been hers all along.

[stvrrlau]

𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙.

⤷⤷ 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 stiles just wants to be your boyfriend.

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨.ᐟ awkward!flustered!stiles⋆skeptical!fem!reader

𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.ᐟ drabble, pure fluff, teasing, based on a song bc yes and yes included the lyrics LISTEN TO IT AS YOU READ TRUST ME, stiles is just a silly guy who really likes you >w<

𝘴𝘵𝘷𝘳𝘳𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴.ᐟ OMG HI AGAIN what this isn't kpop WELL I FELL IN LOVE WITH TEEN WOLF OKAY so uh expect random fanfics of this silly lil guy cause I LOVE HIM and also im rlly sorry 4 not posting alot i have exams next month and im sorta panicking AND OMG TYSM 4 40 FOLLOWERS I LOVE U GUYS SM ILL MAKE SMTH SPECIAL 4 YALL WHEN I HIT 50 MWAH MWAH REBLOGS+LIKES+COMMENTS APPRECIATED!!!!! wrd count۶ৎ 955

STILES

“ugh, i just want a boyfriend. is that too much to ask for?”

stiles was not eavesdropping.

he just happened to be passing by when he spotted you and very conveniently began rummaging through his bag for a paperclip for his next lesson—lacrosse.

he also happened to overhear—accidently—what you were saying about wanting a boyfriend.

“seriously,” you continued, “just someone to talk to, hold my hand, text me good morning, you know?”

stiles could hear his heart pound in his ears.

he absolutely could do that for you. he wanted to do that for you. he had practiced being that person for you more times in the mirror than he cared to admit.

“oh come on, having a boyfriend isn’t all that great.” lydia said, trying to cheer you up.

it would be great if he was your boyfriend.

“you’re only saying that since you have your perfect situationship and allison gets attention from like, every single guy in school.”

‘not mine though.’ stiles thought as he listened to you whine about not having a special person. he wished he could be that special person for you.

apparently, stiles was listening a little too hard because he didn’t realise the next thing he would walk into was you.

he could feel his brain short-circuit.

“stiles! what are you doing here? don’t you have lacrosse next? why are you near the science labs?”

stiles could barely process what you were saying, his brain completely fried from the way you were looking up at him—wide eyes, curious, big smile on your face. he thought he was about to pass out.

“stiles?” you asked again, shaking his shoulder gently.

that did it for him.

“I COULD BE YOUR BOYFRIEND!” he quickly blurted out, at a much louder volume that he had hoped for. noticing the odd stares he had gotten from the people in the corridors he cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to speak again. he shut it. then opened it again.

“i—uh—only if you want—boyfriend—yeah.” 

you stared up at him with a blank stare. blinked. then blinked again before smiling.

“yeah, thanks stiles.” you half-laughed, patting his arm before walking past him to head over to chemistry, “see ya later.”

clearly yn didn’t think he was serious.

well stiles would just have to show you that he was.

———

as soon as lacrosse finished, stiles rushed out of the changing rooms as fast as possible, leaving scott alone and confused on what on earth his best friend could be planning.

panting, stiles fumbled with the piece of paper in his hands, before shoving it through the barely-big-enough gap in your locker.

now you’d have to take him seriously.

———

YN

the final bell rung, echoing through the school as i trudged over to my locker, prepared to go home and sleep for an eternity.

as i opened my locker, i was expecting piles and piles of books to greet me—which they did. what i did not expect was a piece of paper, neatly folded but crinkled, to fall and hit me on the head. it landed onto the ground and i quickly picked it up, curious to see what it could be. 

upon my inspection, i saw my name scribbled onto the outside of it—as a reassurance that it was meant for me.

i unfolded and smoothed out the sheet, reading the messy handwriting, still trying to figure out whose it could be.

everyday i see you on your own. 

and i cant believe that you're alone. 

but i overheard your girls and this is what they said. 

that you’re looking for a boyfriend, i see that.

give me time, you know i’m gonna be there.

don’t be scared to come, put your trust in me.

can’t you see, all i really wanna be is your boyfriend!

if you tell me where, i’m waiting here.

—stiles.

i re-read the note several times, trying to process what was happening. stiles actually wanted to be my boyfriend!?

without wasting another second, i slammed my locker door shut and ran down the hallway, swiftly ducking in and out of the crowds of people. i quickly pushed open the doors, the brightness of the sun making me squint as i searched for stiles.

where could he be?

almost as if someone had read my thoughts, i heard the sound of his laugh—that same laugh i hadn’t realised how much i liked.

there he was, walking with scott, laughing, head thrown back, hand clutching his bag strap, making my heart stutter. i licked my lips nervously before quickly focusing back into reality.

there was no time to daydream—i had to reach him!

i half-ran, half-fell down the stairs, lungs burning and legs screaming at me to stop.

“stiles!” i exclaimed, a couple meters behind the pair. stiles paused and turned around, meeting my eyes. his face immediately reddened slightly as i finally caught up to them, panting.

“yn—hi.” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly expecting the worst.

“i’ll—be—your—girlfriend—” i panted, clutching my chest, the crumpled letter in my other.

stiles’ eyes widened to the size of saucers and i half-expected him to start rubbing his eyes like a cartoon character to confirm that this wasn't a dream.

“w-what..?” he stammered, face even redder now.

“oh for god's sake stiles, she said she’ll be your girlfriend!” scott groaned, face buried in his hands, watching the scene before him unfold.

stiles nodded slowly before a huge grin appeared on his face.

“i won’t let you down.” he said, interlacing our hands.

“good.” i grinned back.

“finally.” scott muttered as if was annoyed but his smile gave it away that he was happy for his friend. for us.

stiles. boyfriend. my boyfriend.

[lostreverb]

RANDOM LUKE COOPER HC'S

a/n: writing a fic for him and he's just so cute and i keep getting ideas for him ahh my cinephile bf i need him might fuck around and write some NSFW ones later (SORRY THIS IS REALLY LONG I GOT CARRIED AWAY) bf! headcanons are here!!

he's very quiet if he's not talking about movies

not audibly just like only gives one word or one sentence answers

which means he's a VERY dry texter (it's not personal he's just like that)

though he does post his every unfiltered thought to his twitter (which has SOO many followers like a shitton)

doesn't understand typing in lowercase and thinks it's dumb (but if you type in lowercase he won't call it dumb but he'll express he thinks it's weird)

has the worst handwriting ever but that's because it's almost like a kind of unreadable script (like doctor handwriting)

he listens to all kinds of music really aside from like pop or country

also really likes monty python

he really likes musicals (singing in the rain, phantom of the opera, the sound of music) b/c he was introduced to them when he was very young so they're very nostalgic for him

but he'll never mention it because his friends would make fun of him for it

(would LOVEEEEEEEE la la land)

used to read books a lot more when he was younger

is a superhero comic book fan

he can play piano really well (parents made him play) he just doesn't give a fuck about piano

he's also like crazy smart and would do super well in school if he applied himself he just doesn't care

he really wants to switch his major to film studies but his parents wouldn't approve (but he's thinking about doing it anyway)

became completely desensitized to gore and nudity at a young age because he'd always just watch whatever movies his dad put on

wrote a series of letters to quentin tarantino as a kid and got one letter back and it's his most prized possession

likes maintaining eye contact with people for too long because it makes them uncomfortable

just generally likes messing with people and being a little shit b/c he likes how easy it is to mess with ppls emotions cause they're so predictable (which is kinda a red flag but he's never really taken something too far)

b/c of this no one really takes him seriously which bothers him a bit but he knows it's his fault

which is why when you do actually take interest in what he says he finds himself falling for you

he never got "lost" in the forest with michael he just hates being in nature and michael was annoying him so he walked back to the car

after a bit he looked outside and saw everyone panicking so he got out and went back to the group and everyone was acting like he died

he thinks it was too far for his parents to cut michael off but he also didn't care

thinks michael's annoying at times but the things he does are funny and he uses him as content for his twitter

has been so engrossed in his own world his whole life he doesn't think about girls

though his main crushes are sarah connor (terminator), the bride (kill bill), storm (x-men), and mikaela banes (transformers - but he hates the transformer movies)

but he has very little or no experience at all

he's probably the first in his friend group to have a girlfriend too

his only knowledge about talking to girls is from movies so yk the james bonds, george clooney, harrison ford are his main influences

which means if he has a crush on you he'll just stare at you all the time, bother and tease you relentlessly and try to banter cause that's the only way he knows how to get closer

he'll also try by memorizing your coffee order

if you don't drink coffee he'll try to find out what you do drink (without directly asking you)

he'll never confess, you'll have to first and use the most straightforward language or else he won't take a hint

once you start dating he has no idea how to treat you anymore

he just constantly flips between being the sweetest bf ever and the bane of your existence

if he annoys you too much and you get upset his first response will be "what? i didn't even do anything" or some other cheeky response

you'll have to help him to unlearn that

though he's a very caring boyfriend and would help you carry things around the office and drive you places and get you presents

doesn't give a fuck about most things (other than you and movies)

he just is so obsessed with you and loves being around you all the time

he's not incredibly keen on pda but sometimes he'll hold your hand and kiss your cheek in public

if you kiss him in front of other people he'll get really flustered and be noticeably disoriented for a bit after

feels weird using pet names but he'll use the occasional baby or babe

he'll discover how good it feels to cuddle it'll be his favorite thing to do along with watching movies with you

run your hands through / play with his hair and he'll fold completely

the first time you do it he'll probably involuntarily moan and get so embarrassed about it it'll take a few weeks before he'll let you do it again

during those few weeks he'll think about how your hands felt almost obsessively he's never felt anything like it

he'll create a list of movies to watch with you and once a month he'll let you choose the movie

he's really good at gift giving because he makes sure to pay extra attention to the things you like (especially movie related things bc he has good contacts)

he's definitely one of the first people to ever use letterboxd

he loves being able to drop you off at home from work because more often than not you'll stop someplace to get something to eat or head to his place and watch a movie and he loves doing that with you

he also likes picking you up in the morning because then you get to go on his coffee run with him (you'll make sure everyone's orders are correct and he'll whine and groan about it saying it's not worth the time but he appreciates it)

will definitely get you to do his work for him

his work clothes used to belong to his dad which is why they're just a tad too big for him

outside of work he typically wears zip-up hoodies and jeans with a graphic t-shirt (probably related to a film he likes)

instead of a bookshelf, he has a DVD shelf in his room (that's very well organized and categorized)

and he has a really high end tv and surround sound system that he and his dad paid for

he researched how movie theatres make their popcorn and buys the special ingredients directly from one by his house

used to have the whole script of citizen kane memorized but it's been a second since he last recited it

he's written his own scripts before but he doesn't think they're any good (he's pretty hard on himself about it)

but if he does end up making a project he'll 100% cast you in it

[anxious-chaos-art]

I’m so normal abt what’s happened.

My notes undercut if u can’t read my handwriting or if u want a more organized and concise list of what I noticed

Obvious differences

Hair

Eyeliner

Clothes

Newgene is sluttier

Necklace

Sleeve

EXPOSED SHOULDER???

Subtle differences

No nose ring

Newgene has better posture

Newgene lacks a giant ass collar, which is a iconic part of Eugene

Newgene skirt is longer

Subtle differences that could be attributed to Julia's style growth

Newgene has no nose line

Hair is slightly different (though the silhouette stayed the same)

Chin slightly pointier

Eyes bigger

Face to head ratio different

Nose end is slightly, so very slightly, different

Newgenes lips r fuller

Newgenes earring is slightly shorter

Similarities

Long skirt, long cloak, no shirt combo

Earrings are the same, down the the style of piercing

Wrinkles and face lines are the same (eyebrow crease, dimple, etc)

Unconventional eyeliner

Green/turquoise black and yellow

Star motif

Expression is LITERALLY THE EXACT SAME

SO IS THE FACE

THE FACE IS THE SAME DOWN THE THE LINES

straps? Newgene has a harness and Eugene has his chords

Both wear heels

THEY LITERALLY STAND THE SAME. LIKE BESIDES THE POSTURE THEIR FEET R IN THE SAME PLACE AS EACH OTHER AS THEY STAND

Miscellaneous thoughts

Didn't Julia once say she thought Eugene would have tattoos? Like did we ever actually see Eugene's arms in S1???

@/bardace's post abt inverted Eugene

Newgene seems a lot more tucked in if that makes sense? Like his waist is more highlighted and his harness makes him seem tighter as opposed to Eugene, whose cape makes him seem a little hidden and chords are loose

WHAT IS EVEN GOING ON

WE DONT EVEN KNOW WHO WAS MURDERED

OR WHAT THE MYSTERY EVEN IS

Also

JANCY KNOWS SMTHIN???? LIKE HUH

I know we've all had this thought, could this newgene be the snake? Is he evil? Is he a twin??? Evil twin?

How many people in the drawtectives universe have a passion for unconventional eyeliner, giant cloaks and skirts with star motifs????

WHO ARE YOU NEWGENE

The brief discovery that if u write who r u without a lot of space (whoru) it looks like "whore" (which he is. Not that I'm complaining)

Various little doodles of me thirsting over newgene. Sorry.

Various little doodles of me being SO CONFUSED????

[hardly-an-escape]

just a little something for Tommy Kinard Appreciation Day and @peppermintquartz <3

A few weeks after they get back together, Tommy comes over to the loft for dinner. It's nothing fancy, no special occasion – Evan's got a new roasted chicken recipe and they both have the night off, so Tommy shows up around 6:00 with a bottle of wine and a slightly nicer-than-average shirt.

He's rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, looking for some matches or something to light the candles on the dining table, when he finds the notebook. It's one of those composition books with the classic black and white cover, the miniature version, a little beat up. He probably shouldn't read it – scratch that, he definitely shouldn't read it – but.

It's labeled with his name.

Tommy, right on the cover, in Evan's handwriting.

He glances over his shoulder. Evan has his back turned, fussing with the salad dressing and not particularly paying attention, so Tommy palms the little notebook and wanders over to the living room to open it.

The first page has a single sentence: Things I Miss about him. After that it turns into a list.

His eyes

the way his face scrunches up when he smiles for real

his hands

His ass! And his dick!!!

I feel like I shouldnt write that but it's true!!

Tommy swallows hard. Evan's handwriting is kind of uneven and hard to read, and his spelling and punctuation aren't the best – but it's undoubtedly a list, all lined up with neat little bullet points, of the things he'd missed about Tommy while they'd been apart.

His hugs

especialy the way he used to press our cheeks together and hang on just a little longer then I was expecting him too

He's such a good firefighter and so expereinced, I always felt like I couldve learned alot from him

the competency in general... hes so good at so many things!

he could be so bitchy/sarcastic but he's actually so kind. Like his jokes were never mean

Really good with kids

he would be an amazing dad someday

The last item is barely legible, thoroughly scratched out, as though Evan had thought twice about it the moment he'd written it down. Tommy feels tears prick behind his eyes. Evan would make a fantastic father, he thinks. They haven't really talked about it – marriage, kids, the whole nine yards. Before, it had been too early, and now that they're together again... it still feels too new, too raw, to bring it up. But Evan's the first person who's ever made Tommy want to have that conversation. He flips to the next page.

I don't want it to sound like I was only with him for sex but god I miss his body so much

Tommy snorts. He's so absorbed he doesn't hear Evan call out from the kitchen.

"What was that, babe?"

He took such good care of me. like when I hurt my shoulder but also just in general. He checked in with me alot and always made sure I was ok

really good listener

Did I take care of him enough? did I listen to him enough?

I think maybe I didn't

"Hey, Tommy, did you – oh," Evan says, poking his head around the stairs. "Uh. You found that."

"I'm sorry," Tommy says immediately. "I shouldn't have looked at it, I just – it had my name on it," he finishes lamely.

"It's okay," Evan says, coming to sit next to him on the couch. "It's just a little embarrassing. I didn't really know what to do with myself, I had a lot to say and, uh, people got kind of sick of me talking about you after a while. So I started writing it down. I kind of forgot it was still floating around."

The thing is, over the past couple of weeks they've talked about those last two items on the list. Tommy's been honest about the fact that he'd felt, at times, that he was being more careful with Evan than Evan was being with him. About the fact that he'd been okay with that, until he wasn't; that he'd been okay in the role of fun, sexy first boyfriend, until he realized that not only were he and Evan not on the same page, they weren't even reading the same book.

It's different to see the words written out so plainly. But they're on the same page now. They're walking into the same future, hand in hand.

Tommy sets the little notebook aside and laces his fingers together with Evan's.

"I love you a lot, you know," he says. It's not the first time he's said it, but it still feels so special it's a little unreal.

"I love you, too," Evan says instantly, beaming, eyes twinkling.

[tokeposts]

𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜

pairing: geto suguru x fem!reader

warnings/genre: fluff, library/librarian au, collage au, meet cute, strangers to lovers, defacing public property (sorry book lovers sigh), spoilers for the picture of dorian gray (like barely)

notes: this one’s for anyone who’s ever read higher than a 4th grade level 🙌🏼

1.5k | you discover that someone keeps writing in the margins of the books. as one of the workers there, it is your duty to find out who it is and bring them to justice so you write back.

it starts with The Picture of Dorian Gray. you just shelved it back in the classic literature aisle, your favorite corner of the library, when a misstep makes the book fall from your grip. it lands on the floor with an echoed thud.

a few heads turn, but none of them say anything. when you finally catch your balance again, you bend to grab at the book only to be met with familiar scribbling on the pages.

a note, scrawled in your handwriting from years ago. back when you were a mere freshmen in collage and the public library was your escape.

you sat here often, for hours reading, writing, waiting, until eventually the library closed and you were kicked out. seeing the note you had left, made your heart shake in it’s cage, nostalgia hitting you in waves. the ink was faded, the lines uneven, but the words remained.

“the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it” but what if it never lets go?

there was something new though. in contrast to the black ink past you had used, blue ink stained the page circling your pervious annotation and leading somewhere else with a pristine arrow.

Then perhaps it was never temptation to begin with.

you freeze. a flicker of annoyance coils in your chest, but it doesn’t quite settle. this little act of rebellion or whatever it is this vandal would call it is technically defacing public property.

and yet, it’s not vandalism exactly. it’s precise. thoughtful. intentional. and oddly enough, it feels like a conversation. like someone reaching back through time, responding to a version of you that barely exists anymore.

not many people would notice your note, let alone care to answer it. the temptation to ignore it is there. but so is the ache to see what they’ll say next.

still though, rightesnous feels heavy in your chest. you hesitate only a moment before slipping a bright green sticky note between the pages.

a statement instead of a question. curious. p.s. you’re aware writing in library books is illegal, correct?

when you head to work the next day, a reply awaits you.

Temptation and desire go hand in hand. One is just often confused for the other. P.S Hello, sticky notes. What a charming way to preserve the pages. I assume you’re also horrified by the original vandal who wrote in this book though I doubt it, considering your handwriting looks awfully familiar…

and so it begins. you do not reply for a next week, but still your body gravitated toward Dorian Gray like the man himself put a spell on it. When you finally go on break, you find yourself back in the classic aisles. blue ink is stained on different pages. some with small quips about certain dialogue, others long tangents about certain characters. it makes you laugh as much as it fills you with irritation.

on page 234, you find yet another note. tucked away at the bottom of the page, pretending to be embarrassed.

The only sin committed was love. Poor poor Basil Hallward. P.S. Sticky notes, are you still there? It’s getting lonely in these pages again.

you reply, of course. how could you not? you rip off a bright green sticky note, setting it right under the blue ink.

if you’re modeling love after basil hallward, then i fear you have a very skewed perspective of it. p.s. is sticky notes going to be my name from now on? because i hope it does not stick (pun not intended)

you shelf the book back in its spot, leaving the aisle alone for the rest of your shift. the next time you come in, you allow yourself at least 2 hours of work before you come back to the book. your fingers linger on the spine, anticipation licking its way up your spine.

the mysterious person replied on page 237. it makes you laugh. either this person was distracted or they’re reading slowly on purpose.

Silly puns and Pictures of Dorian Gray, you truly know how to capture a man’s attention, sticky notes. P.S. It seems the library was quite loud today, I could only unfortunatley get through so many pages.

this is the first characteristic, your mystery person— man, tells you. you could have guessed that much from the messy handwriting and the fact that Pictures of Dorian Gray is a majority male rented book. it’s one to assume this though and it’s another to actually have that confirmed.

feeling left out you, chuckle, adding another bright green note

how surprising that a man would deface books like this (not). you’re reaching the end of this story so tell me, vandal, is there any other stories you’ve defaced with your oh so enlightening takes?

he does not respond in that book for seven more days. you know because you check Dorian Gray each time you come into work, sifting through the pages only to be disappointed by the emptiness and wistfully shelving the book back.

however, you find him in other places.

in the corners of poetry books, new and old. in dog-eared pages of frankenstein. in the highlighted words of the hunger games, marked in that same unmistakable blue ink.

sometimes he goes on long, winding tangents. deep dives into character arcs and themes and tragic metaphors. other times, it’s short quips that make you laugh out loud in the aisle before catching yourself and glancing around.

you never respond. not to those notes, at least. you only ever entertain his rambling in Dorian Gray, but with his sudden silence you start thinking maybe you should change that?

perhaps you scared him off.

maybe your vulnerability and quiet chuckling between the pages was too much. maybe opening up your heart, your thoughts, inside a book about madness and vanity and self-destruction was the wrong call. too intimate, you think.

or maybe he saw you. he saw you shelving Dorian Gray back with a silly grin, or saw you tucked away in a corner chuckling at his dry jokes while reading through his annotation of Leaves of Grass and… he didn’t like what he saw. the thought makes your stomach churn.

it’s silly, the way the pain creeps into your lungs and stabs into your heart. you don’t even know this man. don’t even know what he looks like. but the thought of him rejecting you makes you shudder. it’s absurd. completely ridiculous, really, falling for handwriting. for ink and timing and wit. but every time you open a book now, your heart stutters a little. in the hopes that just in case… you run your fingers over the blue ink, mindlessly tracing the words. before shelving Dorian Gray, once more.

you check again every time you clock in, day 13 is when you open the book and notice one of your sticky notes is missing.

the realization pulls at your heartstrings, a heavy feeling presses into you. so he is here, somewhere, reading over and over again just like you. bur he’s just not replying…

you sigh. a mix of dissatisfaction and frustration. staring at the blue ink like it’ll come to life. this is when you realize two things. the first: you actually like this man. you don’t know his name. you don’t know his face, but somehow, it already feels like he knows how your brain works.

and the second, there’s an easy fix to all this waiting around for a reply nonsense.

you have to catch him in the act.

you come in early the next day.

earlier than you need to, earlier than your shift starts. earlier than the sun fully filters through the high windows. the library is hushed, still stretching its arms and yawning into the morning.

you hover behind the front desk longer than necessary, pretending to adjust the donation bin, pretending not to check the clock every ninety seconds. you tell yourself you’re just going to shelve a few books. that you’re just doing your job.

but your shoes already know the way.

the aisle is empty when you arrive. of course it is. who in there right mind would be reading such heavy literature this early in the morning?

you stand at the end for a beat too long, clutching a few classics to your chest like armor. when you finally start walking, your steps are slow, deliberate. your breath catches somewhere around hemingway.

the Picture of Dorian Gray is still there. right where it always is. you carefully pull it from the shelf like the spine will crack if you’re too hasty.

you flip through quickly and… nothing. no blue ink. no clever postscript. no apology for the silence.

your chest hollows just a little.

you are so caught up in the emptiness you do not notice the footsteps approaching.

they’re soft, casual, like someone browsing. there’s a bit of hesitance like they don’t know weather to speak. it is when they are mere inches away from you that you finally acknowledge them. your gaze slides side ways and you’re met with dark thin eyes that are already watching you.

you freeze, fingers still resting on page 237 like you’ve been caught.

his eyes trail to the open pages. something flashes in his dark hues, they widen slightly, but still you don’t fully turn to him. not right away. you don’t want to. because there still that seedling of doubt posted in your gut, what if it’s not him?

you pretend to straighten the shelf, closing the novel in your hand, suddenly fascinated by shelley and austin.

“you’re not usually here until the afternoon,” he says. his voice is deep, smooth. like if sweet talking was personified. his tone is warm. honey-sweet, laced with something familiar. like maybe you’ve heard it before in passing like when he comes in and you greet him without thinking.

or maybe… between pages.

you turn slowly.

he’s holding The Secret Garden in one hand, a sticky note pressed against the cover with your handwriting still visible.

looking him up and down, you realize he is tall. his hair is long, pulled into a bun with pieces of his bangs falling delicately in his face. practiced enough to look on purpose but completely random too. his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. he looks like he hasn’t slept much, and maybe he hasn’t. you wonder if he’s been writing replies in his head all week, the same way you have.

“you,” is all you can muster, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than intended.

he smiles, and it hits you— he’s nervous too.

“suguru,” he says. “geto suguru.”

his name settles between you like a bookmark. you nod slowly, committing it to memory as though it matters. as though it hasn’t already changed something.

“i wasn’t sure you’d actually show,” you admit.

“i wasn’t sure you’d actually catch me,” he counters, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “though i did try to make it difficult. left a trail of poetry and half-baked thoughts like breadcrumbs.”

“so you admit to defacing library books.”

“only a few,” he says, holding up The Secret Garden. “this one’s untouched.”

your gaze flicks to the sticky note on the cover— your handwriting still curling across it like a secret. something you hadn’t expected him to hold on to.

“you didn’t answer my last note,” you say, gently.

he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. the corner of his mouth tugging up. “i… wanted to do it in person.”

you feel your breath catch. it’s ridiculous how one sentence can wrap itself around your ribs like that.

“and what’s the answer?”

“coffee,” he says. “with you. if you’ll let me.”

you tilt your head, folding your arms. “on what condition?”

he holds up a single finger. “i buy a replacement copy for Dorian Gray. blue-ink free.”

you blink a smile already forming as you laugh. “you’re really offering to pay penance?”

“poetic, is it not?” he says. his smile grows wider mirroring yours. “and besides it seemed like a fair trade. one book… for maybe a few conversations more.”

geto’s fingers drift to the hem of his oversized shirt, tugging at a loose thread, subtle, almost imperceptible. the only sign of nerves because even then he’s still looking you in the eyes.

his smile doesn’t falter. in fact, it widens. a quiet kind of bold. and his dark bright eyes feel like they see right through you.

the flutter in your chest grows, blooming up your throat, “deal.”

“deal?” he asks.

you tilt your head, already walking past him toward the front. he watches your figure.

“someone has to pay for the replacement book, right? so yes, deal.”

he follows, sticky note still clutched to the cover like a promise.

when you and suguru part ways— numbers exchanged and a promise to call between shy smiles and second glaces— you finally open the returned copy of the secret garden, he passed to you.

tucked just inside the cover is a note written in that familiar blue ink, this time on a green sticky note.

“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.” See you soon, sticky notes. —S

you tuck the note into your pocket and don’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

[daiourage]

TFO Dual Rulers (?) AU

I've been seeing people do like a "what if D didn't go fuckin' coconuts" AU, and it kinda inspired me to start thinking of what other events would be changed in those scenarios.

(yes i'm still in denial)

Please take these lightly colored sketches!!! Also I'm sorry for lazy handwriting;;

Also also, as always, please click/press the image for quality!!!

("Brief" explanations for each of the numbered panels is under the cut (the numbers are just the order of when I drew them, and not in chronological order of the scenes)!!!)

1. I think, because D won't be the one to shoot at Sentinel because he's grounded in this AU, Sentinel would be the one to use the last of his strength to try and shoot at D, only for Orion to block it. I couldn't figure out how to draw D in immense agony about it so I just decided to make this paper a collection of ideas. If anyone has any ideas, please tell me because I want angst--//shot (I also finally remembered to write my signature this time!!!) 1-2. The main problem I had trouble figuring out was how D would possibly let go of Orion... He'd still say the "Why did you do that, why?!" line, but I don't know where to go from there. Would Sentinel still have energy to kick D's hand? Would Orion be too heavy to hold on? Would Orion tell D to let him go? Maybe they wouldn't even be hanging over the ledge and D would just be holding him--but then what? There was too many things to ponder about just one scene, and I wanted to get my other ideas out before I forgot about them. Guyssss give me your ideas please-- 2. It always bothered me that Orion and Bee left D in Sentinel's office(?) to hold him off on his own;;; like, I get it, D won't listen, but at least tell him you're leaving??? 2-2. I think the "What did he do to you?" conversation would be much longer. Not as comical and cheesy as the comic I sketched a little bit back, but... 3. (Please read it right to left;;; I just got done reading manga when I had the idea to draw this panel;;; also the entire page honestly. I'm so sorry y'all--)At the High Guards' base, I think D'd be the one to initiate a fight with Starscream still, but do it calmly. 4. I wanted to keep this line, because it would make sense still. Also might hurt a little more *screams* (D would not do the Anime Girl Pose™️, but I wanted him and Orion to match oop--) 5. After apprehending Sentinel, somehow we'd get his (Megatronus's) cog and Orion (now Optimus) would give it to D as a token of trust. Based off of @/momonsalmonmon on Twitter/X's absolutely gorgeous comics!!! (I also DO NOT remember how the cogs looked I'm sorry for not doing further research ;w; Will do better next time I promise;;;) 6. Bee and Soundwave BFFs???? (+ annoyed Shockwave) Please. Also maybe bring back Senator Soundwave as a concept??? Miss he;; It might be interesting, with Bee also "working for the government" now,,, (Edit: 2/7/2025): Hi. just realized my typo and it's been months. Guys. It's Senator Shockwave guys. Why didn't y'all tell me;;;; I knew who I was thinking of I promise;;; guys please don't nod along to this and just ignore my huge ass typo 😭 (thank you for the support though but OH MY GOD) (Edit: 3/3/2025): GUYS. I FORGOT THEY WERE BOTH SENATORS AT SOME POINT (in different comics though but) GUYS. I'M A PUSHOVER. THEY CAN BOTH BE GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS AS A TREAT AJSDLKFAJLKSDJFLKA I'm a fraud ;w;)b 7. Headcanon that Orion is bad at math and confides in Elita and D for enforcing the taxes so the citizens don't become outraged but also so that the government has enough money to do stuff. D might be like "Aww he needs our help" and Elita would be like "godddd let me work out" 7-2. I feel like I draw Elita with an annoyed expression too much I'm so sorry milady;;; I promise I love you;;;

[joaosnovia]

A fic where joão celebrates the reader for Mother’s Day despite their circumstances. (Ours 3?)

❦ - mother’s day ; an ours epilogue.

warnings:: none.

writers notes:: PERDONA IM SORRY FORGIVE ME THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE POSTED AGES AGO. i thought i already posted this like 3 weeks ago… but i just scrolled thru my drafts to find that this isn’t out! ALSO ITS GOOD TO NOTE TAHT WHEN I WROTE RHIS I DIDNT REMEMBER ANY OF THE FIRST TWO BITS SO EXCUSE THAT

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @universefcb @mariejuli

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you weren’t expecting much.

not because joão didn’t care.
but because things between you two had just been… different.

not bad. just off.
a little awkward. a little clumsy. like you were both still adjusting to the newness of everything, being parents, being partners, being people with dark circles under your eyes and onesies in your laundry.

you still kissed goodnight. still shared the bed.
but sometimes you felt like roommates with history.
like there was something warm between you that hadn’t quite made it back to the surface yet.

so when you wandered into the kitchen on sunday morning, wearing his hoodie and clutching the baby monitor like a lifeline, you didn’t expect anything.

but there it was.

a mug of your favorite coffee.
one tiny pink daisy in a jar.
and a piece of paper, folded twice, with your name written in joão’s messy handwriting.

you blinked. looked around.

joão was at the stove.
hair messy, back turned, focused like he was making something way more complicated than eggs.

he didn’t notice you at first.

but then you picked up the note.
opened it.

happy mother’s day, meu amor.
i know this year has been new and weird and full of spit-up and crying (from all of us). but i just wanted you to know, i see you. i still see you. you’re doing this so beautifully. and i’m still so in love with you.

your breath caught.

you looked up just as he turned around, holding a plate of pancakes shaped like vaguely round hearts.

‘they’re not pretty,’ he said quickly, ‘but i tried. i used the baby’s bottle to pour the batter…’

you crossed the room and kissed him.
messy. sleepy. soft.

he froze for a second. then kissed you back, like he’d been waiting.

when you pulled away, you whispered, ‘thank you.’

he smiled, eyes a little glassy.

‘i didn’t know if we were okay enough for this,’ he said. ‘but i couldn’t not celebrate you.’

‘we’re okay,’ you said. ‘just… tired.’

‘i can live with tired,’ he said. ‘as long as it’s still us.’

the baby monitor crackled behind you. both of you groaned.

joão kissed your cheek, took the pancakes to the table.

‘eat while it’s hot,’ he said. ‘i’ll get the monster.’

and as you sat down, holding the daisy, reading his note again through blurry eyes.
you felt it.

love. not loud. not wild.
just quiet, steady, still there.