#crayons. are wild man

[sernik-krakowski]

Got a little silly with crayons

[stinkyhyena9000]

Nick Wilde Stimboard !!

I noticed there's not a lot of them, and I'm super autistic and need one, so tada!!

🧡 💚 🧡 | 💚 🦊 🧡 | 💚 🧡 💚

Oh yeah, while we're here, I'm also making a Nick Wilde playlist!!

[crayonturtle]

[petorahs]

genuinely impressive how like. nintendo games run on pure unadulterated fun. i feel a lot of games nowadays want to be "mature" to appeal to wider audiences which is cool but like. i'll always prefer nintendo's bright poppy color palettes and cel-shading over any tech thing thats ahead..

[nephriteknight]

I don’t understand why I am so exhausted after an hour and a half of children’s theater workshop. I work with this age group 8-4 every weekday for six weeks during the summer. I am WRECKED.

[oofthwoods]

THE BRAWN GP GARAGE GRAND PRIX! ── ˙ ̟ the echo !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: jenson button had always been a great commentator, especially when it came to narrating the wild world of imaginary races, where the only challenger was none other than the daughter of his teammate.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: part of the "it takes a paddock" miniseries, that explores moments of echo!reader's childhood in the paddock.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 1.2k (just a sweet little story)

The Brawn garage buzzed with activity as the team prepared for another day of testing at the Circuit de Catalunya. Mechanics hurried back and forth, checking and double-checking every detail of the sleek white cars that lined the garage. The air was thick with the smell of rubber and gasoline, and the sound of engines revving filled the space, creating an atmosphere of anticipation and excitement.

Amidst the chaos, a quieter corner of the garage served as a sanctuary from the frenzy. There, sitting on a stack of tires, was Rubens Barrichello's daughter, her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders as she concentrated intently on her coloring book. Her small fingers gripped a crayon with determination, carefully filling in the lines of a picture with vibrant colors.

Suddenly, a familiar voice broke through her concentration, and she looked up to see Jenson Button, her father's teammate, approaching with a warm smile. Her face lit up with excitement at the sight of the man, and she jumped off the tires to greet him with a hug.

"Uncle Jen!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "Are you here to race today too?"

Jenson chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he ruffled her hair affectionately. "Not today, sweetheart," he replied. "Your dad's the one doing the racing. But I'm here to keep you company while he's busy out on track."

The girl's eyes sparkled with delight as she listened to Jenson's words. She admired him greatly, not just because of his talent, but because he always took the time to interact with her whenever they crossed paths in the garage.

"Can we do something fun?" she asked eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement.

Jenson nodded enthusiastically, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Of course! How about we have a little race of our own? I'll be the commentator, and you can be the driver."

The girl's face lit up with excitement as she eagerly agreed to the idea. Jenson wasted no time, quickly scurrying around the garage to gather up cones and spare parts to create a makeshift race track. With deft hands, he arranged the obstacles into a winding course that snaked its way around the various tools and equipment scattered about.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the inaugural Brawn Garage Grand Prix!" Jenson announced with theatrical flair, holding up a makeshift microphone fashioned out of an old wrench. "On pole position, we have the one and only… Y/N Barrichello! And alongside her, it's me, Jenson Button, your trusty commentator for today's race."

The girl giggled with delight as she took her position at the starting line, her tiny hands gripping the imaginary steering wheel with determination. Jenson, playing his part to perfection, took up his position as the announcer, adopting a dramatic tone befitting the occasion.

"Get ready, folks! The tension is palpable as our fearless competitors prepare to battle it out on the treacherous Brawn Garage circuit!" Jenson proclaimed, his voice echoing off the walls of the garage.

With a flourish, he counted down from three, his arm slicing through the air like a conductor leading an orchestra. As his hand dropped, signaling the start of the race, the girl stomped on the imaginary accelerator, her make-believe engine roaring to life as she shot off the line in a blur of excitement.

The garage was transformed into a miniature racetrack, the sound of imaginary engines filling the air as the girl and Jenson darted and weaved their way through the makeshift obstacles. Cones became chicane markers, and toolboxes served as hairpin bends, each turn and straightaway presenting a new challenge for the intrepid racers.

Jenson, ever the entertainer, provided colorful commentary as they raced, his voice rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the action. He cheered the girl on with infectious enthusiasm, his words spurring her on to greater feats of daring as she navigated the course with the skill and precision of a seasoned pro (if there ever was a pro of fake racing).

As they crossed the makeshift finish line, Jenson scooped up the girl in one swift motion, lifting her onto his shoulders. Her laughter filled the garage, bubbling over with unrestrained joy as she clung to him, her tiny hands gripping his shoulder.

"Congratulations, champ!" Jenson announced, his voice booming with theatrical flair. "You've just won the first-ever Brawn Garage Grand Prix!"

The mechanics, who had been watching the impromptu race with amused smiles, erupted into cheers and applause. They clapped their hands enthusiastically, their cheers mingling with the sound of engines revving in the distance.

"Way to go, kiddo!" one of the mechanics shouted, giving the girl a thumbs-up.

Some of the mechanics rushed forward to offer high-fives to the victorious little girl, their faces alight with excitement. Others pulled out their phones, eager to capture the moment for posterity. Flashbulbs popped as they snapped photos of Jenson and the young girl, their bond evident for all to see in the warmth of their smiles.

Jenson, his own grin infectious, basked in the attention, reveling in the joy of the moment. "Looks like we've got ourselves a world champion in the making!" he declared, beaming down at the girl perched on his shoulders.

The girl giggled, her cheeks flushed with happiness. "Thanks, Uncle Jen! That was so much fun!"

Rubens, returning to the garage after his stint on track, couldn't help but smile at the heartwarming scene unfolding before him. His daughter, flushed with excitement and clinging tightly to Jenson's shoulders, looked happier than he had seen her in weeks. And Jenson, with his infectious grin and easy charm, seemed to have cast a spell over the entire garage, filling it with an atmosphere of camaraderie and joy.

Walking over to join the celebration, Rubens wrapped an arm around his daughter's shoulders, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Looks like you had quite the race, huh?" he teased, ruffling her hair affectionately.

The girl nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with pride. "It was the best race ever, Dad! Uncle Jen said I was the fastest driver in the whole garage!"

Rubens chuckled, shooting a grateful smile in Jenson's direction. "Well, I have no doubt about that. You've got quite the talent behind the wheel, just like your old man."

Jenson grinned, giving Rubens a playful punch on the arm. "Hey now, don't go giving her all the credit. She may have won the race, but I was the one providing the commentary! And let me tell you, it was a masterpiece of sports broadcasting."

The three of them laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the garage, mingling with the hum of activity as the team prepared for the next session. For a brief moment, all the stresses and pressures of life in the fast lane melted away.

With Jenson by her side, Rubens knew that his daughter was in good hands – and that was a comforting thought indeed.

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed <3) :: @studioreader, @fanficweasley , @stinkyjax , @namgification , @judespoision , @cha-hot , @disneyprincemuke , @itsjustkhaos , @trouble-sistar , @ihateyougunthersteiner , @treehouse-mouse , @cherry-piee , @fangirl125reader , @cassie0sstuff, @be-your-coffee-pot , @elijahslover , @flannelforthetoads , @m0cha-bunny , @ironmaiden1313 , @glitterquadricorn , @spideybv28 , @celesteblack08 , @thatgirlthatreadswattpad , @itscrzy, @canihavemyhoodieback , @eugene-emt-roe, @weirdshinji, @woozarts, @marshmummy, @80sloverry

[mmelete]

Ranking LU Links based on their ability to tan:

Time: Ngl he seems like that one off-white crayon in those crayola boxes. He slept for seven years and lived in a fully shaded forest prior to the coma, this man tans like a rotisserie chicken in the oven. 3/10

Warriors: He can definitely tan. Beach boy vibes. And he'll brag about it too. Just don't bring up that one time he got a tanline from his scarf, that was embarrassing.... 7/10

Twilight: THE MOST HORRENDOUS FARMER'S TAN KNOWN TO MANKIND. Dude this guy never rolls up his sleeves, always in jeans and boots---his feet have never seen the light of day. 7/10

Sky: So, in-game and in LU, he's pretty pale. Which is ironic, since he LITERALLY LIVES. IN THE SKY. My man has been getting point-blank sun rays since 1 week old, he's never not tan. 8/10

Legend: Technically, he adventures a lot, especially outside, so you'd think he'd be decently tan. But I think it would be hilarious if he was just like Time. This little spunky guy gets annihilated by the sun daily, refuses to wear sunscreen, gets made fun of for looking like Pink Panther, gets burned again the next day (it's an endless cycle). 2/10

Hyrule: Has the best tan ever, zero sweat. He doesn't even realize how it happens. He'll be laying by the beach all day, wake up from a five-hour-long nap and glow. Picture perfect tan, zero effort, Warriors is jealous (but refuses to admit it). 10/10

Wind: He literally lives on an island, and despite how pale he is in-game, my man is rivaling Twilight with how ATROCIOUS his tan-lines are. Wind also absolutely has a disgusting sandal/flip-flop tanline. 6/10

Wild: My guy has run around naked way longer than he cares to admit. He's taking that secret to the grave. Full body tan, no notes needed. 9/10

Four: He is like a Discord mod but the blacksmith version. You know how Shadow burns in the sun or whatever? Four does too, and doesn't even have the excuse of being a shadow being. Sunscreen can't even help him. Getting burned by a furnace fire? Easy, no problem. Getting burned by the sun? Fatal blow, insta death game over. 1/10

[scary-lasagna]

Imagine daughter reader sees slenderman working in his office so she brings papers and crayons and sits in his lap pretending to be just like him and works

She's his lil business lady

Slender

His daughter actually has a little spot next to his own desk

Jason made a small child-sized desk in his free time, and let Slender's kid go wild with the paints.

It turned out to be quite the eyesore, but she loved it, which meant that Slender had to as well.

Now, it has a permanent spot in his office, complete with any second-hand devices Slender was willing to loan to her.

Papers, crayons, old pens, stapler, dull scissors, envelope holder, and an agenda are just a handful of what the drawers contain.

She mimcks him an awful lot too, peeking at him and copying his movements.

Sometimes she'll even deliver messages to the proxies, some being from Slender, and some being from her as well.

And Tim takes it in his stride, pretending he has very important business to attend to, like sending Toby to play Roblox or watch Moana with her.

She's like a small version of him, and the funniest part is that she's more well-respected than the Boss Man himself.

Sometimes with Slender it'll take a few scolding before his point is driven across, yet with his offspring, she'll receive an 'aye-aye!' with no further problems.

Slender can't help but to feel a bit envious at this, but if it works, it works.

[nectardaddy]

wild youth

prologue | friday

masterlist

beginning track . . . dreams

cw/notes : allusion to dissociation, self deprecation, stress, anxiety, repetitive statements done on purpose

words to know/educational jargon :

Observed/observation - School administrators (principles or asst. principles) may observe teachers' performance (teaching) at regular intervals, often annually, as part of an evaluation. [ Taken from Google but edited for ease of understanding :) ]

She groaned as her eyes scanned over the room, assessing the damage done by the day that wreaked havoc on her nerves. The last student left for the day just moments before, their bus being, unfortunately, twenty minutes late; and she waved them off with a bright smile before it dropped - a false sense of joy washed away within seconds.

An entire week of stress, meetings, parent conferences - some better than others, lesson planning, and putting out fires that constantly seemed to pop up no matter how hard she tried. She was tired, riddled with exhaustion, as her eyes glanced over the mess that was made of her classroom.

Broken pencils littered the floor, a forgotten lunch box on a desk, colored pencil shavings on a table she had told a child to clean up that was obviously neglected, and crayons and markers strewn about a handful of desks. Her desk was a mess as well: papers, worksheets, sticky notes, dry erase markers, and ink pens scattered carelessly on the old wood tabletop - not an inch of it could be seen from how much stuff was on top of it. But worst of all, the unsavory muddled smells of crayons, sweat, and cheap perfume still lingered within the classroom. It didn't matter how many plug-ins she had, the smell was there to stay; sometimes she thought it was engraved within the walls.

"Fuck," a whisper of a curse to herself as she rose from her chair and stretched. A series of pops and cracks from her joints sounded as tired muscles pulled to release tension. Her eyes flickered towards the clock placed on the back wall, her arms still stretched above her head, and dropped them to her sides with a defeated sign upon seeing the time.

It was time to leave, yet she still had so much to do.

She couldn't help the thoughts that began to swirl in her mind; she let her thoughts run wild after every school day because that was the only sliver of peace she had. Not clouded by a million and one questions that she always, willingly, provided an answer to. Not disillusioned by worry of where, when, what, who, why, and how. After school was peaceful and still.

After school was all too quiet.

It was a silence that made her ears ring and her leg bounce. Silence that was willingly accepted without a second thought, but came with a dreadful price. It was Friday, the start of the weekend, yet all she could think about was how much she had to grade, how she had to clean up before she left, how she would waste the entire weekend doing nothing but plan. It was a silence welcomed with open arms and she felt it grab her, felt it hug her, until it pulled away and yanked her to the deep chasms of her mind where all that was depraved settled. Becoming so used to the unsettling feeling, she let it.

She didn't realize she had zoned out, didn't realize she placed a hand over her mouth in thought - made a mental checklist of all the things she needed to do - and she surely didn't realize the man who now leaned in the doorway to her classroom with hands shoved in his pockets. Tall and slender, with stark gray hair that other coworkers poked and prodded at; the distasteful comment of "you're too young to be gray already" would follow him relentlessly. He had rolled up sleeves that stopped at the elbow, albeit a bit jostled from the terror of a day he had as well, and he dressed comfortably but professionally. And dark brown eyes, weary and strained, that looked over her before a smile pulled onto his lips. Maybe he remained there relatively too long in silence, or maybe just enough in his mind; either way, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

"You look like you just came back from war," he chuckled. His voice caused her to take a sharp inhale; the stress that had her by the arms surged her right back up with one single sentence. Her eyes snapped over to the sound and she went rigid, body tensing at the thought of having to answer yet another stupid, god forsaken, ridiculous question. He couldn’t help but snort at her reaction as he took a step inside, brown eyes flickering over the room with a twinge of curiosity. “Damn, it looks like a war happened here too.” But just as soon as his eyes glanced over the room they returned to her. She was less rigid than before, but tense as he watched her take a deep breath and sit back down.

“Thanks, Suga. As always, you’re incredibly insightful.” Sarcasm riddled within her tone that made him chuckle again. He moved to sit on one of the many desks within the space, choosing one that, at least, looked clean and was cleared off. He took his hands out of his pockets once he sat down; the little desk looked even smaller under him, his feet still touching the floor. And watched as she slumped down in the chair, noticeably tired, her eyes dark and expression matching one of complete and utter woe.

“How was your day?” A halfhearted question he knew she didn't truly want him to answer, a pleasantry that was almost laughable to him. “I hope it was as good as mine was.” Another sardonic statement followed by a wry smile.

There it is, he thought to himself with a small smile. Placing his hands behind him, pale fingers slipping onto the group of desks connected to the one he sat on, he leaned back ever so slightly with a sigh. He hummed, tilted his head to the side as he thought for a moment, and wracked his brain over the hellish events of his own day. “Well, my room looked about the same as yours,” She rolled her eyes, which only furthered him to continue. “But wait there's more! I had to call someone’s mom because they told their friend to fuck off and tried to push them down the stairs after.” Spoken through a chuckle as he recalled the day, adding humor to the situation was the only way, for both parties, to make it manageable and stay afloat.

She laughed.

God. He always swore he felt the world stop spinning when she laughed. To him, it was the best sounding thing in his life, and at a moment like this - seeing her as tired as she was - he reveled in it. “Fair enough,” she shrugged with a small smile. She glided past the comment easily, though he still reeled over her laugh alone, and she smirked once she locked eyes with him. Her eyes boring into his own that made him swallow hard. “But I think I still have you beat, Suga.”

“Do you now?” It was a running competition, of sorts, where both tried to one up each other by means of fiendish anecdotes from their day. Either, one was deemed a winner or it got too frustrating to continue. The latter was the usual, rather predictable, ending; and they both would sit collectively in silence through grief upon hearing wretched story after story.

“I got observed today.”

“So did I.’ He leered, thinking he, again, had her at a stalemate. But his expression fell almost immediately as she continued.

“I know you did, your’s was in the morning. Mine was after recess.”

There was a small pause before he lifted a hand to his mouth, desperately trying to contain the laughter that wished to leave him. But to no avail, as it bubbled from his lips anyway, leaving muffled and broken through his palm. Deep down, he felt rather bad for laughing about a situation that gave her grief. However, if he didn’t laugh, he would surely fall into the deep pits of sorrow and tension; because only he knew just how truly gut wrenching a half baked observation was.

His choked back giggles made her groan and she picked up a stray dry erase marker off her desk. Looked at him through narrowed eyes before she ultimately decided to throw it at him. “I hope your next one is after a field trip, dickhead!”

He was quick to dodge the stray marker, shifted down to duck when he did, but it only made him laugh harder. He completely neglected covering his mouth, dropping his hand to the desk as his laughter rang through her classroom. It was refreshing to hear, palpable, and happy - a sound that, despite the reason, she was all too accepting to hear. “You're evil to wish that upon me."

If there was an award for how many times the woman rolled her eyes, she certainly would've won by now. However, her standoffishness was always met with a cheeky reply and a smile from him. Not once did he ever take such actions, and sometimes slick words, to heart as he knew the origin of them to a tee - fatigue. Knew first hand that she ripped herself open throughout the day only to be left with a gaping wound in the aftermath when everyone went home. Overstimulated, burnt out, and tired were the trifecta of moods he knew down to a science.

“How do you think it went?” Asking once his laughter had dwindled and he turned the conversation to that of sincerity. But the look she gave him in response to the question was telling; he felt his heart strings pull taut at the amount of despair in her eyes. Hidden unfathomably well, if anyone else were to look at her they wouldn't have realized - but he did. Swirled behind a front, buried deep within her mind, but as soon as he saw it he frowned. “Not well, huh?”

He watched as she closed her eyes with yet another sigh, this one deeper than the last, and rested her head against the back of the chair. “Not at all.” The former sarcastic, almost mischievous, voice scorned. “Sometimes I wonder if they think I'm a good teacher at all and not just some warm body as a placeholder.” Said quieter than her latter statement, as if she were too afraid to admit such self depreciation aloud.

“Don't say that.” The man decided to sit up straighter, realizing that the conversation wasn't comfortable anymore, wasn't playful banter as reality set in. He put his hands in his lap instead of on the desks behind him, and looked at her like she was a woman of significance - because, to him, she was. “Don’t beat yourself up about something you have no control over.”

“That’s the problem, Suga,” the once snappy defensiveness he knew, and loved, changed to that of vexation. “It didn’t look like I had control of a class full of fucking ten year olds.”

“Do you remember last year when a kid almost made me cry?” A rhetorical question, and she opened her eyes to look at him in annoyance. Lips parted to tell him that his question had no significance to the issue, that it didn't pertain, but he cut her off. “What about when I was ten minutes late picking up my class from art because I fell asleep? I have never heard the end of it from her by the way, she still tells me every art day that she’s surprised I'm on time. Or how about last week? When I accidentally said orgasm instead of organism, and had to tell every fucking parent in my class I did?”

There was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she remembered last week's events; how the man had to call and grovel over a silly slip of the tongue. But it fell almost as soon as it came, dropping once her thoughts continued to shatter her self confidence. “Well at least you have a hold of your class.” She often measured her own abilities according to his own and to her, she always fell short. Better classroom management, better content, better everything - she felt her heart sink once the words left her lips.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, brown eyes looking at the woman in near frustration. “Do I need to remind you about Valentine’s Day last year?” He watched as she grimaced shook her head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So before you keep on telling yourself things that aren’t true, remember that if you’re a bad teacher that makes me an even shittier one.”

She looked at him a moment, letting a silence pass them before she cast her eyes downward to her desk. A wave of foolishness struck her in the chest and made her breathing stagger. Not once did he ever allow her to undervalue herself or her abilities, she didn’t know why she thought he would do so now. Even still, whilst feeling dull, she locked eyes with him and fixated. A benevolence within him that made her take a deep breath, a seriousness in his eyes that ruffled the edges of her soul. “Alright,” she nodded, “you’re right.”

With a small breath, and once again breaking his eye contact, she began to arrange the scattered papers on her desk, hoping to start cleaning up the clutter of her space. But her thoughts continued on, swirled amongst the chasms and gullies in her mind. Twisted and turned until she felt dizzy, nauseous -  stupid. She didn’t notice her expression was so readable, anxious as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Felt the ripple of unease and daftness begin to sink its claws into her, creating indentations next to others from the past; she knew full well that she couldn’t pry it off, as it only resulted in tearing herself apart when she did.

Within her apprehensive mind, she heard him sigh and the legs of a desk screech from him getting up. She chose not to look up at him, as he would quickly become aware of how she felt - but he knew regardless. Knew that walls seemed to come crashing down on her, and the water was rising with every second that passed. The longer he watched her wade in it, the harder it became for her to make the decision of sink or swim. So he turned upon standing, and began picking up the loose papers, pencils, and miscellaneous items on desks and the floor. Not having been asked, but wished to help regardless, a silent agreement as their eyes met for a fraction of a second before she turned away again.

“Do you want to get a drink with me tonight?” Asked through a breath, a nervousness riddled within his words that was subtle. A subtly that she barely caught but made her stomach tie into knots when she did.

“A drink?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, one that she couldn’t find herself to look at. A restlessness swirled in her stomach once the question was asked, the sickly sensation lurching her from the waves of anxiety to the vice-like grip of timorousness. No longer being crushed by a weight of responsibilities but cracking under the pressure of minute advances - she would be lying if she said she didn’t like it. Couldn’t trick herself into believing she didn’t enjoy the coyish flirting, saccharine smiles given, or brown eyes that looked at her in sheer infatuation. “C’mon-” he coaxed. “You’re stressed out, and you deserve to not think about teaching for once in your life. Besides, we can disappoint parents by having lives outside of here.”

A breath of air passed through her nose at his latter statement, a small smile pulling at her lips at the thought. “I hope they see us there,” she mused, letting a gentle chuckle follow despite her disposition. “Let them call the principal and everything.” She saw him pause, holding a broken pencil in his hand as he turned to look over to her, and watched as his smile grew at her words.

“So you’re coming with me?”

Biting at her bottom lip to hide the smile that wanted to stretch at her lips, she locked eyes with him once more. “Are you paying?”

“If it gets you to say yes, then sure I’m paying.”

taglist (open, send an ASK)

@19calicos @yoshit-he-dinosaur @sandwhitches @bokutoko @wyrcan

@akaakeis @darling-eos @iiwaijime @mitskicain @cherrypieyourface

@yogurtkags @cupidsblonde @honeekyuu @s1ckntw1st3d @causenessus 

@maeflowers653 @crispchocolates @moucheslove @staygoldsquatchling02 @phoenix-eclipses 

@ji9sstar @zumicho

[yellowocaballero]

“I’m afraid I must call you out of retirement for a final mission.”

Cold ice shot through Tobi’s chest. Fuck.

Did he know? He couldn’t. If he knew, he wouldn’t show it like this. His visit with T&I would be a lot less cheerful, that’s for sure. Was he prodding Tobi, watching for his reaction? Did Sarutobi honestly think he’d slip up? Tobi was incapable of slipping up. He couldn’t tell the truth with a kunai to his throat at this point.

“What sort of mission is it?” Tobi asked excitedly, ripping open the folder. He held the paper up and slowly mouthed the words on the page, fighting to get through the page. Look at him, he filled out his mission reports in crayon and could barely read. “Mission report…assignment duration, promotion or release…pay…oh, ew…assignment…jounin sensei…”

Tobi trailed off.

Distantly, he heard himself say, “Um. Maybe this is a mistake?”

As promised in last post. Kakashi & Obito roleswap. Barely. It's complicated. Please pay no attention to how many roleswaps I have written. Just ignore it. Do me a favor and do not think about it. OK? Thank you.

Snippet from a much longer, much messier document. This part was the very first part writiten and very much a proof of concept. I'm trying to figure out if I should overhaul the thing and turn this into an actual story, so let me know.

Short beginning scene of Tobito's Wild Ride under the cut.

“Tobi. Thank you for coming.”

Obviously, Tobi didn’t bow or kneel. That wasn’t the sort of person Tobi was. He just grinned broadly, waving so broadly that his body swayed with the motion. “Gramps! Hello! Wow, you’ve gotten old since I’ve seen you!”

Sarutobi chuckled, raising a pipe to his mouth. The pipe - either ‘I’m thinking hard’, ‘I want to pretend I’m thinking hard and giving due consideration to your idea when I don’t really care’, or ‘I’ve already decided and I’m pretending that you have a say in this’. What was the point of the last one? This was a literal military dictatorship. Tobi forgot how exhausting this man could be. 

“It has been a while,” Sarutobi said indulgently. “Since…the T&I incident, I believe?”

Tobi giggled, high and childish. “Inoichi-san got sooo mad. But Tobi said he was real, real, real sorry, so I hope he’s not still mad…oh, no.” Tobi gasped, face falling in desolation. “Is Inoichi-san still mad at me? Oh, Tobi can go apologize again -”

“It’s water under the bridge.” Tobi exhaled gustily, wiping the back of his hand against his brow. It wasn’t his fault Inoichi hated him. Apparently his mind was absolutely impenetrable. Something about constant children’s lullabies just playing full blast in his head. Or songs regarding a specific time of day someplace in the world. “I have to apologize, Tobi. I always feel as if I should keep a better eye on you. There’s never enough time in the day for all of the people we care about. Please forgive me for my inattention to you.”

Manipulative old fuck. Tobi panicked, embarrassed by the attention and affection. He waved his hands quickly, almost jumping up and down. “Gramps! It’s okay! Tobi’s not lonely or sad! He still has Sasuke-chan! Sasuke-chan wasn’t brutally murdered, so Tobi’s A-OK!” Tobi had to tell himself that a lot. Every morning after a nightmare, which meant every morning period. “And I met a really nice old lady yesterday and helped her down the street. She gave me an apple sweet. It was delicious! So there’s nothing to forgive, Gramps!”

“I’m glad,” Sarutobi said warmly. Ugh. Tobi knew objectively that Minato-sensei had tried to imitate that tone, but he still liked to convince himself that Sarutobi was mimicking Minato-sensei. That was a good one, he’d have to use it. “Sasuke-kun is actually why I called you here today.” 

That kid. Tobi sighed. “Tobi is sorry that Tobi cannot control Sasuke-chan. I’ve told him that punching Naruto-kun is bad, but he just doesn’t listen…”

“I’m sure you’ll find a method somehow.” Sarutobi pushed a thin file folder across the desk, and Tobi curiously stepped forward and picked it up. He’d know a file like that anywhere. It was a mission assignment folder. “I’m afraid I must call you out of retirement for a final mission.”

Cold ice shot through Tobi’s chest. Fuck.

Did he know? He couldn’t. If he knew, he wouldn’t show it like this. His visit with T&I would be a lot less cheerful, that’s for sure. Was he prodding Tobi, watching for his reaction? Did Sarutobi honestly think he’d slip up? Tobi was incapable of slipping up. He couldn’t tell the truth with a kunai to his throat at this point.

How did Tobi feel about this? Tobi sure as hell knew how Obito felt - desperately wondering if a T&I visit was in his future. Tobi was scared of the missions, sure. But he was a five year old. How would a five year old react to these things? 

Well. Tobi knew how he would have reacted. He would have sighed and rolled his eyes about yet another mission. Pretty impressive when you were burned out of your career at five years old. He blamed the two month graduation for years before he learned of Rin and Kakashi’s hell and eventually concluded that it could have been worse. At least Tobi was paid for his war zone. 

“A mission?” Tobi gushed. He clenched on the folder far too tightly, like a child clutching a wheezing frog. “I’m going on missions again?” He jumped a little, his usual little show of excitement. Kept his energy up. “Does that mean Gramps isn’t mad at me anymore?”

Tobi carefully snuck a glance up from the folder, checking Sarutobi’s expression. Sarutobi’s face was impassive stone, as usual, but he looked a little worn too. “We were never angry with you.”

Tobi fully looked up, tilting his head and frowning. “Nuh-uh. Tobi remembers. Everybody was so mad at Tobi. Just because his hand slipped…it wasn’t Tobi’s fault.”

“We know,” Sarutobi said gently. “Minato didn’t retire you because he was angry with you. He was only looking out for you.”

Well, Tobi didn’t want to be out of fucking retirement. It was objectively insane to put him on any mission. Tobi had gotten sabotaging every attempt to make him a useful member of society down to a fucking art. He had a shitton of inheritance to blow and a nice long civilian life to blow it on. Maybe he was too stubborn about it - Iruka was definitely convinced that he was the second laziest person in the village and sabotaged his assigned jobs on purpose, which Tobi would have resented if it wasn’t absolutely true - but spite was important. Spite woke him up in the morning. 

The only thing that helped him tolerate this stupid village was his hate for it. Ain’t that just the way.

“What sort of mission is it?” Tobi asked excitedly, ripping open the folder. He held the paper up and slowly mouthed the words on the page, fighting to get through the page. Look at him, he filled out his mission reports in crayon and could barely read. “Mission report…assignment duration, promotion or release…pay…oh, ew…assignment…jounin sensei…”

Tobi trailed off.

Distantly, he heard himself say, “Um. Maybe this is a mistake?”

“Trust me. You’re hardly our first choice.” Finally, they agreed on something. “But you’re the only one in this village with a Sharingan, Tobi. You’re the only one who can teach Sasuke how to use his power.”

“Nuh-uh. Um. This is a mistake. Ha ha.” Tobi ripped the paper from the folder, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it over his shoulder. “Because, um, I can’t use my Sharingan. Did Gramps maybe forget that? Ha ha?”

“But you still remember how to use it. Even if you can’t use it yourself, you can still walk Sasuke-kun through using his.” Sarutobi eyed Tobi knowingly, the dim glowing embers of his pipe reflecting a soft light in his eyes. “You were once a genius with the Sharingan, Tobi. They said you were the best since Madara.”

Yeah! Yeah, they did say that, old man! That was the whole fucking problem!

Mention of the Sharingan or Tobi’s old talents always upset him, so this was a great springboard into nipping this in the bud. He’d throw a hissy fit if he had to. Tobi had killer hissy fits. That was how Sasuke was given a seat as head of house in the Clan Council. Tobi’s wail could pierce eardrums and Sasuke had deserved that fucking seat. 

“Tobi doesn’t like the Sharingan anymore!” Tobi exclaimed. “Tobi wants to help Sasuke-chan, Gramps, cross Tobi’s heart! But Tobi doesn’t like the Sharingan and the Sharingan don’t like Tobi. And that’s just the truth.” Tobi crossed his arms, sniffling and scrunching his nose. “And don’t say what you’re gonna say. Tobi knows what’s up. Minato-sensei’s little boy is on that team too, isn’t he?”

He absolutely was. Tobi had speed-read the entire document while he was reading it out loud. But even the remnant of Obito’s genius was still considerable, and Tobi’s moments of keen insight were useful for pushing the enemy into a corner. 

“I thought you might appreciate the chance to look after your sensei’s son,” Sarutobi said mildly, removing a silver lighter from his pocket. Engraved, a gift from Biwako. Was that on purpose? A mind game on Tobi, an unconscious memory on his part, or a purposeful evocation of a memory just for him? Was he trying to remind Tobi of something or corner Obito? Damn this man. “Help him like your sensei helped you.”

The really great thing about Tobi was that he could get away with saying this. It was only to the left of cathartic, but at least it was in the zone. “I’m not stupid, Gramps!” Tobi yelled. The ANBU in the corners twitched, but when Sarutobi’s fingernail clicked on the silver lighter they subsided. “You’re giving Minato-sensei and Kushina-neechan’s little baby and his fox to the last Sharingan because you want the Sharingan to eat the Fox! Why are you doing what you want when you know it won’t work? Tobi’s tried, he can’t - he can’t, Gramps.”

It wasn’t the sort of thing any self-respecting Uchiha would admit. Half of them would kill themselves if they lost their Sharingan. Uchiha Obito, whose Sharingan was the pride and joy of the clan - who was the Uchiha’s Uchiha before Itachi-kun was even a twinkle in his mother’s eye - would never abandon his one point of value. 

And everybody knew how prideful the Uchiha were. There was no Uchiha alive who would pretend to be Tobi. Could you imagine? What Uchiha would humiliate themselves like this with a goofy smile on their face? A regular human being could barely do it. An Uchiha? Forget it. Impossible.

But Kushina-neechan’s favorite shinobi was always the most surprising of all. And Obito cared about that more than all the rest. 

The only ninja who would have ferreted him out was Kakashi. Kakashi and his dopey, stupid smile. His ridiculous porn books and his clumsy pratfalls. His laziness, lateness, and utter underachiever lifestyle. Only Kakashi ever said those words, with a wink and a smile: a true shinobi looked underneath the underneath. So save your energy and watch the clouds with me, Uchiha-kun. No? Maybe next time…

The next time never came. Being a good Uchiha had always meant something, and the useless son of a disgraced clan meant nothing at all. Nothing to anybody but Minato and Kushina and Rin and Obito.

“You’re better than nothing.” In that second, Sarutobi really did look very tired. He didn’t look like he was lying at all. “You’re the best we have, Tobi.”

Tobi was silent. Sarutobi knew it wasn’t much of a compliment. Even somebody like Tobi would know that. 

“As a favor to Sasuke-kun and Naruto-kun,” Sarutobi said, “and as a favor to me. Please give these children the help you can. Don’t worry - I’ll ask the other jounin to pitch in and help.” 

Tobi lowered his voice, and he allowed his tone to grow a little more serious. “I’m not strong. I’m not good at molding chakra and I haven’t really fought anyone in a long time. I can’t protect the children.” 

“We’ll be careful,” Sarutobi allowed. But there was something in his eye… “You may be rusty, but I doubt you’re out of the ring yet. Have a little faith in yourself.” The look in his eyes glinted and grew, and for the first time he stared right at Tobi. “You did hold your own against Uchiha Itachi.”

They stared at each other for a long second, two. A little too late, Tobi laughed and scrubbed the back of his neck. “Silly Gramps! I said a billion times. Tobi hid. I don’t think Itachi-kun thought it was worth it to kill me…I don’t think Itachi-kun ever thought I was a real Uchiha. But we’ve showed him, huh?” Tobi grinned, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Now there’s three whole Uchiha in the whole wide world! One third’s a serial killer, one third’s twelve, and one third is…drumroll please…Tobi! Konoha’s in good hands, ne?”

Tobi smiled at the man who ordered Uchiha Itachi to kill their entire family.

Sarutobi smiled back at the man who was currently pulling the most intricate and improbable lying campaign in a village of ninjas. In Obito’s defense, it was to save his own life. Sarutobi had murdered his family to - well, save the village, but Tobi didn’t have to like it. 

“Thank you for accepting the mission. I trust you’ll do splendidly.”

“Uh. Tobi didn’t -”

“The children ought to be waiting for you in the schoolroom at 1000 hours. You ought to head over - I expect you’re already late.”

Tobi squealed, looking at the unwound watch on his wrist and slapping his head. “Oh no! I’m late, I’m late, I’m late! Bye, Gramps! You promise-promise to get back-up for Tobi, right?”

Pleasantly, Sarutobi said, “I would not trust you alone with those children, no.”

“Yay! Okay, gotta goooo!”

When he left Sarutobi’s office, he was about ten minutes late to his meeting with the children. By the time he arrived at the school he was over an hour late. Lost on the road of life and all that. It didn’t matter - venting about this ridiculousness to Kakashi was way more important than meeting the brats on time.

This would be a disaster. There was no way this would end well. Tobi was a brain damaged, traumatized moron who couldn’t use his one skill and who hadn’t been on active duty since he whoopsie-daisy’d his sword into his best friend’s heart. If Sarutobi didn’t keep up his promise and drag in the other jounin to take up his slack then he’d riot. Did he want Tobi to do work? Tobi? He had resigned from capitalism and the military industrial complex. Pulling him into this shit again - as if he hadn’t suffered enough -

As if Sasuke and Naruto hadn’t. Maybe one of Sarutobi’s stupid-ass motivations was because he knew that only Tobi would be nice to Sasuke and Naruto. Damn Naruto especially. For that, at least…if only as a favor to Minato-sensei…

To make up for it…maybe a little bit of real work would be the least he could do.

Ugh. Hopefully not that much.

Tobi finally touched down at the school, following the Academy hallways to Sasuke’s classroom by route memory. He dropped off Sasuke’s lunch a lot. It embarrassed him so much. It was classic.

Tobi walked into the classroom and allowed a large basket of glitter to fall on top of his head.

A peal of laughter squealed throughout the room, and Tobi opened his eyes to see Uzumaki Naruto clutching his sides and laughing his ass off. Quite rudely, Sasuke had his feet propped up on a desk. That third girl was sitting primly in her seat, terrified. 

“What an idiot! Our new sensei actually fell for - wait.” Naruto straightened, squinting at Tobi. He yelled, jabbing a finger at him. “Hey! Number Two Ramen Fan! What the hell are you doing here?”

Sasuke almost fell out of his seat. He scrambled to his feet, panicked in his special Sasuke way - that was, eyes a little wider than usual. “Tobi? Did I forget my lunch?”

“Um?” Sakura Haruno hunched her shoulders in her seat, picking at the corner of a scroll. “Uchiha Obito’s our sensei. I thought you knew. Did you…not know?”

“Is this a joke?” Sasuke cried. “Who the hell thought this was funny? Tobi couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag! If they’re bullying us again, I swear to god I’ll strangle whoever -”

“Whoah,” Naruto cried, impressed. “Violent!”

“Everybody’s always bullying Tobi,” Sasuke snapped. “I’m an Uchiha. What sort of Uchiha would I be if I tolerated that?”

Glitter dripped down Tobi’s hair and sprinkled onto his clothing. He smiled, big and bright, and clapped his hands together. Sasuke was groaning, but Naruto and Sakura just leaned in closer - caught in a morbid curiosity, desperate to meet their own fate. Signed and sealed. “Tobi’s first impression of you all is…you’re so funny! Tobi likes you!”

The kids paled. 

[kkaewrites]

real or not real — nagi seishiro x reader !

warnings. indecent language, ooc nagi.

tropes. meet-ugly, enemies to lovers.

you hate nagi seishiro.

he was stone cold, often referred to as socially awkward— but you feel like those were just excuses to make up for his rude and nasty behavior. personally, you think he’s overrated just because he’s considered a soccer genius. of course, no one ever believes you. they think your hatred clouds your judgement (it obviously does not).

you first met him when you were in grade school, deskmates for the first day of class. he was shorter than you at that time, but aside from his height, everything about him stayed the same. he still has the same gunmetal gray eyes that’s either reflected with boredom or reflected by the screen of his gray nintendo gameboy. he still has the same white hair, as clean as the first drop of snow, but as wild as a lion’s mane.

to you, there was absolutely nothing about him that’s fascinating— he was the same as any average boy. playing mobile games was his favorite past time, so much so that you believed that it was his lifeline at one point. or so you’d assume. he always kept to himself and was left to his own devices (quite literally), most things that kids enjoy don’t seem to pique his interest. you guess those were the reasons why he didn’t have many friends.

no, scratch that— he didn’t have any friends.

at first you wondered why. if there’s one thing you noticed about him even at a very young age, it’s that he’s handsome. he doesn’t have to be the “rich kid” with amazing gadgets and fancy toys, or the “cool kid” who knows what right words to say and way to say it, but he’s nagi. he was conventionally attractive without even trying. however, that fact doesn’t seem to make up for the fact that he looks lonely.

so, you’ve devised a plan to talk to him.

“hey. sei-chan, wanna be my friend?” you’re everyone’s friend. the sunshine child, the one who always lends her classmate crayons or pencils, the kid with pigtails who smile at strangers for no reason. you’re the kid that everyone loves, and if by some miracle, someone hates you (which has never happened and will never happen)— everyone would simply take your side. you’re loved by all.

if nagi was shocked by your sudden proposal, his features didn’t show any signs of it. what he does is pause his current game and faces you. it’s the first time you’ve ever stared at him eye-to-eye. your heart jumps.

uh oh. is this what they call a crush?

eyes filled with hope, you patiently waited for nagi’s response. you expected him to utter “sure” wearing his usual monotone voice, but it doesn’t come. and what he says instead ruins you. your heart does a somersault and tumbles, crashing onto the pavement and breaking into tiny, gliterring pieces. it did not feel good.

“no thanks. i despise people like you.”

you’re not sure what you’ve done wrong at that very moment. maybe you were too blunt, too cheery, too whatever — just something too much to be able to upset someone like nagi seishiro, who doesn’t feel strongly about anything or anyone. you didn’t have the courage to ask him what you’ve done wrong because your vision blurs. you always reckoned that it was due to anger, but your mother who saw you run home with tear-streaked cheeks says otherwise.

you still don’t know how you managed to piss off nagi, even until your very first year of college. after grade school, you never saw him again. you heard he studied at some prestigious high school but that was the end of it, you never really asked because you had no interest whatsoever. you somehow managed to assure yourself that there was no way you’d ever cross paths with him once again— so why is he here?

why, of all places, would he be your deskmate for your politics class?

at this point, you thought maybe the gods above despised you, too. did they hate you enough to not only be schoolmates, not only be classmates with this man, but to be deskmates? hate is the only logical explanation for this fucked-up coincidence. you’re not keen on fates or invisible strings so you’re sure this was just a punishment for you.

oh god. you hate it so much. you hate him so much.

without a word, you took the seat right next to him, taking the opportunity while he’s sound asleep. you’re not sure why he would take politics as his subject, because as far as you know about him, all he ever cares about is his mobile games. maybe soccer as well, but that’s not exactly related to politics, either.

when the professor enters the class, you found no reason to wake him up. he could get screamed at for all you care, but there was no way you’d ever converse with him at your own accord. because the only way you’d ever survive sitting next to him for the whole semester is by not acknowledging him at all. you can do that. you can avoid talking or looking at him. he’s not that talkative (and he’s not even awake) to begin with.

until your plan crashes and burns.

he turns out to be your partner for a school project— a big one, at that. you considered going solo, but the whole point of the project is to make sure two people are working together. it was a community development kind of plan, so unless he works with you and you work with him, you’d be getting an F for your politics class. that, you can’t have. even if it meant talking to him and enduring his presence.

he wakes up right after the class ended and you could barely contain your scoff. he sat through the whole 2 hour lecture just like that, does he have no care for his grades? doesn’t matter. it’s none of your business if he fails, that simply means that you won’t see him much anymore (which is a win for you).

you sighed. he should’ve been paired with someone else. why did it have to be you? why did it have to be your deskmate? and why did he have to be your deskmate? it was too much. how could you ever work with someone you hate? with someone who hates you?

you’re going to fail politics. you’re 100% sure of that. there was just no way that you’d ever accomplish this task— or you could beg your professor to let you switch partners. or you could ask your classmates to let you switch... but who would ever want someone as lazy as nagi to be their partner? fuck.

from the corner of your eye, you saw nagi yawn. it took all of you to swallow your pride whole and gulp it down to ever approach him, but it’s better than not trying. if you fail, at least you tried. even if it meant battling your inner demons.

so, clutching your bag straps tightly as if it would ever help, you turned to your sleepy deskmate. “nagi. it seems like we’re partners for the politics subject. i’m expecting you’d cooperate willingly so that—”

“sorry,” he interrupts with half lidded eyes. “do i know you?”

“you’re going to rip your paper to shreds.” nagi commented from behind you, peering over your shoulder as you aggressively wrote on your notebook. you imagined the page to be nagi’s face as you cruelly stabbed it, not caring about your pen or your paper’s state. you cannot believe that for some reason, you’re still stuck with the snow white haired guy. you’ve tried everything there is to get rid of him but nothing seemed to work.

“right,” your teeth could break with how hard you clenched your jaw. “will you be free later?”

“oh. i have soccer training.”

of course he fucking has soccer training.

you gave him the strongest deadpan you could muster before exhaling a deep breath. once to calm yourself down, twice to clear your head and thrice in hopes of losing all of your lungs’ air so you could shrivel and die on the spot. nagi seems to be unaware of your thoughts— and even if he had understood your facial expression and body language, he simply did not care.

“i’ll be free after, though.” he adds, as if you’d ever know that information if he hasn’t uttered it. this at least gives you the sense that he might care about the group project, and that he won’t be a complete inconvenience.

“okay. let’s meet up at the coffee shop near school. will you be done at 8?”

“yeah. but,” he pauses. “i thought we’d just do the project at my place.”

“who died and made you king?” you blurt out before you could think of a proper response. you wondered if you’d ever feel so strongly about a person the same way you did for nagi. he was driving you mad.

“what?” his clueless face almost made you feel guilt— almost. but you ignored the sensation and frowned instead. the least you could do was give him a clearer sentence:

“there’s no way i’d ever step a foot at your house.”

“it’s fine. no one’s home anyway.”

“that’s even worse.”

“huh? oh. don’t worry. you’re not my type.”

the conversations you somehow hold with nagi infuriates you. he has this way of making you feel like shit for some reason, and he does it with so much nonchalance you’d wonder if he insults everyone. but you know better and you know he definitely doesn’t, because you’re the only one he treats like this. it’s the absolute worst.

what does he mean you’re not his type? were you not pretty enough? not tall enough? not skinny enough? not fair enough? not what? ever since grade school, you’ve always thought that he sees you as someone “too much” and yet as he stands here with you, in an empty classroom— you wondered how you could be “too much” and yet be “not enough” at the same time.

and since when did you care about how he views you? since you were kids, apparently. because the words he would utter up until this day shatters you all the same. and you hate him— so goddamn much. but beyond all that anger, there’s grief. it doesn’t subside even as you grabbed all your things and shoved 6”3 foot tall nagi aside.

for some reason, he shows up at the café you mentioned at exactly 8 o’clock in the evening. you were typing away on your laptop, while a cup of caramel macchiato and a bunch of scattered papers littered your desk. you didn’t expect him to come, and it would’ve been better if he didn’t. but somehow, he’s here and he looks a little apologetic.

“are you upset?” he asks. his sports bag slumped over his shoulder as he stands right next to you. there’s an unoccupied seat in front but he doesn’t take it— at least, not yet. his whole, undivided attention was poured onto you and you alone. it makes you squirm in your seat, so you decided not to look up from your screen to greet him.

“no. take a seat.”

“you look upset.”

“do you want me to be upset?”

“no.”

“then shut up.”

wordlessly, he takes the seat right in front of you and slouches. he looks battered and fatigued from practice, but he doesn’t say a word to complain (to your absolute shock). you guessed that he walked straight from the field to the café without even changing or taking a shower, because his clothes clung to him like a shirt a few sizes smaller.

“shouldn’t you go change?”

“yeah. but i left my clean clothes at my apartment.”

fifteen minutes pass and you suddenly closed your laptop shut, eyes fixated on nagi’s gunmetal gray ones. he looks surprised from your sudden move, a look that you didn’t expect to recognize due to how miniscule it was. you felt bad for him. the café was getting too cold for comfort and all he wore was his jersey (one that’s drenched with his sweat). if you stayed any longer, he’d probably catch a cold.

why you care, however, that was not a question you could currently answer.

“let’s just go to your place.”

despite his constant need to laze around, his place wasn’t a complete mess— well, yes, there are (presumably dirty) clothes on the floor and used dishes on the sink, but you’ve seen worse. you expected his apartment to be so much worse. it seems like he’s not a complete monkey to not understand basic hygiene and cleanliness.

your only problem is that nagi seems to be bored. you caught him dozing off the coffee table as you ramble about your politics project, and you don’t even have to ask if he cares at all— because he’s trying to hide his obvious distate and boredom. so, even though you’d rather proceed to do your work rather than humoring this 6 foot tall giant, you pipe up:

“wanna play a game?”

“what game? i don’t like games that require effort.”

“it’s called real or not real. we take turns in guessing if the other person’s sentence is real or not real.”

“sounds like a pain.” he groans.

“you know what truly is a pain?” you turned to look at him. “this politics project. so take it or leave it. i’m kind enough to give you a break.”

“shouldn’t we play a different game? a mobile game, maybe.”

“what about a wager, then? the winner’s the boss.”

the game was a piece of cake— to you, at least. nagi’s an open book and it’s easy to read him. you explained that the mechanics goes like this: you take turns in giving very specific sentences about yourself, and the other party has to guess whether it’s real or not real. five wrong guesses means that the other person wins. so the only thing you have to do is to make sure that nagi loses first.

unfortunately, you were down to four mistakes while nagi only had one. the game wasn’t going like how you imagined it would be. how were you supposed to know that nagi keeps a cactus as a pet? how were you supposed to know that he only figured out how to play soccer when he was in high school? how were you supposed to know that he’s got a picture of his crush under his study table? (you still had no idea who that crush is, and it quite literally shocked you). how were you supposed to know that someone like nagi seishiro, was capable of liking someone romantically?

on the other hand, out of the six sentences you threw at him— he had only guessed wrong once. you don’t know how he’s so good at this game, too. it was either he knew awfully a lot about you, or was really good at second guessing things. you’re pretty sure it was the former. how could he know a lot about you, when he doesn’t even know your name?

“real or not real: i hate you.” you stated. his nonchalance was putting you off, but you’re not sure if you were uneasy because of it or if you felt guilty for saying that sentence out loud. you told yourself you could just take it back and act as if it’s not real but nagi himself looked so convinced when he said:

“real.”

he was right once again. but you didn’t have enough time to dwell on the whole thing when his sentence comes.

“real or not real: i want to kiss you right now.”

the silence was so loud it pierces your ears— or maybe you have gone deaf with that sentence. you’re not sure of anything at the moment because it feels like your senses were slowly slipping from your own fingers. if nagi was joking, his face didn’t show any signs of him laughing soon. but maybe you should know better, maybe he could joke like that with a straight face.

so you waited for a few minutes, for him to tell you that it was a joke— that it’s not part of the goddamn game because how could it be part of it? but nothing comes. his eyes were simply on you as he patiently awaits your answer. your make it or break it answer, at that. and it only dawns on you that this is real, this is his sentence and he’s expecting you to play. he’s expecting you to answer real or not real. because you were the one who proposed the game in the first place.

you wanted to scream and to run away, but you were rooted on the spot. time stood still and it froze you under nagi’s unblinking gunmetal gray eyes, as if the situation’s not bad at all. but this is a trick question, your rational mind says. he told you when you were younger that he despises people like you, asked you if he knows you upon meeting at your politics class, and told you that you’re not exactly his type— so there’s no way he’d want to kiss you. right?

you meet his gaze. right, nagi?

against your better judgement to think it through, you suddenly blurted: “real.”

his face doesn’t shift and nor did the mood of the room. your heart was beating erratically as if you’re not facing the guy you clearly hated with a passion, but the silence ensues. you were screaming at yourself, why the fuck did you say real? were you out of your goddamned mind? were you crazy? the answer’s clearly not real!

nagi, however, only looks away. “huh.”

“what?”

“i almost won. what a pity.”

“the answer’s real?”

“yeah.” he tilts his head and answers as if you were stupid. as if you were the one who’s weird and doesn’t get what’s happening— but maybe that really is the case. because you’re mind hasn’t caught up yet. what does he mean the answer’s real? does that mean he wants to kiss you, right now? how is that possible after all the things he had said to you?

you laugh. not the quiet giggle or the chuckle you were accustomed to doing, but a belly laugh— one that could rival a hyena’s. because this was funny. too funny. he’s definitely joking and you’ve only figured out that now.

“okay, fine. you got me.”

“what do you mean?”

“the joke. you’re so serious that i almost missed it.”

confusion marrs his face. “what joke?”

“about the kiss.”

“i wasn’t joking.”

“well, i’d rather have you joking than for that sentence to be real.”

“you hate me that much?”

he almost sounds hurt, but you knew better. how could he be hurt, out of all people? if there’s anyone who’s hurt, it would be you. how can he say all those hurtful things with so much nonchalance and tell you things like he wants to kiss you? how cruel must he be to toy with you like this? it was not funny. none of this was funny.

and it reminds you of your childhood— of your little crush on nagi that never seemed to go away. somehow, the little you screams that you should not fall for something like this. that it is easier to hate nagi than to love him. that it is easier to stand up from your seat, smile, and tell him: “yeah. i do.”

it has been a week. maybe two. or three? you’ve lost count. you’ve never visisted nagi again after the whole real or not real game, and you never saw him often because he’s been excused. something about soccer championship that you didn’t bother listening to. besides, you liked the comfortable silence now that he’s not around.

your phone dings. and it’s from an unknown number. but somehow, you guessed it has something to do with nagi.

unknown

real or not real: i’m sorry

oh. that’s right. the game technically hasn’t finished yet because no one has won. you told yourself numerous time that you won’t reply to his message, but against your better judgement, you somehow still did.

you

real

when your class ended, nagi seishiro was right outside. he was panting and sweaty— as if he ran just to get where you were. but this is nagi we’re talking about. there’s no way he’d actually do something like that, despite his lingering look on you. what’s that supposed to mean, anyway?

breathless, he speaks up to catch your attention. you were busy stuffing your books inside your locker, back against him as you completely ignored his presence. you did not say hi. you did not meet his gaze. but even without direct contact, your heart was drumming against your rib just by knowing that he’s near. what the heck.

“we won the game.”

there’s a lot of responses that entered your mind at that very moment. entry #1, who asked? entry #2, who cares? entry #3, why are you telling me this? and the list goes on. you’re pretty sure none of them were positive— but this was all so confusing. why was nagi chasing after you like a lost puppy who lost its mom? what’s he going for here?

“that’s good for you.” you slammed your locker shut and walked away. nagi eventually follows after you, as if there’s something in his throat that he wants to let out, but you didn’t give him the chance to. you’re sure nothing that would come out of his mouth is good. you’re sure he’s running after you because of the politics project, or because he wants to annoy you.

and you hate it. you hate him. your gut twists at the thought of him running after you like this is some shoujo manga and that’s the annoying part. how is your heart flipping with your every waking step if you hate him so much? you’re supposed to hate nagi, god fucking damn it.

you finally stop in your tracks, whipping around to face the 6 foot tall soccer player. to get it all over with.

“is there something you need to tell me?”

“we haven’t finished the game.”

“i don’t care about the game. leave me alone.”

“it’s your turn. your real or not real.”

this was stupid no matter what angle you look at it. it was just some game you made up and decided to try with nagi. it didn’t mean anything to you because all you wanted by then was to get his attention, so why did it matter so much to him? you don’t get it. you’re not sure how nagi circuits because everything he does confuses you. and before you know it, your irrational side takes over. reason left your body when you blurted the words:

“stop it. fucking stop this.”

why are you so persistent?

“was it fun to toy with me? was it fun when you told me you despised me when we were kids? was it fun when you told me i was not your type? i don’t fucking get it.”

you were angry. mad. seething. your blood boiled underneath your skin and you feared that it would leave your whole being in nothing but dust. through it all, you’re also confused. perplexed. lost. your mind can’t understand the fine line between hate and love anymore. your feelings overlap with each other and merges— you’re not sure what you’re feeling now. you’ve wondered how long you’ve buried this string of emotions you’ve had for nagi. that would explain why you’re nothing but a ticking time bomb now.

“if my playing with my feelings give you so much fun— then do it elsewhere. i have no time for things like this, nagi.”

“but i’m not playing, though. i’ve liked you for quite awhile now.”

excuse me?

“oops. i accidentally gave the answer to my next sentence. what a pain,” he scratches the nape of his nexk and looks away.

how the fuck am i supposed to respond to that?

“do you expect me to believe you?”

“i’ve got no reason to lie,” he shrugs. “plus, lying’s a pain. i don’t like it.”

“but— what you said back then...”

“i, well. i go blank when i talk to you. i guess. my stomach flips when you’re around and my throat goes dry.” nagi doesn’t look at you once while he utters this. tinge of red coats the tip of his ears and this is where you think ‘this is it’. he’s not lying. this is real, and you know that much— nagi never looked nervous until now. you think maybe that explains why he would avoid your gaze and why he would say the most confusing things. you think maybe this is nagi. the socially awkward nagi. the one who can’t talk to people properly nagi.

“i’ve always thought you were pretty. i despise pretty things because it makes me feel things. it’s a pain.” he mumbles. “of course i know you. of course i know your name. but it’s the first thing i thought to say because your face was too close. you’re prettier up close.”

he should stop talking. he should drop it all together and just kiss you, but you could never say these words because you haven’t wrapped your head around the whole thing yet. nagi likes you. nagi thinks you’re pretty. nagi short circuits when you’re around. nagi thinks you’re pretty. nagi’s actually confessing. nagi likes you. he thinks you’re pretty. he likes you.

“i don’t like pretty things. that’s not my type at all. but reo said i might be in love with you.” he finally turns to look at you and tilts his head. your face burns— and you swore it was because of the remnants of your anger, but everyone else could tell that it was not. your heart does a somersault, but this time it does not drop. it stays in the air, lingering like nagi’s perfume scent, until he carefully waits for it to land on his palms when he said: “i think he’s right. i’m in love with you.”

for the duration of your game with nagi and with all the truths shared between the both of you— this is probably the most real out of them. this is the only time he doesn’t ask the question ‘real or not real’ because his face says it all. his face says that it’s the real and raw truth. his face says that you must believe this because he’s not making it up. it was the first time you could read his expression. it was the first time that you’re not confused by nagi.

“fucking dumbass,” you comment. “that’s not how it works.”

you reach over to grab his collar, on your highest tip-toes because of his height. you’re pretty sure you’re the only ones present in the secluded corridor but the clamors of your heart makes an illusion of people cheering for you. somewhere in the parallel worlds of your universe, you think maybe those cheers exist. it only silences when you pulled nagi down with you, whispering:

“i hope you still want to kiss me, then.”

when he closes in the gap between the both of you, his answer was loud and clear.

i do. always.

notes. YES YES YES i finally finished this long ass fic! i’ve been writing it since forever & im just SO glad i finally get to finish it 🥹 as u can see, there is nothing on my mind rn but nagi seishiro. he’s literally living in my head rent-free and i’m not complaining. i love him too much. i hope u enjoyed this ‼️ as always, likes & reblogs are appreciated <3 thank you so so much for ur patience & love for this blog ❤️

ִ ࣪𖤐 masterlist !

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

okay now i'm scrolling down a list of crayola crayon colors noting which ones have been discontinued that i definitely used, and am reacting with things like "What, they discontinued THISTLE? I loved thistle... D:"

what a wild world i exist in sometimes, man...

[curtis-corner]

STAND BY ME (Darry Curtis) PART 7

Fic masterlist here

Fun fact: the end of this chapter was one of the first ideas I had when coming up with this story. Enjoy and I promise an update next week because I think y'all are going to want one!

Taglist: @lovelylegolas2123 @amnestyliketaz

PART 7

You never used to mind working the later shift on Friday nights, but ever since you had starting dating Darry, you dread the time spent away. Knowing he was at his house and you could be there too made you antsy and you looked at the clock more than usual.

The door jingles and you look up from organizing receipts when you hear someone say your name.

“Sally?!” You exclaim, coming out from around the register to greet your old high school friend. It had been over a year since you last saw her, she got married right out of high school to an army man and moved up to Kentucky.

“I meant to write, I’m back for a week to visit with my folks. Needed to pick up a few things,” she gestures to the aisles. You catch up for a few minutes and help her find what she needs.

You are ringing her up when the door chimes again and you glance up to see Darry walking in. Sally gives you a not so subtle look as he approaches the register, she knew about your old crush on Darry and you know she’s going to go wild when she finds out you are dating.

“Hey baby,” he says when he approaches, leaning against the side of the counter and smiling. He glances over at Sally, whose mouth is wide open as she looks between the two of you.

“Sally, you remember Darry Curtis,” You awkwardly wave between the two of them.

“Hi Sally,” Darry voice is smooth, a clear contrast to yours. Sally closes her mouth, but her wide eyes turn to you.

“Seems I ain’t the only one forgetting to write with important news!” You groan. “Oh don’t you groan at me, missy, I was there when your Curtis crush started-“

“Curtis crush?” Darry raises one eyebrow and now your face is really heating up.

“And it was like pullin’ a tooth to get you to talk about it, but you’d blush even harder than you are now-“

“Alright, here’s your change.” You shove a few coins into her hand. “I’ll ring your parents tomorrow, we’ll catch up this week, I swear it.”

She leaves and you turn to Darry, who is smiling like a cat with a canary, but he opens his arms and you go right into his embrace.

--

It had become a little tradition on Fridays to have a date night in, and you felt spoiled by the effort Darry always put into it. He poured you a glass of wine and went about heating up your portion of baked chicken, potatoes and green beans. Darry always ate with his brothers, but made sure to save enough for you, and you made sure to always share some of your plate with him.

You had been dating Darry a few months now, but you still hadn’t gotten fully used to the feeling of being taken care of.

After dinner, you snuggle into his side on the old couch and lace your fingers through his. Steve and Soda had gone out and Pony was working on his story in his room.

“I think I need to repaint the kitchen.” Darry says, his thumb tracing circles on the spot where it met your hand.

“A nice light blue would be pretty.” You offer and he presses a kiss to the side of your head. You fight the urge to turn and capture his lips – you had already been caught making out once tonight by Ponyboy, you didn’t need to make him blush any harder.

“You wanna help me pick out the color?” Darry murmurs and you nod, snuggling closer.

“I’ve always wanted to paint a room.” You tell him. “My house is all white, nothing pretty going on. When I was little I would ask my parents if we could paint them, but they always said no. Once,” You giggle a little. “Once I took crayons to my bedroom wall and started coloring it.

“How much trouble did you get in?” Darry asks, chuckling.

“None, actually. I moved the vanity so it covered it. It’s still there.” Darry looks down at you and smiles.

“Smart girl.”

“They didn’t come check on me a lot anyway,” You say and Darry presses another kiss to the side of your head. “When I was little, sometimes my mom would have to take me on her jobs. She cleaned houses for some Soc families. I always knew I wouldn’t have a big old mansion on the West Side. But there’s these neighborhoods you pass on the way – like near the high school?” Darry nods.

“More middle-class kind of ones. We do jobs there.”

“I always thought those are nice. Nicer than what’s on the East Side, at least. I would look at them from the bus window and the yards were all kept up and it just seemed…safe.”

“I like those houses too.” Darry says and you sit for another minute, just holding hands. A door creaks open and footsteps come down the short hallway.

“I’m coming in the living room. I better not be scarred for life again.” He announces and Darry rolls his eyes.

“Smartass.” He answers and Pony rounds the corner with a knowing grin.

“Can we watch a tv show? My hand is cramping up,” he lifts his right hand and gives it a shake.

“Sure.” Darry slides over and Pony sits on his other side, leaning in close and Darry tucks his other arm around him.

You knew Darry still worried sometimes about not being able to take you out as often as he would like, or the fact that your time together often included at least one of his brothers, but the truth was you loved it.

You loved how Soda would turn up the radio when he was doing dishes and dance around so much it would take twice as long for him to finish them.  You loved that Ponyboy would sometimes ask you to check over your history homework since he knew it was your favorite subject. Even with everything the Curtis family had gone through, the house was still warm and bursting with love and you considered yourself lucky to be a part of it.

Pony fell asleep not twenty minutes after he sat down, and Soda and Steve came home tracking in so much snow that you though Darry was going to make them sleep outside. You talked with them for a few minutes while Darry walked a half-asleep Ponyboy to bed, and then Darry begrudgingly took you home.

It was freezing, but that never stopped Darry from walking you right up to the door. While you both pushed the line in private, at his core Darry was still a gentleman.

But not too much of a gentleman to give up pushing you against the front of the house and kissing you senseless.

“I hate sayin’ goodnight to you.” He murmurs into your neck and you sigh.

“I know the feeling.” He wraps his strong arms around you one more time before walking you to the door. His brows furrow.

“Doesn’t your dad usually leave a light or two on?”

“Only because he doesn’t remember to turn them off.” You reach into your pocketbook for your house key.

“He’ll be home in what, an hour or two?” Darry is still looking around. He had made it clear many times he does not like dropping you off at an empty house.

“Usually about that.” You hold off on opening the door and instead sneak one last kiss from your boyfriend. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” You two had plans to go to dinner and for a drive after you freshen up from your day shift.

“I love you,” Darry says, as earnestly as he did the first time. And just like the first time, it still nearly knocks you off your feet.

“I love you too. Drive home safe.”

The wind whips through the house when you open the door and you hear a few papers rustling on the table. You hope your neatly piled bills aren’t scattered all over the floor.

You do your usual bedtime routine – change into pajamas, brush your teeth, use a cold cream and washcloth to take off your makeup. It’s quiet but peaceful, and you are nearly snuggled into bed when you remember you forgot to get a glass of water.

You walk to the kitchen and catch the corner of a paper from under the table. When you pick it up, you see it’s not a bill but a note from your father:

In some trouble. Out of town. Lock the doors.

You read it again before an icy feeling starts to crawl down the back of your neck. You never locked the doors when your dad was out, he usually came home so loaded he couldn’t open them with a key. With the note clutched in your hand, you hurry to the front door and lock it.

You can feel your heart beating a little faster and you go back to your bedroom and try to take deep breaths.

You glance at the clock – nearly one in the morning. You’re having an internal debate on whether to call Darry when you hear glass smashing from the front of the house.

You hear a thunk, and then two male voices arguing, one sounding further than the other. Another smash of glass and the voices are slightly louder.

“You think he skipped town?”

“Better not have, boss will have a cow.  Now find that money.”

There’s movement and shuffling and the terror that has gripped you since the first sound of breaking glass suddenly propels you into action. You grab your pocketbook from the nightstand and shove your feet into slippers before opening your bedroom window as quietly as you can.

You hear more banging, and it’s getting closer. You hoist your leg over the windowsill and climb out. Your back leg hitches on the windowsill and you fall the short distance to the ground, landing on patch of ice and gravel.

You ignore the throbbing in your right arm and without another look back, you run like hell.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee part 40

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, aftermath of war

But it was beautiful, in Whumpee's eyes. And he cherished the gesture, the kindness that came with receiving a gift.

"I'm so glad you're back!" Myra squealed happily. "I've been wanting to ask you something. You said you didn't know how to write, right?"

Whumpee shook his head sadly.

"That's it, I am going to teach you how to draw no matter what!" Myra said resolutely.

Whumpee flinched slightly in surprise at the unexpected contact when Myra suddenly slipped her soft tiny hand into his giant calloused one, tugging him toward a table with paper and coloring tools on it. But he quickly recovered and let the young girl lead him away and force him to sit at the small children's table. He towered over it, and ended up convincing Myra to just let him sit on the floor instead of a chair. He'd probably break it anyway.

A small and fragile creature bossing around a giant war weapon. How cute, Whumpee thought to himself with a small grin. But he was content to play along, even if his back might be stiff later from sitting on the floor so long. It made Myra happy, and he enjoyed seeing her excitement.

Myra snatched up a paper and some crayons and put them in front of Whumpee, doing the same for herself.

"Okay, so first you have to hold it like this--" Myra demonstrated the proper way to hold a writing tool, and Whumpee tried to copy it. The first couple of tries he accidently snapped the crayon in half completely, before figuring out the right amount of gentleness required to hold without breaking. It felt like holding a thin, brittle twig.

"All right. Now you just draw whatever you feel like!" Myra squeaked, and drew one of her signature stick figures. It didn't look too hard.

...It was, in fact, significantly harder than Whumpee had expected, coordinating his thoughts with his hand that would translate it through the crayon and turn it into a recognizable image. So far all he'd managed was a bunch of wild squiggles in the shape of -- a rock? A word? He had no idea.

His hand was stiff with old scar tissue from countless battles that made it hard to flex the right muscles to get the crayon to do what he wanted and move in the right direction. It felt awkward and unnatural to keep his hand in the right position to hold it. It didn't help that the crayons were like toothpicks in his giant hands anyway.

Whumpee frowned down at his attempted creation, disappointed.

"Look, you can turn even a mess into a masterpiece!" Myra chirped, and she took a crayon of her own and scribbled two dots in the middle of the lumpy, deranged circle-thing he had drawn. "See? Now it looks like the monster under my bed!"

Whumpee couldn't help bursting out laughing. Myra was trying so hard to be helpful -- it was adorable to witness. And even funnier that a 13-year old girl was teaching a grown man to draw the simplest pictures, and even that was challenging for Whumpee.

They went through dozens of papers and countless crayons before Whumpee finally managed to make something he could be proud of.

Because there, in the center of his latest paper, was a single wobbly stick figure -- the lines not as sharp and clean as Myra always made them, but it was recognizably a stick figure, and Whumpee was ecstatic about his accomplishment. His first piece of actual art.

"Now you know how to draw!" Myra squeaked happily, and threw her little arms around Whumpee in an unexpected hug, startling him.

But then Whumpee cautiously draped a giant arm around her in return in a half-hug, oh-so-carefully, viscerally aware of his own supernatural strength. It was strange how these hands, that were usually drenched in blood, were so warm and gentle right now. How he used them for kindness just as naturally as he used them for violence.

Whumpee's gaze flicked up and he saw Flint standing in the doorway with arms crossed over his chest, an amused and slightly grateful expression on his face.

Such a strange turn of events, how Whumpee had gone from a mindless war dog... to a gentle but powerful guard dog instead. It would be a rough change for all of them, but... Whumpee was looking forward to the freedom that awaited him in the future now that the war was over. Though he had a feeling he'd stick around the headquarters anyway.

⏪️ Back (Part 1 of Bonus story)

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @cepheusgalaxy

@dragongodryss

[quitealotofsodapop]

Nobody bays an eye at the fact that MK's mom is a very much male presenting person. They live in a world where shape-shifting is the norm, and there is literally a famous story about a kingdom with a river that can make anyone, no matter the gender, pregnant. Its not an impossible thing to imagine for them, especially since they suspect MK to be a demon at that point anyway, which means his mom is guaranteed to be one too. No, the biggest surprise in regards to Wukong's pregnancy comes more from who Wukong is rather than any sort of gender he presents as, but it's rather easily explained away. After all, there's no reason for Wukong to hide the fact that Stone Monkey pregnancies are often fatal and result in many complications, so as the stronger and more durable between himself and his mate as well as the one with mor most layers of immortality, it's simple logic that he'd be the one to bear their young.

At least, that's how Wukong describes it later. What he neglected to realize is that just because the specifics of Stone Monkey pregnancies have become somewhat common knowledge amongst the celestials, the mortals do not share in that knowledge and hus rather blase attitude in regards to potentially dying in childbirth does little to ease DBK, Pigsy, Tang, or Sandy's concern. PIF is a little more understanding of Wukong's position, having gone through similar complications with Redson's birth, and actually applauds his willingness and bravery in bringing more children into the world, even whilst almost losing his life to bring his eldest into the world.

prev post.

That and they don't want to assume anything in case MK's mom is a trans person. Wukong is fine with both Mama/Baba titles, and if he carried the kid it only makes sense to him to be "Mom" to them.

In a world of demons, trans people, shapeshifting, and rivers that make your pregnant, you just grow up knowing that sometimes a dude gets pregnant.

Regular Stone Monkey pregnancies aren't anymore fatal than say wild monkey statistics, but the Stone Egg method is super dangerous. Stone Monkeys basically donate so much of their life energy to the world around them that there's very little left over for themselves. The "Boulder" atop FFM is even described as spreading orchids and mushrooms into the earth around it.

PIF admires and envies Wukong a little for his success, despite the terror surrounding little Xiaotian's arrival. She wonders if DBK hadn't been imprisoned, if they could have had such luck.

Wukong very simply explains to the Noodle Gang that he's like the healthiest demon around, and his mate is slightly more fragile than him (literally born in the anaerobic enviroment of the moon = no immune system), so he takes over for baby-incubating. The gnag are super intrigued!

Tang: "So when did you decide to have MK?" Wukong, laughing: "Oh, that was a happy accident! A happy, kinda-scary, 14 year accident." Noodle Gang: (*all nod on understanding/awkwardness*) MK: "Yeah, thats why I grew up being told never to bury myself under a mountain." Noodle Gang: "...wut?" Tang:, JTTW brain activating: "Wait. Did you say 14 years!? As in during the Journey!?!"

Wukong pretty much pulls out corkboard of crayon drawings (like in "The Plan Man") to explain the process and how Macaque accidentally left Wukong "rock pregnant" under Five Finger Mountain - a collage crafted specifically back when MK had first asked about the "Birds and the Bees". The Noodle Shop Gang are horrified - and so is MK for having to re-live it.

Everyone comes away from that specifc lunchtime knowing a little too much about the reproductive habits of Stone Monkeys.

Hilariously I can imagine a situation like with the Eclipse Twins in the TMKATI au (both monkeys got el-pregante with either twin) happening here.

But with the current day. Remember how I pointed out that out of all the Nodelets, one shadow planet was missing? >:3

Once the LBD situation is dealt with at the end of S3;

Guanyin: (*gently grabs Macaque by the scruff of the neck*) Guanyin: "How long were you going to run around getting into danger without telling him [Wukong] you were expecting as well?!" Macaque, honestly confused: "Pardon???" Wukong: (*GASP!*) "Hypocrite!" Macaque: "In my defence, I didn't know that could happen."

MK barfs just *a little* at the announcement (MK: "I TOLD you they were being gross!").

Que the last Lunar Nodelet; Ziqi being made. This time via a very nervous Macaque.

Shadow monkey is on 24 hour lockdown pretty much to watch out for health complications, a reasonable punishment for his little disappearing act. Complications arise only because Mac was away from FFM for an appointment with Lao Tzu when a certain Scroll got found...

[bucking-mustangs-with-wings]

skater!au curt & buck friendship headcannons:

(part of my skater!buck x college professor!bucky au wip)

curt & buck have been best friends since they were in preschool. their mothers were best friends so whenever they visited each other they brought the boys with them. queue the ensuing immediate connection because buck thought curt was the funniest thing in the world because the other boy shoved crayons up his nose just to get buck to laugh

curt forever calling buck 'sour-puss' because he always has a resting bitch face and always had one since they were kids. he was the first kid buck ever laughed with/at

curt was there for buck when he lost his mum in hs and all through buck's dad being an absolute deadbeat (as he always is) . he and buck would often go missing for days at a time after buck and his dad fought, but they'd always be at the skatepark learning new moves. anything to distract buck from what was going on at home

after hs the two moved in to a shitty apartment together downtown close to the skatepark. it's a bit rundown and very much needs fixing up but it became their safe-haven

both are just as wild and carefree as eachother but buck is the one to keep a level head in most situations, often being the one to get curt out of trouble. they still don't mention the great traffic cone incident of 2017.

curt is pansexual ("no, that doesn't mean i'm attracted to kitchenware, buck, you fuckin' idiot"), he doesn't care who or what you are. the man is all about free love and accepting who you are without a second thought. so when buck came out to him just after highschool nervous as all heck he just shrugged and asked him if he wanted to get stoned and order pizza to celebrate 'finally getting his head out of his ass'

if you mess with one, you mess with both. buck is a silent force of revenge and if someone fucks with curt you won't know you were even a target until the last second. the last time one of the other skaters had a go at curt for being a 'queer' they found themselves eating the pavement at the bottom of the bowl because the wheels on their board had somehow come loose and fallen off mid-push off. that ended with a trip to the hospital and both buck and curt innocently sitting up against the chainlink fence far enough away that no one suspected a thing

another incident resulted in a lighter exploding in one of the other guy's hands when he was trying to light a smoke. no grievous injuries occurred from that one but eyebrows became non existent and hair was singed.

curt is a little more direct in his approach. he's not afraid to sock someone in the jaw for picking fights with buck or insulting him. he's more likely to just walk up to you and deck someone for being a bigot or just a downright asshole. It works fair enough, and soon everyone knows not to mess with either of the boys unless you wanted a black eye or a missing tooth.

no one could beat curt in a fight either. he took boxing in highschool and won a few trophies, so he's pretty clued in and quick on his feet

both have messed around with each other before when either drunk/high/sober, but they never became anything more than best friends. it was a mutual exchange a few times and it didn't change the way they thought about each other. Curt- "it's just consensual experimentation, two bros helping eachother out. plus who wouldn't want a piece of that pretty face"

buck often helped curt hook up/get with with whoever he was crushing on, curt often singing his praises of being the best wing-man a dropout skater boy could ask for

curt is the one who pushed buck into continuing with college and getting a higher secondary education after hs. he told him he can't drop out because he doesn't want to see his bestfriend become a complete dead-beat, which ended up with buck breaking down into a blubbering mess while high af because he felt like a failure and that his 'mom would be so fucking disappointed man what the fuck would she think'

curt slapped him for that one which knocked some sense into him enough to go and apply for a few courses the next day

I have so many more to add to this but I think I should stop here for now 😂😂 I'm gonna have so much fun with this universe