#drawing water is so damn weird

[lidoshka]

@feanorianweek #4: Curufin (and wife) - lovers

Their days were now filled with laughter and joy

+

@feanorianweek #4: Curufin (y esposa) - amantes

Sus días ahora estaban llenos de risas y alegría

[sysig]

Looking his very best, as much as he can anyhow (Patreon)

[keferon]

Eh okay so. My brain is absolutely cooked so you will probably just have to ignore the linguistic fuckups

Jazz and Prowl learning to communicate because language barrier is a thing >:D

Previous part

Jazz sometimes thinks that somewhere along his career path he lost the bar separating normal from...well...everything else.

After all he's seen, heard about, and done, he's not sure exactly how to measure what's weird and what's normal. He has..the general idea.

His own. And it's so convoluted and fucked up that he'd rather jump into a volcano than try to explain it to anyone else. Jazz thinks the little colorful aliens around him are weird as hell. He thinks they sound weird, he thinks they look weird, and he thinks he must be going crazy.

And then this big black and white robot catches his eye and Jazz's first thought is not "what the fuck??"

His first thought is

"Thank God! Someone's normal!"

Whoever this guy is, he sounds like he knows what he's doing. And most importantly, he looks just like Jazz. Well, not exactly. But close enough. After all, Jazz knows that his organization wasn't the only mech maker on the entire planet. Other countries were making Mechs too, and Jazz hadn't seen even half of them.

But he can recognize a giant robot when he sees one, okay?

The thought that another mech could be an alien doesn't even enter his mind.

So used to the constant presence of huge piloted robots around him, he looks at this one and clings to its appearance as something familiar and easily explainable. His brain says, we know how this works. There's a robot and inside the robot there's another person. It's the way it's always been. The sky is blue, the grass is green and the robots are human-piloted. It's that simple.

The guy takes him to the far corner of the room and says something. Jazz…doesn't understand..

The mech's face contorts in a surprisingly believable display of concentration. How...who built this robot? How could they make it frown?

He hears something else being said to him but again can't understand a word. Why won't this pilot get out of the mech to talk to him? Jazz doesn't have his communication frequency but surely they could at least shake hands. There must be some reason. Maybe something wrong with the air? Is it dangerous to be outside? This guy should know better, he's been here longer than Jazz, it seems.

(Damn it, whose idea was it to make a mech with a face, it's so distracting)

He rushes to activate the external speakers, because he and this guy obviously speak different languages, but it never hurts to try, right?

"So uh, I don't think you can understand English?"

Mech frowns again, trying to pick up on something familiar in a language that's apparently new to him. But finds nothing. Jazz lowers his horns sadly.

Oh well. Fuck. As if being stuck in an unknown place with unknown creatures wasn't enough, he can't even talk to anyone! How is he supposed to get out of here? Which way should he even go?

The mech waves his hand to get his attention and then pulls out a tablet and a stylus from..where ?

Jazz somehow manages to overlook the fact that the tablet is made to fit the mech's size. His head is still feels a bit…off..after that portal thingie.

"Charades it is then."

____________________

An hour and a half later, Jazz finds himself staring intensely at the screen in front of him with a surprisingly neatly drawn chart on it.

"So uh. Motion."

The other guy nods and starts drawing a walking mech. Then something that looks like a very unusual car. Then a submarine. Jazz gets a little lost looking at how skillful he is with the stylus.

Honestly, he's a good artist!

The guy points to the sketch of a walking mech and says

" Motion."

Then points to the drawing of a car driving and the columns of the chart.

"Motion-rotation" he points to the car again.

That must mean "driving" huh? Jazz nods understandingly.

Mech moves his finger to the submarine.

"Motion-Water."

Ah, it must mean swimming. Jazz nods once more, feeling like a wind-up dummy repeating the same motion a dozen times.

The mech makes a quiet humming noise and then points to the chart

"Motion. Sky."

And then gives Jazz the stylus?

Uh, what is he... Oh, he wants Jazz to figure out what it means.

"Motion" and "sky," right?

Jazz takes the stylus? Pencil? Thingie.. and very carefully draws out a crooked scribble of something only remotely resembling an airplane. The mech arches an eyebrow and looks like he wants to laugh.

Jazz shrugs awkwardly and tries to add windows to the airplane, but ends up making it look more like a severely fucked up caterpillar.

Mech snorts.

Jazz kicks him in the leg.

The airplane begs for a merciful death.

Jazz didn't really expect to get into a language class but he has to admit that whatever language he's learning now is a surprisingly easy one. It only took the other dude half an hour to show him the basic concept and from there it became a game of associations.

There were simple definitions. Like size, quantity, speed, emotion and so on.

There were signs that automatically turned the whole sentence into a question or a statement.

There were modifiers that Jazz defined in his head as positive and negative.

Positive speed - fast.

Positive size - large.

Positive direction - forward.

Positive time - future.

There were also basic words for senses, emotions and whatnot, also with modifiers.

Mouth-positive - to speak

Brain-positive - to think, but negative-brain-do-positive - to learn.

Huh.

And it's so neatly organized that Jazz wondered if this language was designed specifically to be easy to learn.

Let's see....

Mouth - positive, effort - negative.

"Easy to speak."

The guy nods contentedly and starts talking back, while pointing to the appropriate columns of the chart to make it easier for Jazz to understand.

"Creation-positive. Purpose. Person-negative-knowledge. memory-positive-effort-negative."

Jazz frowns, concentrating on his finger.

Oh. Created. For those who don't know it. Easy to learn.

He was right. The whole thing is waaaay too awkward to write poetry but learning it is a delight.

Jazz leans over the chart.

All right, well, let's see.

“Name. You. Question?”

The other guy smiles and pokes at the chart

"Me.Motion-sound-negative.Negative-eyes-positive-someone."

Walk quietly. searching?… Sneaking?

Oh, it's not "to sneak" it's "to prowl"

"Prowl" nods affirmatively. Jazz smiles at him and looks at the chart again. Okay. How to say “music”?..

“word-knowledge-negative.”

He stops to make a gesture with his hands, as if playing an invisible piano while humming a tune.

Prowl nods

“Sound-positive-positive-hearing.”

Jazz chuckles

“A whole two positives eh? Okay then. Uh. You don't look like you listen to jazz....so..”

“Me. Name. Sound-positive-positive-listening.”

Prowl raises his eyebrows. (Jazz is jealous, he wishes he had eyebrows too.)

“You're a musician?"

Jazz quickly shakes his head while simultaneously muting the outside speakers to a barely audible level and turning on one of the songs on his playlist.

Prowl twitches in surprise when he hears the melody.

Jazz waits for the intro to finish playing and then points to himself

“Creation-negative..uh..Sound-positive-positive-hearing. Jazz. This...”

He pats himself lightly on the chest.

"..is me. Jazz."

Prowl straightens up slightly

“Oh, you're not a musician, you're the music.”

Jazz nods cheerfully

“Yes yes!”

“Jaaz?”

“No no. Jazz.”

“Ah. Jazz?”

“That's right.”

Prowl draws a portal on the screen.

“You teleported here. What happened?”

Jazz hangs back, trying to construct an answer in his head. Good thing Prowl seems to have infinite patience

“So, I uh. What was 'fight'? Movement-pain-positive? I fought these things...”

He takes the tablet from Prowl and draws a crooked blot with a bunch of tentacles on it. Then thinks for a bit and adds big teeth and a lot of eyes. He's not really sure how to draw those eyes properly, so he just scatters them randomly around the monster area.

Prowl doesn't seem to be that amused by Jazz's drawings anymore, in fact, he suddenly becomes very somber.

“Quintessons.”

He pokes at the monster

“Name-Quintessons. Number-question.”

How many?

Jazz scratches the back of his head

“So uh...a lot?....number-positive-positive-positive-positive-positi...you get the idea.”

To be convincing, he dramatically spreads his arms out to the sides depicting something very large.

Prowl looks alarmed.

And unconvinced.

“How did you survive?”

Jazz laughs pretentiously

“Ask them how they survived.”

Prowl makes the “you can't be serious” face. Jazz isn't quite sure what exactly is confusing him. Mechs are designed to kill Quintessons, aren't they? Judging by his movements, this pilot must be damn good at controlling his mech, and that kind of guys usually fight on the front lines.

He decides to put that thought aside for later. There are more important things right now, like...oh shit, where is he even going??

Jazz leans over the chart again

“Uh. Right. Question-we-move-up-place” Man, how to specify... “Knowledge-negative?”

Prowl, linguistic gods bless him, understands him and starts gesturing over the chart in response

Okay. Ah. I-move-up. Planet-creation-positive.

'I'm heading home' or 'my home planet'.”

Jazz instantly perks up.

“Oh that's great, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to go there too.”

Prowl is speaking in a language he's unfamiliar with, so he's definitely from another country, but hey, who cares as long as it's on Earth, right? He just needs to get there and he'll find his own way from there.

He watches the space debris flicker by outside the window. Even the stars are unfamiliar, Jazz can't find any constellations he knows.

One of the little purple creatures says something and Prowl steps aside to chat with them. Jazz leans back and settles into a more or less stable position. Then does the same thing, but with his real, human body. Hell, his head still feels really fucking weird after that teleportation.

He opens the comm channel and just listens to the static for a couple minutes in the faint hope that the engineering department will find a way to contact him.

Nothing.

He sighs.

“1061 on the com. In case there's any way you can hear me...ah shit. You guys won't believe what happened...”

___________

[Next]

[nighttimealone]

Would love to see more of wraith!simon x reader🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ especially the sweeter dynamics of their relationship!! Maybe the various different parts of their relationship as wel

Wraith!Simon (pt.1)

Cw: Suggestive, fluff

If you have a habit of locking the bathroom door while showering, sorry, the little lock doesn’t stand a chance in Ghost’s breaching inside the bathroom, since he can just phase through the damn door. You’ll find yourself enjoying the warmth embrace of the cascading water until the steam outside the shower glass starts parting without any reason.

Or, there’s a reason—Ghost, staying invisible and interrupting your precious self-caring time.

“Simon?” You turn your head towards where you assume he’s standing and call out. “Told you so many times already, stop barging in while I’m showering, if you want to join, just say it.”

The only answer is the white noises of the shower ringing in the room. Bastard doesn’t feel like talking right now, you shrug nonchalantly, decide to go back and work the shampoo into your scalp, but the hand prints that start appearing on the steamy glass catch your attention.

One, two, three…the hand print crawls its way upwards, smearing the foggy glass door until it stops around the height of your eyes.

‘No’

Firm, without any space to argue with, your typical wraith partner and his grumpy black cat attitude.

“What do you mean no?”

He doesn’t answer this time. Okay then, back to showering.

Lilting the song you accidentally discovered and has been playing on repeat for days, you miss the swirling of the steam behind you, the heart he draws on the foggy glass, musing that he probably left you alone and finally granting you some privacy.

Well, totally miscalculated from your side. Cause a pair of hands rested on your hips the moment you turn off the shower, and a monstrous thing is poking at your inner thighs is impossible to ignore.

“Time to claim my reward.” his breath fanning on your ear, chest pressing against your back as he materialized himself.

Oh, You’re fucked, mentally and physically.

Keep a close eye on your shopping cart when you’re out to restock your groceries.

Detergent, teabags, a carton of milk…5 bags of crisps…

5 bags of crisps?

you lift your head from your shopping list and double check the stuffs in your cart to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

“Simon!” you hiss out a whisper as you put 3 bags of crisps back on the shelf, knowing he’s definitely lurking around you, and the sudden chill you feel with his approach proves that you’re correct yet again.

“2 bags of crisps, that’s all, Simon. you ate 5 bags of these this week already…and all the same flavor?!”

A grumble rumbles from behind, his own method of conveying his protest when he’s invisible.

“No, that won’t work on me anymore, Simon.”

Another grumble emanates after your words, this time more like a purr than a threatening bark from a wolf.

“You used the same trick last time.”

No response this time.

Well, he finally gave up. you resume pushing the cart towards the counter again. Too much crisps isn’t good for him, even though he’s a wraith, and a weird wraith that does exercises, and got caught using your ring-con, jumping like a monkey to collect coins in the middle of your living room one day you were back from a long day. (he didn’t talk to you for the next few days, and the air was extra cold)

Setting the items on the cash desk, you fumble your purse to fetch the wallet absentmindedly, waiting for the cashier to scan the products.

“A bottle of detergent…5 bags of paprika crisps…”

“Sorry?”

“5 bags of paprika crisps.”

The little…apologies, big asshole, and hell, he’s chuckling with that low tone now in triumph beside your ears.

“Cash or card?” The cashier’s skeptical voice snaps you out of trance.

“Cash…”

Next time, watch your six when you’re strolling towards the counter, maybe you’ll finally spot the floating bags of crisps making their way back from the shelf into your cart.

Drank too much water before going to bed…your eyes flutter open as your bladder calling for help and wakes you from your peaceful slumber, hinting you to make your way towards the washroom.

“Bloody hell!” You nearly shout when you spot the massive man few steps away from you, and scares all of your lingering sleepiness away.

There goes your wraith, standing tall and imposing…at the end of your bed, basking in the moonlight that seeps through the curtains and glowing in a blue-white light. Thank goodness you didn’t wet your pants.

“Why aren’t you in the bed?!” you pat the empty spot of the mattress beside you.

“Feeling like going on a short walk.”

“In our bedroom? at 3 a.m.?”

“Any issues?” with the skull mask covering the upper part of his face , you’re unable to see his expression clearly, but you know he’s raising an eyebrow with the ‘you’re the one who’s being weird’ face.

Okay, a wraith being active at 3, valid.

“Just don’t stand at the foot of my bed next time, alright?”

You shake your head in disbelief, sluggishly dragging your legs to the washroom, and make it back to your shared bed again minutes later.

Good, he’s on the bed now, no more shenanigans.

You lay down next to him, “Good night.” the mumble rolls off your tongue with grogginess, closing your eyes and ready to drift back to sleep again.

Ah, should set an alarm so you won’t oversleep and arrive at work too late once more.

The last bit of the sober part of your brain saves you from the predicament before you fully fall asleep, so you reluctantly open your eyes, arm reach out blindly to fetch your phone.

“Holy hell for the love of—“

“You didn’t day I couldn’t stand beside the head of the bed.”

The smirk playing on his lips is infuriating, but attracting as hell too, gracing his ruggedly handsome features so good that you forget about your anger for a brief moment, till his amused laughters escaping his lips and drag you back to reality.

You’ll kick him out of this house, you swear.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - I Saw You In The Water

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: You and Sam try something new to help Dean with the Mark of Cain. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: I'm trying to distract myself from life, so here. Have a miniseries!

Title from Cringe by Matt Maeson

Word Count: 3.7k

Read on A03!

“This looks kind of stupid,” you mutter to Sam, and he makes a small nod of agreement, neither of you looking away from the scene before you. Rowena reciting a bunch of words that don’t sound real, and Dean sitting in a kiddie pool, scowling with his eyes screwed tight.

“It’s not just stupid,” Dean snaps your name, and you flush. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. “It’s pointless, and I am not getting adult baptized. You know what? screw this-“

He starts to stand, but Rowena pushes on his chest and sends him back into the water on his ass.

“No moving, or you’ll make me have to start over. And none of us,” Rowena looks Dean over with a dramatic shudder. “Want that.”

“Does it, um, does it have to be an inflatable pool, Rowena? Can’t we just put him in the shower?“

Rowena scoffs, dismissing Sam with a wave of her hand. “That is not how magic works, Samuel. We’re already making a gamble by hoping the spell counts this as a communal bath filled by the clean of soul, and a motel shower would be far worse.”

“Clean of soul-“

“That wee little bellhop.” Rowena gives you a sweet smile, a glint in her eyes that makes your stomach turn slightly. “Only dirty thoughts in his head were about you and your lovely breasts.”

“What.” Dean’s head shoots up, his scowl somehow more violent. “What do you mean, her breasts-“

“I mean her tits, you dimwitted boy.” Rowena gives you a disbelieving eye roll. “Men.”

“Who the fuck was looking at her tits-“

“The bellhop, Dearie, keep up-”

“Can you just do the spell, Rowena?” You cross your arms over your chest, half folding into yourself in a play to get the conversation off of your boobs. “Now?”

Rowena rolls her eyes, but nods and goes back to all her incoherent mumbo jumbo as Dean begins to look violent.

You bump Sam’s shoulder, standing slightly on your toes to whisper, “What if this doesn’t work?”

“It will.” Sam shakes his head, and his hair hits you slightly in the face. “Rowena’s the best in the game, and we’re only stretching a few of the ingredients. It’ll be fine.”

Neither of you believe that, but you’re also running out of options. You’ve lost all your leads on the Book of the Damned, and Dean can’t keep killing people. It’s killing him, and Sam, and you, and also the people. And this is, in a roundabout way, a solution. And Rowena says it will work, and you’re not stupid enough to trust her, but you’re also desperate enough to make a deal with her. She’ll do a spell to make Dean’s bloodlust refocus—make it more about things that make him happy, and less about murder—and you and Sam will stop trying to kill her for three whole months.

If it works, it’s a win for everyone. Rowena doesn’t get shot, you and Sam get Dean back, and Dean can maybe, hopefully, be happy again.

Rowena draws back up from Dean and walks over to you and Sam, extending her hand. “Hair.”

“What-“

“Hair, lass. The spell needs your hair.”

“Sam’s hair?” You frown. “Or my hair?”

“Preferably, both.”

You and Sam exchange a look of what the fuck, and Sam keeps his voice low—inaudible to Dean—as he mutters, “Why our hair?" Why not the, uh, the bellhop guy-“

“The bellhop is of no significance to Dean’s life. You two are the people he loves most in the world, so unless you want him to remain under the Mark’s corruption,” Rowena flexes her hand, her voice becoming stern. “Hair.”

Sam pulls out his hair quickly, but you’re a little slower. You’re not someone Dean loves. You’re someone Dean cares about, but you’re not Sam. You don’t belong on the spell’s weird ingredient list, you barely belong in this room. Watching Dean in such a strongly vulnerable position, making decisions about his life for him. He’d resisted this, you’d said please, and he’d caved almost immediately, but you mostly think he just didn’t want to argue. You've all been arguing a lot lately—Sam and Dean arguing about most everything, you and Sam arguing about next moves, and you and Dean arguing about you sticking around, near him, through this—and it’s getting exhausting.

But Rowena gives you an impatient look, and you pass your hair into her hand. If it doesn’t work, you can just start over and only use Sam’s hair. He has a lot of it to spare, he’ll be fine.

When the spell finishes, Sam and Rowena go outside to talk and you sit on the bed, watching Dean in silence. He’d insisted on wearing his clothing in the pool—jeans, boots, flannel and all—he’s cross-legged in the water, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes.

He still looks good. There’s an expression made of deep lines and tense frustration on his too-handsome face, and you want to touch him. You want to touch Deanwherever he’ll let you. Run soothing hands over his frown, find out of his grown-out scruff is soft or prickly, kiss his full, pink lips until he smiles, and drift down his body. Over his chest, his stomach, lower and lower until you’re wrapping your mouth around him, and he knows that you care. You really, really care about Dean, and he’s not a burden, and if this doesn’t work, you’re going to stay right at his side until you find something that does, because you like to think you’d look up at him under your lashes and he’d see that you love him, and throw his head back and groan, and maybe his hands—big and rough and so carefully skilled—would touch you-

“Be honest with me, Sweetheart.”

His low, deep voice pulls you out of your fantasy, and you blink at him with a flush that you pray he won’t notice. “What?”

“Be honest,” he repeats, and his eyes open right onto yours. He doesn’t look to be in pain anymore, he mostly looks tired, so you nod.

“Yeah, okay. What-“

“This is dumb.”

You huff a soft, dry laugh. “It’s a little ridiculous. But it will work, Dean.”

“No spell that I know of calls for an inflatable kiddie pool.”

“Well, you’re not a witch.” You shrug. “And think of it this way, we bought that forever. We bring it back to the bunker, that’s fun.”

“Bought my ass.”Dean drawls your name, giving you a pointed look that makes you squeeze your legs together a little. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you and Sam stole this thing.”

“It was like, $40.” You mumble, staring at the floral patterns of the motel carpet. “I am not paying that much for some plastic.”

“Even for a spell to save my damned soul?” Dean’s teasing, but there’s something in his voice you hate. Something that make you look up at him with a frown, unable to hide the slight desperation in your voice.

“You’re not damned, Dean.”

He just shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes, and before you can push it Sam returns, tossing Dean the keys and announcing that it’s time to figure out what the Mark wants.

So now, in an old, dusty bar, Dean’s smiling. He hasn’t really, really smiled in a few months, and it’s incredible to see.

It aches a little that he’s smiling away from you. Across the bar with his I can show you the world, sweetheart stance and expression. The one where he’s leaning the counter with one arm, and his eyes have a promise of fun while his every word is charming and drawling and teasing. You think he learned it from movies—he’s told you he likes the charisma of old western heroes, and there is something about his whole show that says cowboy—but there’s a pretty strong chance it’s just Dean. It’s how he is. Who he is. All he does is be handsome and stupid and annoying in a way that makes you want to punch him and then immediately kiss him after.

He’s hasn’t been Dean like that in a while, though. It’s been mostly frowns that turn in on his face, and a refusal to look in the mirror that he tries to hide, but you’ve still noticed. But right now, this is your Dean. The Dean who follows you into countless dreams with his pretty lips and eyes and strong hands and body, the Dean who’s managed to haunt you while you're awake and plant an ache in your heart when he’s in pain, and the Dean who you might know a little better than you know yourself. It’s why you ordered a cheeseburger when he went to sulk at the bar, and why you’re facing the door in the booth—Dean always faces the door—and why it hurts something deep and hopeless inside you that the grace of Dean’s smile is all focused on a pretty girl that isn’t you.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Your attention turns to Sam—who’s looking at you with a sympathy that is not welcome—and you give him a flat glare. “What am I supposedto say to that.”

“Um, the truth? I think?” Sam turns in his seat to look over at Dean, and you kick him. “Hey!” He yelps your name, whipping back around with an almost pout. “That hurt-“

“Don’t look at him.” You hiss, jerking your head to Dean. “He needs this.”

“Yeah, but-“

“No but, Sam. The spell is supposed to make him crave things he likes, he likes sex, let him have sex.”

“I don’t…” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “It’s weird. I read the spell-“

“Of course you read the spell-“

“Shut up, I always read the spells, it’s safer. And this one,” Sam looks you over with a frown and tight-lipped, grimacing expression. “This one’s odd.”

“Oh no,” your voice is sarcastic and cold, and it makes Sam flinch a little. “An odd thing. If only we knew some people who knew how to handle odd things.”

“This is why I wish you would just talk to him.” Sam mutters, giving the waitress a kind smile as she hands out the food. “You get mean when things like this happen. And I don’t think it would be as horrible as you’ve decided it would be.”

You pull the cheeseburger to your own side of the table in a blatant Dean-trap. “That is very easy for you to say, Sammy. Worst case for you, you become a child of divorce.”

He shrugs, poking at his salad with a fork. “I think that’s the worst case for Dean. You’d win custody.”

“Fair.” You look back to the cheeseburger, small smile threatening to pull at your lips. “I do have a higher rate of income.”

“No, you don’t,” Sam frowns. “You make exactly what he does. Nothing.”

“Wrong. I’m a better pool hustler than he is, so my return rate is higher.”

Sam laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t let him hear you say that, we’ll be stuck here until he beats you in a game.” He makes a mock face of disgust. “We’ll die here.”

You let yourself fully smile, even as you mutter, “kiss ass.”

Sam just shrugs, grinning himself as he takes a long drink. You really miss smiling. You really miss easy jokes, and you really miss making fun of each other without being consumed by too much grief or pain to do so.

You really miss Dean. He’s just across the room, but you still really miss him. And you want him—your Dean, the one that’s a little ridiculous and overly charming and the strongest, best man you’ve ever known—back. Over here, smiling at you, teasing you, or saying something shockingly genuine that makes your heart his even more than it already has been.

You look back to him in the bar—you can’t really help it, you think Dean and you always start to look for him in any crowd—and for a second you could’ve sworn he was looking at you. His smile has faded a little, and there are lines on his forehead, so if he was looking at you it wasn’t because you’re something good to him. He probably just saw his food, and then saw you, and now he’s antsy. His foot is tapping on the floor, and he’s fidgeting with the cuff of his flannel, so either Rowena’s terrible at her job, or the Mark is eating at him again.

You’ll fix it. Whatever Dean needs you to do for this, for him, you’ll do it silently and without asking for anything in return. No matter how many lectures Sam gives you about being selectively observant and kind of an idiot, you’ll just help Dean, and he won’t have to think twice about it. Helping Dean is what you do, it’s what you’ve done. Your whole life, in some way, has become how can I help Dean. How can I do something for this person who does everything for everyone else, and maybe he’ll turn his attention to me, and maybe he won’t, but no matter what I’ll have helped Dean.

It’s not like he doesn’t help you. Dean opens doors and saves your life and patches your wounds, and he never asks for anything back. But that’s why you want to help.

And this is helping Dean. It might be killing you a little, but it’s helping Dean, so you’ll still fix it, and then drown your sorrows with ice cream, strong drinks, and small moments of his joy when he’s better.

——————

Dean is really, really conflicted. It’s ripping him in half, because he knows he’s supposed to be polite to chicks—like the one in front of him, with the sweet smile and sweeter words he doesn’t deserve to hear—but her voice sounds like nails on chalkboard. She doesn’t feel right, she doesn’t feel good, and the bloodlust inside him doesn’t want her.

Bloodlust is the wrong word. It was the right word, but over the past few hours it didn’t feel like it anymore. Dean’s not great with words—he’s great with guns, and cars, and sometimes drawing, but not words—and even he gets that bloodlust really isn’t the correct word for wanting something in a way that’s clean. Pure and raw, but not innocent. It’s still a craving, it’s still insatiable, but it doesn’t feel tainted. It’s driving Dean to things he couldn’t really hate being dependent on. It had started softer and abstract, right after the spell, with drinks and food, so he’d driven to a bar. Then it had asked for care and love, and Dean didn’t have either of those things readily at his disposal, so he looked where he usually found something close to it. In a pretty girl, with a big rack and unburdened smile.

Then his attention had wandered for half a second, and now it couldn’t come back. The not-bloodlust—that wasn’t a good term for it either, he’d need to come up with a better, catchier one later—had tugged his gaze over to Her and Sam, and suddenly everything had been sharper and a lot more specific. Dean should go back to the booth. The booth had beer, and a cheeseburger, and Her and Sam. Mostly Her, but Sam was cool too. Dean was allowed to love two people.

And that’s where the conflict came in. Dean needed to be over there. His stomach was turning, and his skin was growing itchy and hot the longer he wasn’t there. But if he went over there, not only would he not only be leaving this very sweet girl, who seemed fine, but he might be in real danger of telling Her things he was not supposed to tell her. Things Sam kept telling Dean to tell Her, and things Dean kept having to remind Sam weren’t any of his business. He would not lose another good thing because he couldn’t keep himself in check. He would not poison something that didn’t deserve it, no matter how much the bloodlust kept telling him to. Kept telling him that She was caring and lovely, so Dean should drag her down to his level and kiss her in the grime and guts.

The not-bloodlust wanted Her too. The not-bloodlust really liked the idea of just being closer to Her, because she usually helped things. She helped everyone—Dean wasn’t special—but the not-bloodlust seemed to think that simply breathing air that had been inside her more recently would fix a lot of things that were boiling and cracking and hissing in Dean’s body.

That’s what won the conflict. He wouldn’t have to say things for this to be better, they just would be. So Dean gave the pretty girl an apologetic goodbye—she’d be fine, there were other men who were better than Dean and weren’t overtly craving their best friends in the bar—and almost ran back to Her and Sam.

She looks up at Dean as he scoots into the booth, her brows furrowed and mouth tugging down. “You’re back.”

“Well done, sweetheart, I am back.” Dean grins at Her, and that only makes her frown more.

“Did you, um,” She looks over to Sam, who shrugs. “Did you strike out?”

“Nah, just hungry.” It wasn’t a lie. Dean had been hungry. Dean had been starving, but he felt better now. He’d still eat the cheeseburger, but the hunger had dulled from a mind-numbing desperation and withdrawal to just a growl near his throat of cheeseburger. Cheeseburgers are good.

“Well, how are you feeling?” Sam’s voice is insistent, and Dean rolls his eyes, because he knows where this is going. “Do you want to kill someone? Rowena said the spell might take a few hours to work-“

“Workin’ now. I feel good.” Dean takes a large bite of his cheeseburger, and She and Sam exchange looks.

“Good?”

Dean nods, shooting Her a wink. “Real good,” he says Her name through his mouthful—crumbs falling out of his mouth—and she sighs. Her hand twitches on the table, and Dean wants to hold it. He can’t hold it. He’s not even supposed to be talking right now—that was the deal he’d made with himself—so holding hands if defiantly off the table. It would probably freak her out, too, and that’s the last thing Dean wants to do. He’s freaked Her out enough for a whole lot of lifetimes, so she should be smiling instead.

Dean’s usually really good at making Her smile. He’s proud of that, because She worries more than Sam and has more nightmares than Dean, but he can always make her smile.

She’s not smiling now. She’s tense, and she keeps looking between Dean and the girl at the bar.

“You’re good.” She repeats his words slowly, but it doesn’t sound like she believes them. “And you think the spell worked.”

“Did work.” Dean swallows, and immediately takes another bite. Cheeseburgers are good, the not-bloodlust had decided, so Dean should eat more cheeseburgers. “Don’t think it did, I know it did.”

“How do you know?” Sam asks, pulling the cheeseburger across the table, away from Dean.

“Hey!” Dean reaches for his plate, and Sam moves it away faster. “What the fuck, Sammy, do not touch my burger-”

“It’s distracting you, Dean, and this is serious. We really need to know if the spell worked-“

“It did work. I don’t want to gank anything, I just want my cheeseburger and-“ He has to cut himself off, because that is exactly why he wasn’t supposed to talk. “Look, man, it worked. Trust me, I feel good. No bloodlust, just, uh, not-bloodlust.”

Sam glances at the cheeseburger, then at Her, then at Dean. Dean gives him a very winning grin—all teeth and bright eyes, and give me back my burger, I’m not going to kill anyone—but Sam’s attention just moves back to Her. She mostly looks confused and tired—Dean still needs to make her smile—but she nods, making a loose gesture of surrender, and Sam, finally, slides the food back to Dean.

“If he’s really good,” Sam’s pretty clearly talking to Her, but Dean listens anyways. They’re a team, he’s allowed to hear this stuff. “We should get back to Kansas tonight. It’s not smart to linger in a town after a hunt finishes-“

“I know,” She glances back to Dean, and he offers her his widest, most reassuring smile. She doesn’t smile back, but her face relaxes a little, so Dean counts it as a victory. “Do you want to finish that, or-“

“Gimme three-“

“Chew, Dean.”

He does, holding up three fingers in a silent signal, and inhales the rest of his cheeseburger.

“Holy crap, dude.“ Sam blinks between Dean and the empty plate. “That was really fast, even for you.”

Dean shrugs, standing out of the booth. “Don’t blame me, blame the not-bloodlust. Cheeseburgers or murder, Sammy, gotta be one.”

Sam rolls his eyes, starting to the door, and Dean lingers until She’s on her feet and they can follow Sam together.

“Not-bloodlust is a bad name,” She mutters, staring at the floor as she walks. “What about, uh, what’s the opposite of blood?”

“Dunno.” Dean watches Her carefully, raking his brain for a good answer. “Water? Waterlust?”

That gets him a small, huffed laugh. “That doesn’t make sense, Dean.”

“Doesn’t have to. It’s my lust.”

“It is.” She meets Dean’s eyes, and her attention is soft, but it feels strange. Like she’s trying to find something on Dean’s face he doesn’t know how to get for her. “And if you really want, we can call it waterlust, but I like betterlust.”

“Betterlust?“

“Starts with B,” Her attention turns back to the floor, and Dean feels something sour twist around his heart and forearm. “Fun to say. Makes sense, too, you’re lusting after better stuff.”

Dean was lusting after better stuff. It was a good name—better than not-bloodlust—and he was willing to concede waterlust to Her. It was, overwhelmingly so, the least he could do.

“Betterlust it is, Sweetheart.” He tried his most charming, cocky, look at me, I’m a cowboy and I can be yours if you offer me just a few kind words because I’m a pathetic, worthless wet dog that barks and bites, but man am I good at sex, smile on Her, and this time, he got a real smile back.

End Note: Wow what's this something I write that's actually going to be short? We'll see!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

[pinecipitation]

Hiii could you possibly do like..smiling friends with a reader that’s on their period headcanons?

I GOT U BRUH TRUST ‼️

SMILING FRIENDS X GN!READER (with fem aligned anatomy, if you bleed then this you shall read‼️

word count: around 500

content warning: nothing I think

credit to @kryloxen for the what size joke in charlies bc they’re the funniest bitch I know

PIM: prioritizes treats and food

- he’s got sisters, he knows a thing or two because he’s seen a thing or two

- will be very understanding and empathetic, out of anyone he’d be the nicest

- would probably know ur week is coming before YOU know, and is prepared as usual

- I’m a huge candidate of baker pim, I believe he’d bake sweets and remake your favorite desserts just so you always have a sweet treat around

- he has enough knowledge on products to be able to pick up stuff in stores for you, but if he has to talk to an employee he’d stutter and blush a little, but my god he’s getting u ur damn tampons

- again, super into sweets and treats, will come back from the store with bags of anything you want and crave, he’s a very sweet boy

CHARLIE: prioritizes comfort and warmth

- “ayo i’m at the pad aisle what size pussy you wear?” hurry up he’s getting weird stares

- you’re always more than welcome to wear his oversized clothes and hoodies, he actually subliminally encourages you to but seeing you lounge around in his stuff makes him feel like he’s helping

- heated blankets, multiple blankets and pillows, hoodies, HIM even, everything about charlie’s home and charlie himself is warm, cuddly, and comfortable

- will ask a thousand times a day if you’re cold, if you’re hot, if you’re lying about not being hot, and is often on standby with either a warm drink or a cold glass

- always overuses the same “wings? wtf is it gonna take off” joke on pads

- jokes around too much to a point where it almost aggravates you, but at the end of the day, if he sees you start to get annoyed he will always offer himself as a cuddle buddy and offer couch time and a movie

ALAN: prioritizes peace and meds

- medicine cabinet stock full of any pain or sleep pills always, you’ve never had to make him go to the store at 11pm for anything

- like pim, will also know your week is coming sooner than you do

- always has meals and hydration prepared for you, is extremely into making sure you get every vitamin and protein your body needs in these trying times. like seriously he has a full water bottle that he needs you to finish daily

- is not afraid to yell at his upstairs neighbors to shut up, or a kid on the street to stop screaming. he values you and would rather die than overstimulate you even indirectly

- will always draw nice baths and include your favorite scents, again I see him as a huge hygiene person so trust he’s got that bath and body works set of whatever smell u smelled once and liked

- loves quiet time where you both are near each other but just sit on your phones respectively or watch a show on low volume in the background of something else. it’s like allowing yourself to do what you want, but still be near the other person

GLEP: prioritizes za

- would say ew and then offer you weed

[justluxy]

Weird Dreams - Part 5/10

Original author Tortilla_Feliz on wattpad, go support them!!!

Shoto Todoroki x Bottom Male Reader

Where you woke Shoto up when he was still in the middle of his dream with you

Warning: Smut (Characters are 18+) and exhibitionism?

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

-S-Shit... someone might see us here - You said between moans thanks to the strong thrusts that Shoto was giving you, hitting again and again that sweet spot that you liked so much

-Then- He licked your neck- you should be quiet and try to not moan a lot - He gasped and turned you around causing your face to crash into the grass, you and him were being risky by doing it in the U.A. courtyard

-C-Careful, damn it- You moaned as you felt all of his weight resting on you while he made you lift your fucking sore ass

-What? I thought you liked it

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

-Dumbass wake up!- You yelled at him, making him wake up. It was the first time he had left one of those dream unfinished -What's wrong with you dude?

-I...what happened?- He looked at you confused, he was blushing, shit his hard cock hurt too much, why it was hurting like that?He sat on the couch because he didn't want you to notice the problem between his legs.

-Well, I was stroking your hair, dude, it's really soft and you fell asleep, haha, you left me talking to myself, Shoto - You said laughing

-Yeah... I...I'm sorry- he muttered

-Hey dude - You whispered, drawing the attention of Shoto who was confused by your sudden action

-Yeah?- he whispered, being careful not to move too much

-I recommend cold water - You said and that confused him even more, what did you mean? and when you realized that he hadn't understood what you meant, you pointed to his crotch- cold water is good for that- You said, now slightly blushing

-I-I... - shit, he didn't know what to do in that situation, you realized his hard cock

-Seriously, someone is making you act like an idiot- You said between giggles -Come on, go before someone sees you like that and it gets embarrassing, I told you because I trust youbuddy, and because you always lend me a pencil when I don't have one

[icarusredwings]

Baby talk 2/2

Trying something new. Be kind (take 2)

A very little wade fic

Ft. Wo-wo, Mama, and 'essy

For @sirwadewilsonfromimgur because apparently people like my brain

"Logan? It's a bit late, what's wrong?" The voice asks over the phone. He wasn't sure why he called her. Why he called Jean. But he felt like she might know what to do.

"Yeah.. sorry, i-.. It's nothing.. I'll go if you're busy - I just.." he mumbles, phone in his shoulder as he begins boiling some water for the pasta.

"Logan... tell me." She says, in a way of someone who knows he won't tell her if he feels like he's bothering her.

"So, I'm... er.." He turns to see Wade laying in his pile of stuffies, watching the movie with large eyes and a curious o shaped mouth. Right now, they were at the part where she was singing in her secret cave, Wade's eyes glued to the screen in awe, as if he hadn't seen this movie 40 times already. "Babysitting... and I don't really know what to do?"

"Oh.. okay. Well how old are they?"

"Young. Really young. Barely talks." He says, trying not to sound nervous out of his mind as he preps the chicken to be cooked.

"That can be as young as 12 months. Are they potty trained?" She asks, trying to help best she could over the phone. Not like Logan would ever let them see him like this anyway.

"God I fucking hope so." Is all he can awnser with a big sigh. "I don't know, I just.. it's so much different then the kids at school."

Chuckling, he could feel that 'well no duh' look in her eyes and that smug smile. "Well, I would hope that 12 month olds are different than 12 year olds. That's 12:1, Logan." She says, and he grunts, nodding.

"Yeah, yeah, I just.. you read parenting books, right? What do they like? Babys, I mean."

Instantly Wade turns, Giving him a small glare and a pount. "MmMmh.."

"My bad, kids this little." He didn't need to understand the whines to know exactly what he was saying.

'I'm not a baby' He always said that.. man.. Wade not talking felt so weird, and it freaked him out, getting to the point he would subconsiously check to make sure he was still consious and that he COULD talk if wanted, but he didn't.

Wade was just quiet today. Al must think it's a blessing but to Logan? This was a nightmare.

"I do" She laughs again, giggling. "Why? Are they misbehaving?"

"Well... No.. but i'm afraid I might..." He mutters, blowing his cover at pretending not to be anxious about this entire thing.

"Mama?" He hears, indirectly awnsering. "No bub. Not your mama."

The woman giggles again from the side conversation. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Do you want me to-"

"NO!!" He screams, watching as Al got spooked, drawing her pistol on Wade, and for once, she had a good shot. "Get off of me!!"

"Well, jeez Logan, you could have just -"

"Sorry! I have to go!!"

Beep.

"Logan??.. He hung up on me." Jean says, miles away. Logan just knows it.

"Althea! It's Wade!! It's just Wade!!" He shouts, quickly coming over to take the gun from her. "He's just.. really little right now. God damn kid, are you tryna die!?" He yells at him, seeing him only try to curl up more into the woman, tearing up.

"Althea, why don't you go sleep in the room, okay?"

The older woman grumbles, shifting. "Baby you can't lay on me like that. You're too big." She says, much calmer now as Logan pulled Wade off of her and set him back on the floor.

"You're too big for that, kid, you're gonna hurt her!" He tells him, only making Wade feel worse.

"..mama?"

"No! No mama. She dosn't feel good and-"

"Logan. Enough. I can take care of myself." She mutters, groaning as she got up.

".. Mama?" Wade says again, his mind very one tracked at the moment. He knew three things. That he wanted held. He liked Mama. And he didn't know why he was so upset with him. Did he hurt her? Was she okay? Wade wished he could ask, but no words seemed to come out when he tried.

"Hi, Honey, Mama's gonna go take a nap. Behave. Both of you." The old woman mumbles, cupping his face and giving him a kiss on the head, stumbling towards the room. "Wake me up when dinner's ready."

"Yes ma'am.." Logan mutters, glancing down at Wade, watching as he wiped his tears, pulling Fluffy and his legs into his chest, sniffling.

Swallowing, he wasn't even sure if he would understand if he apologized, but he needed to anyway. "Hey.. I'm sorry for yelling at you.. I thought... I thought that.." He rubs his hand into his face with an embaressed grumble. "..Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking. You can't even.. well, no, that's not right. It still would hurt, and I guess I just didn't want Mama to hurt you and- "

Wade wasn't even looking at him. He was staring at the Tv, curled up, and didn't seem to be litsening.

Sighing heavily, he looked at the gun in his hand, deciding he should put it up. It wasn't something he should have down with Althea not feeling the greatest and Wade not even being able to put together sentences.

Walking away, he puts it in the closet, making sure to lock it like it was supposed to. God, there were so many weapons in here. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that these guns weren't just for hunting or a hobby. No one had this much ammo when owning a gun collection that was "just for show."

Making his way to the kitchen, he stirred the boiling noodles, dumping them in the colander.

"Wo-wo?... wo-wo!"

"Woah woah?" He asks himself, looking up to see Wade pointing at the tv. Prince Eric had picked up Ariel and was now twirling her while smiling.

"Wo- wo?"

Tilting his head, he thought that perhaps this was cool to Wade. "Yeah, Wow buddy. That's amazing." He says but Wade gave him a dirty look. One that usually was his 'Bitch? Thats not what I said' squish of his non existing brows.

"Wo-wo. Ups?"

"Ups?"

"Wo-wo, Ups?" He grins, putting his hands up as he did the grabby motions again.

Oh. That made more sense. "You want me to do that to you?"

Wade nods, crawling about two feet before doing the hands again.

"Mmh... okay, but just once. And then I have to cook. Deal?"

Putting the butter in the pan, he came to pick him up, raising him up. The small squeal and the wide, sparkly eyes said all that Logan needed to know. When put back down, Wade claps.

"Yaay!"

Logan couldn't help but smirk. Really? That's all he wanted? "Heh.. yeah.. Yay." Was it that simple? This.. easy??

Vanessa made it sound so much more complicated when she talked about it. But then again.. I guess Vanessa wasn't as strong as him either, so it must have been difficult for her to hold him. The idea of her holding a 6'2 man on her hip made him snort.

She was strong, obviously, most dancers had to be, but dancers were lean and nimble as well. Logan was much more on the heavier side, so it was far easier for him.

"More?"

"More ups?" He asks, despite seeing his hands reach up. It wasn't the fact that he didn't know. Rather, he wanted confirmation.

"Wo-wo, Ups!" He smiles, excited and happy to be given the attention.

"Ok, ok, but last time, alright?" With another nod, Logan picks him up again. This time, Wade wraps his arms around him tight, nuzzling him again.

Sighing, Logan rubs his back, letting his chin go to the top of his head. "I can't hold you forever, you know... I have stuff to do.." he mumbles, bouncing just a bit in his knees, keeping his arm under his bottom so he didn't drop him.

"You're a good kid, Wade but I really do have to cook."

The whine that comes out of Wade is desperate for attention, lonely even. As if he just told Wade he was leaving and never coming back ever again.

"I come."

"No, sweetheart.. you'll get burned." The bouncing stops as he tries to set Wade down but he holds onto him like a kitten whos afraid of being dropped too far.

"Come on, let go. You'll be okay in here. See look. She's using a fork as a comb. Isn't that funny?" Logan says, trying to distract him enough to stay put. Vanessa wasn't kidding about the wanting held part. He was quite literally clinging to him like his life depended on it.

"Alright, get off. Here- do you want this? Take it." Putting him down, he took his hoodie off with him, letting him hold it as he stood. "There. Now stay. Im trying to make you some noodles, bub."

Finally getting to walk away, the look on his face hurt his chest.. just a bit anyway. The way he watched him go with such sad eyes and clutching the hoodie close to him. As if he was abandoning him.

Eh. He'd be fine. He could still see him in the kitchen so there wasn't really any reason to worry.

In said small kitchen, Logan put together the sauce, butter, and some seasonings, starting to stir it when he glanced towards the tv, doing a double take because Wade was missing.

"Wade?" He says, only to be met with him tugging on his jeans. The sight was something he wasn't prepared for, Wade put his hoodie on, and it was too big for him by at least two sizes. "Wo-wo!"

"Woah woah huh... wait, is that me?" He asks, tilting his head. "It's an L, bud. L" he made the L noise for him. "Lo-Lo."

"Wo-wo."

His eyes roll. "What ever. Come on, kid get out of the kitchen. You're gonna burn yourself."

This lasted about 2 seconds before Wade came back in. "Ups?"

At this point, dinner was practically done. Now, just have to finish it up and serve. "Fine... but don't touch anything."

"Yaaay!!" He claps, reaching up only to get scooped up and put on his hip, holding him with one arm, the other stiring.

"Yeah... yay.. fuckin' brat.." Wade was always getting what he wanted.

Wade giggles, holding his neck and once again snuggling up to him.

"Yeah, yeah, that's enough. Just be good. Don't touch. Ouches."

"Ow?"

"Yup. Ow."

So now, here was Logan, an almost 400 pound man holding 150 pound 6'2 guy on his hip, stiring and plating dinner. With his head on his shoulder, Wade calmed down immensely from being carried, just watching what Logan was doing and silent.

Dipping his finger into the sauce, Logan held it up. "Do you like this?"

Taking the finger in his mouth, Wade immediately made a 'mmmh' noise, nodding.

"Good. Do you want it on the side or on top of your noodles?"

" 'op."

" 'kay." Putting the sauce on top, he began to make Als.

" 'essy?"

"Huh?" He asks, not sure.

" 'essy??" Wade points to the plate.

"No. Mama's."

"Mama?"

"Mhm. Wo- wo's." Logan points to his own.

"Ooooh! Yummies."

"Yup.. Yummies..." he says, only to become embarrassed, face heating up as he grunts. Man... damn this baby talk..

____

A little later, after dinner, Wade came out of the room, looking almost ashamed, wearing Logan's x-men athletics department hoodie, the back saying 'HOWLETT' in big letters.

He was playing with his hands as he came to him. "Hey.."

Glancing away from the Tv, Logan was a bit confused, Not now sure if he was still small or not. "Hey?"

"I-.. im sorry.. for.. ealier. I know you don't like that stuff. I don't really.. know.." It seemed the farther he got into the apology, the tighter his voice got, his eyes becoming glossy.

"Hey-hey, stop. Why are you crying? You don't have anything to be sorry about. You're alright. Everything's okay, Wade. Sit." He says, patting next to him, but he just shook his head, rubbing his arm.

"No. I-it's not okay. You didn't ask for that. And you don't like t-taking care of me like that-" he wipes his eyes with the sleeves, clearly feeling bad about being so small infront of him.

"What? No, hold on. I never said that. I'll always take care of you." He says, a little frustrated that he would think differently.

"B-but you-"

"Shut the fuck up and come here."

Swallowing, He hesitantly sat on his lap, letting Logan pull him close and kiss the tears from his eyes. "Don't you ever say that shit again, you hear me? If I didn't want to take care of you, I would have left a long time ago. It was just.. odd at first. Because I've never seen it before. That's all. Just because something is new doesn't mean it's bad. You taught me that, idiot."

Sniffling, he shifts to nuzzle up under his chin again, curling up to be as small as possible, letting the man hold him in his arms. "I-i don't.." he heaves.

Logan is patiant, holding his cheek and rubbing his breath. "Shh.."

"I-i don't even know why I did that. I just.. it just happened." He whispers.

"That's alright. You don't have to know everything... a little heads up would be nice though." He mutters, pulling him up more to rub his cheek on him the way he liked.

Sniffling again, he smiles softly. "I'll try.. worst case senerio I just ask you to pick me up."

"Tell ya what. You ask me to pick you up and I will. Just... not during missions. I don't wanna have to slice a fucker in half because he shot you when you're small."

Wade giggles, his heart rate finally settling down as he listened to Logan's. "No promises.." letting out a big sigh, he let his body relax, taking a few deep breaths, nestling into him, the smell of the hoodie making him tired. "..I love you.. a-And thanks for not letting Al shoot me.."

Logan's eyes widened. He did hear his apology. A soft half lidded smile came to his face, glad that it wasn't for nothing. "I love you too.... cry baby."

"Can you guys shut up? Wheel of fortunes on." Al says, feeling much better that she too has had a nap and a good meal.

Sigh... that was their Althea.. keeping them humble.

The little giggle that came from him and the rythemed breathing following told Logan that he would be stuck in this spot for quite a while. Oh well... He was always up for a good nap.

"...Morons." The old woman says with a hint of fondness in her voice, hearing not one but two sets of snores. It was music to her ears.

[literaila]

still here 

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: there’s an ache in me, put there by the ache in you

(for @elysian-chaos)

warnings: angst, fluff, feeling unworthy, feeling useless, you know, seperation 

a/n: ‘tis the damn season is the best song ever. dont argue 

*

there's this little thing called stress baking. 

typically, stress baking is referred to as coping by making something delicious to scavenge on, instead of dwelling on the feelings scavenging you. and typically, it's done with a certain type of elegance--one that is made up of chaos. completely insane, yet completely in control. it's a messy dance, but perfectly choreographed. 

stress baking is a very reviving task. filling up the house with muffins and pies is not only good for distracting yourself, but also for making friends when you run out of room. or smiling at the cashier every time you have to go to the store for ingredients. 

it's something you've practiced for years. something you've become somewhat addicted to. 

but then there's baking while stressed. which, you swear, hadn't been your intention. 

brownies from a box were supposed to be easy. they were notoriously easy. a couple of eggs, some oil, and some water. the hardest part of your job was mixing, but you'd done it so many times that you zoned out while doing all of it. 

box brownies were supposed to be non-stress and quick. but when you burn the brownies and batter rises over the top of your glass pan, and the oven is dirty, and the apartment smells like burnt batter and oven cleaner--well, you have to reread the directions. 

you're a good baker. you've been making cookies and cakes for parties for years. you pride yourself on not needing measuring cups because you can eye a recipe by the gram. 

not that these brownies would agree. 

and it's already five-forty-five. peter is going to be home in the next fifteen minutes and this was supposed to be a treat. something good. 

"surprise! i ruined our oven, and now we're going to have to spend the next few nights at your aunt's house in your twin-sized bed until the smell of death goes away!" doesn't typically bring out any smiles.

and peter's been stressed lately, and you've been stressed about him. 

and now you're making brownies from scratch without butter--because you used it all on the last batch, oops--and the number of candles you've lit is a sure fire hazard. 

but if peter would just smile at you, pull you in by your waist and laugh while he kissed you with a chocolate mouth, it would all be fine. 

if there wasn't so much riding on this one (two) pan(s) of brownies. like being able to sleep comfortably tonight. 

you turned the oven down, found a new pan--threw the other one out because it was nothing but a source of disappointment--and cleaned the oven just enough to not draw any suspicions. but you could still feel the failure lurking. 

peter was going to come home to a chaotic house, and it was your fault. 

so you scrubbed at the counters. fixed the stack of bills on the table so that you couldn't see any of the stamps, folded the blankets, and even swept the kitchen floor. 

still, you knew peter would know. because he always knows. and maybe that was why he was acting so weird lately--maybe that's why you were acting so weird. 

the door opened when the timer on the oven went off. 

you'd wanted to watch peter walk through the door--so you could gauge how tired he was, how miserable--but maybe it was better not to know. to let him put on a mask while your back was still turned. 

"hey, baby," he said, as you were pulling the brownies out of the oven, setting his house keys on the counter and sighing. "i'm home." 

you peeked over your shoulder, giving him a hint of a smile--the same type he was giving you. "hey, honey," you said back, "you're home." 

peter walked around the island to stand right behind you, kissing the back of your head and stealing a look over to the stovetop. he clears his throat. "brownies?" 

you shrug. "thought you might like something sweet when you got home." 

you take off the oven mitt, not really wanting to look at him--maybe because you're scared of what you'll see, or maybe just because you can already feel his eyes tearing down your skin. 

but you can feel his breath on your neck as he chuckles. his exhaustion as he leans into your back. 

"i've already got you, though," he whispers one peck at the edge of your jaw, another by your ear. 

you snort and pull away, turning so you can look at him. and then you pretend to throw up. 

he laughs and pokes your forehead.

you're not looking at him and he's not looking at you. 

you turn back to the brownies. 

"did you drop something in the oven?" peter asks, leaning his chin on your shoulder. 

"no," you answer, a bit too defensive. 

"sure?" 

"am i sure that i didn't burn something in the oven, peter? yes." 

there's a beat. "...cause it smells like it." 

you headbutt him. "you smell like it. go shower. you can't eat these yet." 

"yes, ma'am," peter takes a step back, and you look at him again.  you can see the question in his eyes, and see your own reflecting the same question. 

what are you hiding? 

"we have some ice cream, too." 

peter moans, his head back. you roll your eyes at him. 

and you start cutting the brownies, worries, and chocolate chips sticking to the knife, listening to peter's footsteps, feeling his presence sticking to you like sugar, sticky and rich, his eyes keeping you on edge. 

you know you shouldn't feel stupid--peter doesn't actually know what happened, or care--but you do. because he knows, and because even from the split second you looked at him, you could see the strain on his skin, the pressure weighing him down, dragging his feet across the floor. 

you feel stupid just because you don't know what to do. so before he can close the door, you turn around. choosing reaction instead of pretending. 

"peter?" 

he pauses, his head whipping towards you. his eyes are as soft and loving as they always are--his attention remains the same, even when his energy doesn't. like he's wasting himself away just to take care of you. 

he swallows. "yeah?" 

"are you--" you blink, look away, try not to taste burnt brownies. "are you okay? you seem tired. was work… alright? 

peter smiles, shaking his head. "just the usual, bub. work and... work. i think i'll go to bed early tonight?" 

you raise a brow. 

peter clears his throat. "i mean, i think i'll take a nap tonight before i go out." 

you nod. "okay." 

you both stare at each other for a moment. he's far enough away that it's easier. you don't have to feel his emotions as he processes them. don't have to see them from up close. 

you hate yourself for being afraid of him. for being afraid for him. 

“d’ya want to join me?” peter asks, whisper slipping from his mouth, smile taunting from his lips. “we can cuddle and eat brownies.” 

you lick your lips, shaky smile enough. “you sure? i’ve heard i can be a bit distracting…”

peter’s laugh makes his shoulders shake. “you heard correctly,” he says eyes crinkled, “but i don’t mind.” 

you nod. you’re grateful for his ease. the careful reveal of his true face, the peeling of a mask. the admittance that not everything is perfect, no matter how small. 

“go shower. i’ll get the sugar.” 

peter kisses you on the cheek before he goes.

and at least you got a couple of smiles out of him. at least you can feel his kiss lingering on your skin. 

* 

it's not that serious. honestly. 

you hardly even think about it. you're not thinking about it. 

you're not dwelling on the smell of soft skin and the feeling of calloused hands running up and down your back, the tickle of a breath against your neck. 

you're not thinking about it at all. 

and if it's been a week--or a week and a half, or two, or three--since you last spoke, or shared the same space with peter, then it's fine. 

this is something you've grown used to. something you're supposed to be used to. 

peter has obligations. 

he has things he needs to fulfill--not just for himself, but for others, for the guilt that you can see rocking his bones all of the time, the shame in his eyes when he comes home a bit too early. he has places that he needs to be, if only because he won't be able to live with himself if he's not there. 

but then again, you're not sure how to live when he's not here. especially when the sink breaks. 

still, as long as you can feel him pull you into his chest every night, imagine him kissing your forehead before falling asleep, then it's fine. 

you're not thinking about any of it because it's fine. 

but you miss him. if only momentarily. 

he'll come back--you repeat this like a promise, like it's his voice whispering it to you--because he always does. 

space is good for the heart, some part of you swears. though you don't think you could think of peter any fonder than you already do. 

he comes in too late at night and is already gone when you wake up. he texts you updates--because you've talked about communication before--and tells you that he loves you through sweet little notes he sends during the day. 

if the thing he wishes to share about his life is the worm he found in his apple, then you're perfectly happy to listen (read). 

it's normal to miss the person you love most in the world. 

and it's normal for your boyfriend to disappear for fourteen hours each day, just barely cuddling with you for three hours before he's gone again. 

it's normal for you, at least

he’ll come back. 

and so, instead of thinking about peter, and wondering when he might notice the frayed edges of your relationship, you make sure that he doesn't have to worry about anything. 

you clean up after the two of you, running the dishwasher and cleaning the bathroom, and packing him lunch on days you know he'll be gone for the office. making sure there's always something he can eat in the fridge when he gets home late at night, and texting him to know what he wants from the store. 

you make the bed and wash his clothes and hope that maybe it'll keep him from burning out. 

you hope that maybe it will keep you distracted enough to not ask him for anything. like love or support or a five-minute conversation. 

if taking care of him is the only way to keep him going--the only way to keep yourself going--then you'll do it. peter takes care of you enough. 

but even if you're not thinking about it, it's there. 

because you've just fallen asleep--which is extremely rare recently, mostly because you like to wait until you hear the window and then slow your breathing until you feel peter crawl into bed with you--and just woke up. 

woke up with sweaty skin and a headache. it's night ten and you're getting nightmares again. 

it's ridiculous that you can't even last two weeks without peter there. without him kissing you to sleep. 

and when you burst out of bed, you almost fall into him--almost scream because you're sharing the bed with someone else. 

tears are running down your face. your heart feels split open--like your dreams have revealed something inside it. 

but you look over to peter and he's there; he's still here. 

so you take a deep breath--chest caving in, body following--and you rest your head in your hands. 

if there's anything you want right now, it's for peter to wake up. 

it's for him to know all of this. 

you want him to appear next to you, leaning over your back like he's going to shelter from the world if that's what you need. rubbing your back and whispering in your ear. you want him in your house and laughing when you break the shower rod again. 

you want him to cuddle with you before he leaves, and cross his heart when you scold him while he crawls out the window. 

you want him in more than just your memory. 

but peter is snoring next to you, and so you sit there in silence until the tears begin to ease.

*

peter's not supposed to be home. 

he works until five, and then takes the subway home--and you're not expecting to see him anyway. he's been shoving his suit into the bottom of his backpack right as you pull it out of the hamper.

so it's not that unusual for you to be laying in bed, shoes and socks kicked across the floor, hands gripping for some stability, and eyes puffy and red. 

and it's not that unusual for you to squeak when the window opens, and spider-man's head peeks into your room. 

you can feel peter's wide eyes behind the mask. 

you're quick to wipe your face, throw on a clumsy smile. "peter," you say, exhaling. "what're you doing here?"  

a body crawls into the window, dirt and grime on clothes finger-tips reaching out to you. "what's wrong?" he asks, voice only slightly muffled. 

but you take a step back, moving away from him when he lands on the floor, leaving spots for you to vacuum up later. 

"what're you doing here?" you repeat, voice a bit harsher, a bit faded. 

"i need--" he reaches his hand out toward you again, retreating when you do. "i needed some more web fluid. i don't--" he shakes his head. "what happened?" 

"i, um," you wipe traitorous tears away again. "i think there's some more in the closet. i keep moving it when i'm cleaning, sorry." 

"you're crying," peter scolds. like you're being ridiculous. like you're not trying to save him the effort it's going to take to fix this irrational piece of you, these lonely broken bits. 

you bite your lip and look away. 

because although you can't even see his eyes--they are still scolding. they are quick and cruel reminders that you haven't talked to peter in two weeks. 

you turn towards your bedside table, pretending to organize the contents on top. 

you can hear peter moving. 

"what's going on, bub?" he says, soft enough for the words to crawl under your skin. he's taken the mask off. his voice is clear. 

"oh, nothing, you know," you pause, shrugging. "just the usual sad movie type of cry..." peter's hand reaches your back and you flip around, almost knocking over your lamp. 

"c'mon," he whispers to you, far closer than you'd been expecting. 

you try and take a step back, only meeting a dead-end. he's cornered you. "you should go, peter. you were just--" 

"this is more important."

you laugh. "some silly tears are more important than a collapsing building?" 

"you're more important," peter swears, his eyes so focused on yours, "to me." 

you blink and shake your head. gesture back towards the window. "go and save some people. you don't have to help me too." 

peter swallows, brows furrowed. "will you tell me what's wrong?"

"i can take care of myself, peter. you don't need to worry about it." 

"well, i'm going to." 

you roll your eyes. and then you break free of his hold, moving away from the table, from the cage he's built around you. "move along, spider-man." 

peter doesn't move any closer, but his limbs are tense. his face is concerned and hurt--you try and shield that out.

"i'm not leaving you when you're crying."

"i'm not crying anymore." 

peter scowls. "stop deflecting." 

you take a deep breath, throat dry and aching. "i'm not--" you clear your throat, shaking your head and looking away from him. "i'm fine, peter. but some people actually need you. go and save the day," you tell him. "i'll still be here when you come back." 

*

and you are. 

you're sitting on the couch, staring at photos peter took on the wall, wondering how to explain any of it. 

how to explain yourself without digging the two of you any further in this hole. 

you've been trying to prove just how little you need peter--just how useful you could be--and by doing so, you've put yourself in this situation. 

because you do need him. you just hadn't wanted peter to know that. 

so you're sitting on the couch, trying not to flinch every time the air conditioning comes on, or there's a footstep from the apartment above you. you're waiting for peter to climb in through the window, waiting to see how exhausted he is before he has to deal with you. 

and you've bitten your lip raw. completely eliminated any evidence of fingernails you once had. 

your heart stutters with every minute that comes by. 

and when you finally hear peter hop in from the fire escape, your heart stops completely. 

you wonder if he's going to change before he comes and finds you. before the inevitable happens, and you give him another reason to work so late. 

your restlessness must be audible because it only takes peter forty seconds before walking into the living room. he's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

he's wearing a frown like a well-tailored suit. known and made for him. 

you're trying not to frown back. 

"hey," you say, putting on a smile, voice flighty and an octave too high. "everything okay?" 

"no one got hurt," peter says, the antonym to your tone. 

"good." 

apparently, your tight-lipped smile isn't enough to ease the tension in the room. 

"are you ready to talk?" peter asks, slowly stepping toward you, just barely meeting your eyes. 

you'd scrubbed your face after he left. sobbed in the shower as you washed away any of the shame you hadn't meant for him to see. you'd made sure that your eyes weren't puffy, and your eyelashes were dry before he'd got home. 

so when peter scans your face--as he's doing now--he shouldn't notice anything unusual. 

besides the facade you're putting on. 

you clear your throat, eyebrows lifted like you're unconcerned. "there's not much to talk about." 

peter's sullen face doesn't move an inch. "why were you crying?" 

"i already told you. i watched a sad movie," you wave a hand, "you just came in at the wrong time." 

peter sighs. he sits down on the couch next to you, keeping his distance. "don't lie." 

you frown. "i'm not lying." 

"you've got some pretty obvious tells, you know," peter whispers, giving you a hint of a bittersweet smile. "you don't have to talk to me. but i'd like it if you did. i just want to make sure that you're... okay." 

"i'm fine, peter." 

he looks away. "and if you're not then we'll figure it out. i just want to know." 

"well, you do." 

peter opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. 

he's sitting three feet away from you, but his hands are clasped together, his legs are opposite of yours, and he can't even look at you. 

you can feel it, as you push him away. as you try so desperately to hold him close without touching him. 

"okay," peter says, eyes meeting yours again. "i don't want to push you." 

no, but he should pull you off of this ledge. should keep you from falling any further than you already have. 

you shake your head, laughing. it's not funny. 

"what?" 

you close your eyes. count to ten. forget how to breathe, or how to speak to the person you love most in this world. 

"what?" peter repeats, but softer. 

you open your eyes. 

and then it all crumbles. 

you scoff. "can you stop looking at me like that?" you plead, breaking away, physically distancing yourself from him. 

"like what?" 

it's his fault, really, for coming home so early in the day. 

"like you can't deal with this. like this is exhausting." 

the tears sneak up on you, knocking you out before you even notice that they're there. 

peter's eyes are wide as he stares at you. "you're not--" he swallows, frantically reaching towards you. "this isn't exhausting--i'm not--" a moment, tears beginning to fall. "what do you--" 

you sigh, shaking your head. "you're always gone, and you come home exhausted every night after you think i've fallen asleep, and you only talk to me through text, and even now you just--" you stop, voice breaking. "if you can't do this," you say, softly, "then you should just tell me." 

peter is closer than he was a moment ago. "what?" 

"i know this is a lot of work, okay? and i know that you're already pushing yourself, so it's fine if i'm too much. if--if loving me is too much." 

there's a moment of silence, and you're almost sure that peter has already left. 

but then there's a thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. you can't open your eyes, can't face the reality you've been desperately holding off. 

"you're not too much." 

peter moves closer to you, his leg touching yours, his hands moving so that he can hold you closer. 

you couldn't push him away if you tried. 

"you're not too much," he repeats, the words sinking into your skin, his breath meeting yours. "i can't believe you would think that." 

you half laugh, half sob. peter wipes away those tears too. 

"you're the only thing keeping me going," he tells you, kissing your forehead. "i'm sorry i haven't been there. i didn't realize..." he shakes his head. 

"you shouldn't have to take care of me as much as you do," you whisper. 

peter nudges his head against yours. "hey. you take care of me way more than i take care of you. you clean up after me and stay up with me when i can't sleep. you help fix my suits, and do all of the laundry. and you never complain. you're practically my guardian angel." 

"that's all easy." 

"not for me," peter says, voice lighter than before. 

you shrug. 

"but you do all of that cause you love me," he adds, kissing your forehead again. "or, i hope that's why." 

"it's the sex." 

peter laughs, nuzzling his head into you. "well, at least you're honest. but, it's the same reason that i take care of you. you shouldn't feel... guilty because of that. you're no burden on me." 

"no?" 

"absolutely not." 

you bite your lip. try and believe peter. but honestly, you're most lovesick from how close he's holding you. how you can feel his skin and listen to him speak somewhere that isn't your bed. you're not quite sure that this isn't a dream. 

"hey," peter moves his head so you're looking at him. "we suck." 

you laugh, leaning your forehead against his. 

"i'm sorry it's been so long since we've... anything. it's been a rough couple of weeks." 

"for me too. it's not your fault." 

"you have to tell me if it's not enough, okay? i don't want you to suffer through it by yourself. if you need to talk to me--even for ten minutes--then you have to let me know." 

"okay." 

"do you promise?" 

you nod against him, nose brushing his cheek. "i promise, peter." 

peter smiles, satisfied. he groans, pulling you even closer to him. "i love you, bug. so much." 

you can barely hear him because of how tight he's hugging you. it sort of hurts, but mostly heals. 

"i know," you say back. but peter probably can't hear you, because you say it right into his shirt. 

*

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf  @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon  @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl    invisibletrolleyson-jeremy  @sharkswaters  @rowniebow @anaislfbv @take-my-hand-time-boy @mileyc111 @starsval @ratsys

[cherrycherryking]

i read your model!reader scene and can i just say absolute 10/10 for how you draw and write wally just phenomenonal!!!

may i suggest a sort of reversal where reader tries gifting wally a lil painting they did for him? maybe of him or of a flower that reminded them of him?

thank you so much <3 reader doing (or trying their best) to do a drawing of wally is just so sweet? thank you for requesting!!

┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴

wally darling x gen!reader

Making a Drawing for Wally

✧Wally had drawn you before, you knew from the times he would ask you to model for him or because you would catch little sketches of yourself in his sketchbook.

✧Maybe you're quite good at drawing, or maybe you aren't. Point is that today you felt more than compelled to draw him, could be as a little thank you or just because he was pretty.

✧Julie and Frank (but mostly Julie) had intercepted him to talk about some...case? they were on, something about one of Frank's book going missing.

✧You tried not to stare too much, Wally was pretty quick to notice people looking at him and being catched while drawing him suddenly felt a little embarrassing.

✧God. Uh. How were you supposed to draw his hair?

✧He pulled the hairstyle surprisingly well, but any time you tried it just looked weird, you closed your eyes to remember but instead your brain jumped to that one time it got completely ruined after Barnaby threw a water balloon to his face.

✧Now you're going down memory lane! That was such a fun day actually, even more so when Sally-

✧The high pitched sound that came out of your mouth was completely justified and no one could tell you otherwise.

✧You look to the side, Frank and Julie disappeared down the road to keep with their search.

✧In all honesty Wally knew where you were, even if it was for a second he felt your eyes on him and would have come to say hi either way, why wouldn't he?

✧So now he was leaning forward close to your face and making that damn eye contact. Without moving an inch his glance moved down just a tiny bit, and he quickly catched what you were doing.

✧"Aww! You're drawing me?" his drowsy eyes came back, excitement in that calm voice of him. "Well yeah- but is not as pretty as your drawings, or you-"

✧To say he was flattered was the least. With all the joy in the world Wally told you how good it looked no matter what you could say, and before you could ask him he offered himself to be your model.

✧Needless to say, after sitting besides you under the tree you could feel his stare once more. This time though it didn't make you as nervous as usual, maybe because it gave you an excuse to watch him and analyze his features for so long. Wally looked happy and you could swear his cheeks were just a little more blushed than usual.

✧Whether you think you got him right he's going to be over the moon anyways, sitting close to you arms touching as he talks about how you definitely should draw more often, specifically draw him.

┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴┬┴

sorry it took me so long!! something possessed me to do friendship bracelets for wally and julie and if i'm not stopped probably eddie too.

idk how well i write wally sjdksdf i want to capture that "lights are on, house is empty" and "oh hes a little fucked actually" that he has going on, so any advice would be really helpful :)

[cotton-candy-anon]

WELCOME!!!

Wow, we're almost at 1k notes and almost 70 followers, I think it's about damn time we do a intro post yeah?

MOD

Hi! I'm Blair, the one in the orange Percy Jackson chb shirt up there. That is the closest thing you'll ever get to a face reveal from me until I'm like 18.

I am super excited to meet all of you, so I'm going to start out with some fun facts about me!

I'm 16 and my birthday is September 19th

I'm hoping to get into Miami University for a masters degree in Marine Biology for sharks and other cartilage and predatory fish

I am currently reading Percy Jackson and the Olympians and then after that I will be reading Trials of Apollo

I once somehow landed Polites, Apollo, Hermes, and almost Antinous all at once in an Epic cover server

I am non-binary and go by they/them pronouns though if she/her is what you want to use I'm fine with that

I have been drawing since kindergarten and writing since 5th grade

I am an OSDD system

Now onto some boundaries because I do intend on having my asks open for art

No NSFW I am a minor and that shit makes me uncomfortable, my only explanation for that is I go to a public highschool in America

No Gore, I won't do that unless it's mild candy gore

Please nothing to do with 600 strike, the end of hold them down, like after the scheme with Telemachus, nothing after that bit of the song, or Odysseus please-

Nothing revolving child abuse, that shit hits too close to home and the only reason I write Antinous that was is because I'm projecting my early childhood onto him-

Just have common sense okay? Those are the only boundaries I can think of at the moment

And for those gere for the roleplay blog.... 🥁🥁🥁

COTTON!!!

I have no words about her other than the fact that she's supposed to be living cotton cand- HEY WAIT!!! This is my section let me do it!!! Fine whatever-

Hi!! My name is Cotton! Cotton Candy! I was adopted by these weird ocean people but they ended up being pretty good parents so I stayed anyways! I keep hearing these strange noises at night of a voice trying to get me to hurt my dad and harvest his ichor, but I don't even know what ichor is!

Facts about Cotton

She can be depicted anywhere from a toddler to about 14-15, it depends on who she's interacting with

She has mouths on her hands

She will melt if you put her in water

For the boundaries I say it's the same as mine, just be a decent human being.

All of my friends are tagged below this section!! Feel my love!!!

@bigidiotenergytm @messymoonmad @ccstiles @king-of-the-gods-zeus @zippyskyfalls @zigadoodle @bladevoyager @1ceyanonhasarrived @captaindirtymax @captain-trainor @4mph1r1t3 @nl-art-artblog @a-ghostly-ghoul-anon @please-be-nice-im-sensitive @nimbusthewinion

That's all I can list off of the top of my head

[serve-corps]

Ciel Phantomhive x fictional fem reader

This is a ciel x reader where the reader is a fictional character in Ciel's world, however it is the same in the readers world. Both if them are madly in love with the characters in the book and suddenly, the reader stumbles and falls in front of Ciel's desk as she appears from mid air.

Ciel flips the pages of his favourite book for the umpteenth time, re-reading the description of his favourite character, (your hair colour) hair, (your eye colour) eyes, adorable teeth, an even cuter smile that wasn't seen often in the books. This was the main book he loved because his favourite character got the most screen time in the story here, being the main character's sister AND best friend made her seen in nearly all chapters, however, this one describes the most about her, her actions, humour, appearance, habits, hobbies, he re-read every little thing about her, god he felt like he was obsessed with her. 

He sighs and closes the book with half lidded eyes, that book was his go to distraction from work, stress, or anything really. he became so absorbed in this character that he registered he'd taken too much of a fondness to her.  

Some would perceive this as absurd, but he would do anything to meet this girl, he fancied her more than he loved Elizabeth that's for sure. He would sacrifice anything to see that girl, he would happily kill his cousin for her to even be real and his fiancé in Elizabeth’s place. 

The bluenette rested his head on his hand as he tapped his quill on his paper, he was doodling on the back of a pointless document that was going to be thrown soon enough, he drew the best he could of her soft features, hair, eyes, smile, body shape while he was softly smiling at his drawing, his eyes snapped up to in front of his desk as a weird noise could be heard, almost like the swirling of water as a black and white rift started to manifest in his room, it became large enough to fit a human through and he stood up at attention, alarmed, believing this to be the work of an arch angel. 

Just as he was about to utter his contracted demons name, 

"Sebas-!" 

A girl fell through and landed with a hard thud on the wooden floor, her body lay still on the cold ground as the earl looked bewildered at the girl who just appeared in his study. Once she was through, the rift in the air; the swirling of black and white snapped shut. Gone for however long. 

The boy quickly shoved the book into his desk draw that had a lock on it, putting the key in his pocket alarmingly fast. he walked hastily to the girl on the floor who upon further inspection was unconscious, she was very pretty; now that he was looking at her, he blushed and stared a bit at the girl on the floor who looked to be in pain, even unconscious. 

As he leaned closer to her, he took a knee to observe her better, she looked familiar, but he knows he's never met her. her features look like something he's heard of before, (your hair colour) hair, (your face shape) face, (your fashion sense) style of clothes, but no... that would be absurd.... 

The boy was confused, so confused in fact that he didn't notice the girls scrunching face and flickering eyes start to open. 

You jumped up in surprise, shoving the boy staring at you so he was far away, he fell flat on his arse and yelped, you scurried away backwards from him, your first instinct was to get the fuck away from anyone near you. 

The boy was just as surprised as you looked panicked, your eyes were darting in all directions, trying to gather where you were, you slowly gained your senses as you now looked at the boy in front of you who was still sat on his arse but staring at you in panic and confusion. 

This was obviously some sort of study or something in your eyes, it reminded you of black butler, specifically Ciel's study, and look! There's even a Ciel to go with the room! 

wait a god damn minute... that's Ciel fucking Phantomhive.... Am I dreaming? what da fuqu??? 

You sat up so you were no longer leaning backwards and tilted your head to the side as you looked at Ciel, showing you were confused. There was pink dusting his cheeks as he looked away and coughed into his hand. hmm... 

The boy stood quickly and looked down at you menacingly as if to say he's the one in charge. what a power trip amirite?  

"Who the hell are you? Why on earth are you in my manor." He asked calmly, but the hint of a threat as well as curiosity was hidden in his tone, he stares at you with a squinted eye while slowly making the connections to his favourite character, you did come through that weird portal, could it be? 

You stuttered as you looked up, wondering how in the fucking hell your sat before THE Ciel Phantomhive, the earl and the cutie patootie of your favourite show. You're a simp for his entire being, you were attempting to shift just to see him in person, did it work? No, this is too real. This must be real life.. 

You took a deep breath as you looked him in his eyes- well...eye and stated your name, modestly of course. 

"Y/n, Y/n L/n. Now who in the devilled fucking eggs are you?!" You raised your voice at the end, you started to get up off your knees and stood up, you were leaned back but definitely taller than the boy. 

Ciel's eyes widened at your name however he quickly glares at you, it adds up. Your name, eyes, hair, body, attitude...is it? 

He wanted to clear this up, to make sure for definite, he walked back around to his desk and asked you to sit down by gesturing to the chair opposite his. He was pacing back and forth. 

To you, this felt like an investigation of sorts, like he was the detective, and you were a case for him to crack wide open. Well, you wouldn't be opposed ;) AHEM.  

You sat there slumped, leaning your head back as you let it roll, regret hit you like a freight train as when your head rolled, you hit the wooden back of the chair and your head shot up, you rubbed the back of your head to sooth it. Stupid funking chair... 

"Your name...your body type...your hair, your eyes even.... The book said you were (your height) tall..." the boy mumbled as he paced a little bit. 

You stopped shit talking the chair as slowly raised your head to him, now it was your turn to squint. See? It's not just the pirate that can do it. 

You stared daggars at him as your voice was heard softly and wearily in the quietness of the room. 

"I am (your height) tall... how did you guess that so accurately...?" You were wondering if it could be possible that he either was THAT good at estimating height or if you could also be a story in this world, just as he is in yours... 

"SECONDLY! I asked you who you are!" You pointed at the boy while glaring at his confused face. 

"My name is Earl Ciel Phantomhive, the owner of the Funtom company and the owner of this estate. Now... do you perhaps have a brother? And what's his name. As well as your closest friend's name...this will confirm you suspicions of you..." 

Jesus, he talks in essay paragraphs... 

"Um... I do have a brother and his name is (brothers name or made up name) I don't know how that's relevant, but my best friend is called (best friends name)... Am I... Fictional in this place? This is just a hunch, please don't treat me as if I'm insane!" You started to panic as you shouldn't have spoken of your theory aloud. 

"You're actually completely correct...if you come from the future, the 21st century maybe, then you must be her..." He pulls out the previous key from his pocket and unlocked the draw, reaching for the book he treats as if it were sacred. He hesitantly hands it to you; you quickly skim through the pages. The silence nipping and gnawing at his swirling thought if your reaction... 

Safe to say he was shooketh when you slowly started to smile and that graduated into a soft giggle, it was adorable, much more adorable than the book described it as... The description paled in comparison to your real characteristics...They only caught a glimpse of your true beauty. 

"Hehe...little earl, your going to laugh at this...you’re actually a fictional character in my world too! Hahaha! The show nor the manga did your looks justice! Your even cuter in person!" 

The boy looked at you shocked and flustered, still attempting to register the preposterous idea that maybe, just maybe you felt the same as he felt for your character.  

You were hunched over, your shoulders bouncing up and down as you tried, TRIED to keep your giggling quiet, reaching into your trouser pocket, you pulled out your phone and went to your gallery, you have hundreds of photos of the boy in question, you pulled one up and placed your phone on the table, spinning it so he could see it the correct way and pushed in towards him. 

You rested your head on the desk and hit the wood with your fist, your laughing now silent wheezing, holy shit, you never thought you would ever be described in such a formal way, sounded straight outta a mix of twilight and a horrible history's combination. It was fucking hilarious, "thus the pleasing complexion of her face luring in the devil himself to her chambers" WHAT THE FUCK?! HAHAHAHA!  

As you were on the brink of tears, the blue eyes boy in question looked at your phone in wonder as he listened to your melodic voice ring through his ears; oh how he wish he could hear that laugh more often, looking at the photo of him that looked drawn, very commendable art work, as he picks up your phone in curiosity, his fingers accidentally swiped to the left, which showed the photo on the next page, it was one of Ciel being flustered and embarrassed with the words cutie, my boy, dearest and my husband surrounding it with little pink and blue hearts scattered around it, safe to say, Ciel got the answer to his previous question, you liked him too...he realised that dragging his finger across the screen changed the photo, he marvelled at the technology advancement but he had focused on finding out how in love and enamoured you were with him as he was with you. Art that seemed like they were done by you because of the written words (Y/n) Phantomhive written in your handwriting on a photo, and another with writing saying (Y/n) + Ciel... 

"Hmm so I was correct...(Y/n) you really shouldn't have handed me this." He held the phone to you, and it was a drawn photo of you and Ciel lost in each other's eyes, you didn't say you were a bad artist, but you were rather embarrassed about being caught. 

"I- I'm so sorry Ciel! I mean earl! That uh, that's not meant to be seen by you... Oh god that's embarrassing!"  

The earl stood up and walked around his desk once again, this time he pulled your chair back a bit and leaned down to be face to face with you, he slowly reached for your hand and placed your phone in it, smirking at your pink face. 

"Alright, don't act so smug! I saw the hearts around my name in the book! And those little drawings of me on your paperwork!" You said with your own cheeky grin.  

He blushed and looked away, leaning away from your face, 

"Well now we know we both like each other maybe a bit too much..." 

"But that makes it feel like we've known each other more than just this meeting, doesn't it darling..?" You say with a soft voice as you reached for Ciel's cheek, stroking it softly as he gazes into your eyes, pink dusting his cheeks as he seemed lost in them. 

Ciel gulps and takes a deep breath and let's it go, "you have no idea how much I am infatuated with you (Y/n), you always plagued my thoughts however I welcomed them...I would have sacrificed anything to see you in person and my desire came true...I'm not sure if I'm dreaming anymore, maybe Sebastian will wake me in a bit, I don't know..." he says as he's still lost in your eyes, his eyes flickering to your lips as he is face to face with you, you grab his waist and pull him so he's pinning you to the chair and standing over you, his eyes half lidded as he feels as though he can finally achieve his dream of kissing his crush, fictional or not, she's sat right here...right Infront of him...he'd be an absolute idiot if he didn't make the most of this opportunity, you must be thinking the same thing if you both discovered each other in those stories at the same time, you've loved each other for months, years even but you never met. He read that story years ago and he’s still hooked onto you. 

You held Ciel by the waist as your other hand stroked his cheek, he leaned into your hand making your heart melt at his affection. Both of you were in love with one another, that was obvious, the elephant in the room had been addressed, it was a thing of who was going to make the first move. Ciel couldn't get any redder as his long-time crush was drowning him in affection and he never wanted it to end. 

You slowly sat up straighter to move your face closer to his, your breath softly mingling with his as his eyes flickered from your own eyes to your delicious looking lips, he wanted to kiss you desperately but he was still unsure, you face got even closer, lips ghostly brushing against each other's, sparks flew between the contact as you could no longer wait, you used your hand on his cheek to finally make the full connection. 

Both of you melted as the kiss was full of love, not lust. The kiss being innocent as you both bathed in the feeling of each other's lips against one another, you sighed into the kiss as you push him even closer to your face to savour the moment, his lips feeling like clouds as you reach heaven, his taste being of earl grey with vanilla sponge, his scent overtaking your mind, driving you crazy with the gently fruity scent of his favourite tea and sugar, an addicting scent.  

Your heart was pounding in your chest and so was his, he was so flustered as this was his first kiss, he was unsure what to do but simply said, he was enjoying every second of it. his face felt as though it was set ablaze, his hands leaving the chair he was leaning on and entangled themselves in your hair and the side of your neck as he felt pure love. 

Both of you pulled away softly, eyes opening to look at each other with love filled gazes, you undid his eyepatch, he freaked out and stuttered telling you not to until you said, 

"Ciel, there is nothing I don't know about you, in the least creepy way possible. I know about your contract, I believe both of your eyes are beautiful, I could stare at them for hours and not get bored..." you chuckled breathily as you were still trying to regain yourself. 

He calmed at your words and let the eyepatch fall from his face as his eye slowly fluttered open with his soft eye lashes framing the purple iris that stole your breath away, you strained up a bit to kiss his eye as he closed it, you lips made contact with his eye lid and the boy became a stuttery mess, cute... 

He stayed flustered so you grabbed the back of his head again and smashed his lips against yours, he let out a surprised noise, but melted into the kiss again, this time more confident. he had on hand leaning on the chair, one entangled back in your hair and he placed his knee between your legs to keep his balance.  

The boy lets out a Shakey breath as you kiss him albeit a little bit more passionately this time, you kept ending the kisses quickly only just to start kissing him again and again, he was loving it, it was addicting to him. 

You both pull away with flushed faces and panting as you both regain your composure.  

"Ahem...I guess we should establish some sort of relationship from this, shouldn't we?" the flustered boy asks, he gets off from practically being on top of you, leaning against his desk as you stutter out an answer. Cute... 

"O-of course! Only if you want too though... I'm not sure how I got here and how long I'll be staying however..." 

Suddenly an all too familiar voice cuts in. 

"That would be both of your doing, the divine beings themselves accidentally separated two soulmates into different dimensions, this is their apology." Sebastian says in his well know smug voice. he is very punchable you know. 

Ciel shouts at his demon butler to get out while his face gets redder at the thought of his pet demon teasing him for this later. You chuckled at the boy you love’s embarrassment, the demon doing the same thing however, he very quickly bowed to you mentioning how it was a pleasure to meet you and is pleasantly awaiting your stay at the manor. Noice.  

The earl sighs and shakes his head as the butler walks out, he turned to you and asked, 

“So, my lady, do you wish to stay in the phantomhive manor with me? If you're my soulmate, I will happily explain to Elizabeth that I have found something that makes me smile and I'm sure she will understand.” Ciel says to you with a soft smile, with affectionate eyes draping over you. 

“Of course! I would be more than happy! - I mean- Ahem... If that's alright with you?” 

“It most certainly is my dear, my life feels as though it might actually improve for the better, I thank you angel.” 

You stand up and walk over to Ciel who was leaning on the desk, cornering against it, you wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled into his chest, showing him your gratitude. The earl smiled as his heart fluttered in his chest, being flustered by the affection. He wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging you back. 

“Hey, Ciel?” 

“Yes, my dear?” 

“I love you...” 

“I love you too my sweet angel” 

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS ACTUAL PILE OF SHIT  

Sorry, that's mean, this Victorian pile of shit <3 i sorta did this because my friend got me into posting on tumbler even though I'm only used to posting on quotev atm, but big thanks to her for giving me motivation to do this even though Ciel isn't really a sought-after character. HOWEVERRRR i will post other characters that fall within the feminine category such as Armin Arlert, Koby from the live action one peice, Rimuru Tempest even! I might do some women as well such as haruhi fujioka because gawd dayum she’s a ray of quiet sunshine. PEACE OUT MY BABYS i will also probs do a part 2 of dis but smutty, hint hint, nudge nudge  

[espinosaurusrexex]

All the Words I Can't Say

College!SteveRogers x Female!Reader AU

summary: Steve can't help it. He is just so enchanted that all he ever draws is you. Too bad he will never actually talk to you, though - that's too scary. But Bucky always says he has to face his fears some day...

a/n: I have a playlist for College!SteveRogers. It was originally for another fic I’ve written, but apparently I can’t not imagine him awkward and love struck in any college universe. So this serves as a general College Stevie AU vibe :) 

word count: 2.6k

warnings: awkward, love-dazed Stevie, fluff?, swearing, and so sorry (but it's giving slight stalker vibes... it really wasn't my intention he's just so obsessed)

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ･

He dreams in color. They are the words he can’t say, painted on a canvas.

Blue fades in clear water. Like a feeling warming you for a second, a spark. It’s beautiful, Steve thinks. He loves it when his brush does it. He feels like a wizard when the pigment dissolves into the clear again - as if it had never been there before. Hidden in the masses of molecules, disguised only as long as it stays in its entity. Not too much - too much is never good. 

Another drop lands in the water, but now it starts to taint in washed color. Steve still loves it - it’s still magical. But there is something he loves even more. And it’s right there in front of him - not really. But almost. Depicted in oranges and browns, purples and blues, yellows, greens and reds - your eyes stare back at him with adoration. And Steve’s heart skips. Then it clenches and stops. It always does that... when the admonition flashes in his mind. 

It’s not real.

He has to remind himself too often. But he can’t help it. It’s too comforting to live in his fantasies - warm and safe - all he ever needed. Now it hurts with every stroke he dares. It’s not like he hasn’t done it dozens of times before. A notebook filled with sketches hidden beneath the mattress in his bedroom serves as proof of this. It never does anything other than remind him of what will never be a reality, though. You in his arms, you with love painted on your face for him. 

His thumb strokes over the dried paint on the canvas but a part of his finger still smudges it. Damn it, he hasn’t checked his fingers. Now there’s purple on your face, out of place and destroying - but daring all the same. It looks quite beautiful beneath your eyes, makes them shine brighter, makes your smile softer somehow. 

Steve sighs. The purple streak is going to stay for now. He washes his brushes out in the sink, recapping the bottles of paint scattering the studio he’s in. And before long, he flicks the lights off and locks the door. Professor Potts gave him the key for ‘when he needed to let it all out again’. He needs to show her some work soon.

It’s dark out when he reaches the path to his dorm. Stars shine as bright as they can against the unrelenting city lights. It’s hopeless. Just like Steve’s track of time when he paints you, the stars don’t stand a chance. It’s well over midnight when Steve unlocks his room. Bucky would be up. He has been out, drinking with Sam. But even if he would have stayed home, he probably couldn’t sleep... like always. So, Steve doesn’t bother being quiet. 

“Another late-night date with the canvas?” The brunette peers over his phone, though his eyes hold concern for Steve. He has told him hundreds of times before. Go out. Meet people. Don’t dig yourself deeper into this hopeless crush. But Steve never listened. He likes his hopelessness. And, besides, even if he tried to get over you, he knows it wouldn’t be possible. 

His smile finds the ground before he disappears into the bathroom where his sunken eyes stare back at him. He would be dreaming about you tonight - he always does when he paints you. And he looks forward to it, too. 

❁ ❁ ❁

You pass by him once again. It’s weird, because Steve swears he’s smiling, but his mouth won’t listen. He looks like an idiot. If only he could talk to you - Yeah, no. that isn’t an option. Because just thinking about it makes his heart go crazy fast. It’s scary because you’re so beautiful. And he knows he shouldn’t size himself down to leagues and scales, but how can he not when literally all of college is all about it? Bucky says he should grow some balls and ask you out or leave it be. But here’s the thing: he can’t leave it be - and he can most definitely not talk to you. It’s too scary - too foreign.

His brush dips back into lilac. He embraces the smudge now. Hated it for a while - but then it grew on him. Now it needs more shades. His tongue darts out as he tries to precisely draw along the curve of your cheekbone. He gets a little excited and his hand wants to shake, but he can hold it steady, he has practiced it enough.

Now another stroke. And another. Steve finds amusement in the color pouring onto his canvas. The smudge might have been the best mistake he’s ever made. Then again, there are no mistakes in painting. Accidents are meant to happen. They show the painter what their mind wants to see. 

“Is that... me?” Steve’s hands go flying and the brush throws purple all around him.

Oh no. Code red code red code red - that’s a fucking code red!

You just stand there as Steve flinches with the wooden brush hitting the floor, paint sprinkles covering your face - stunned, silent. This is a nightmare. He’s holding his breath. Really, there’s nothing he can do but hope he won’t pass out from the way your eyes bore into his wide and shocked. Though there is a softness in them still. You’re not angry - at least he doesn’t think so. Maybe, if he’s still a little longer, he’ll just disappear. 

That doesn’t happen. Obviously. Because god hates him.

His mouth opens, but there is not a sound formed by his tongue. He should apologize - he needs to apologize. God, but your eyes look too pretty with the purple accentuating your skin. He’s not even mad about it. He could look at it forever, look at you forever. Not that he doesn’t already do exactly that for the majority of his day. But still. 

“Are you okay?” You blink out of your trance and now Steve is panicking even more. “No need to apologize, by the way, I’m fine. Just got caught in a paint grenade.” Your eyes wander down your body and now Steve can see the fine blotches of lilac seeping into your shirt. It's white - shit. 

“I-” He’s trying, he really is. But something isn’t working up there. He just short circuits - wires smoking and all. It’s a complete mess. No wonder he can’t talk. And then your pretty gaze - he just needs to feel it and he’s melting away and, oh shit did you just see the painting? There are several stages of disaster but on a measure from failing a test to your mom dying, this is a six on the Richter scale. Why can’t he just say something?

He opens his mouth again and a weird noise escapes his tongue. What the fuck was that? By the look on your face, he can tell you’re just as surprised. But then your shoulders sag and you sigh.

“I shouldn’t have startled you like that, that was my fault. But this,” your gesture towards your shirt, “this is yours.” He swallows thickly, you seem to be really mad about that shirt. “You really speared nothing but that canvas.”

Now his body turns to the project propped up behind him. The canvas, right. You stare back at him, and now that you actually stand so close before him, he’s impressed at how lifelike he made your portrait. He’s surrounded by you, staring him down, but somehow your presence calms him. One last look at the purple smidge beneath your painted eyes and the breath returns to his lounges. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says when he spins back to you.

A small smile is placed on your lips and it reminds him of the series of sketches he made while you were laughing with your friends the other day. “Oh, so you can talk.”

“Sometimes,” he mutters to himself but he’s sure you’ve heard it. He turns to look at the painting again as he curses his carelessness. He can’t even stop you when you step forward to have a closer look at the artwork yourself. It’s too late now, anyway.

You reach forward but halt just in time. Unlike Steve, you didn’t smear the paint on your fingers all over the piece. “It’s very good.” 

Of course, it is. He puts everything in his paintings. All the things he can’t say. And, as he just noticed, that’s a whole lot.

“Thank you.” It’s small but it slips past his lips with ease. He never likes to accept compliments, but it’s different when you give them. He seeks your approval, especially now that you have caught him shamelessly reaping a piece of your privacy with his obsession.

Your eyes sway to him and then back to your portrait, and Steve is enchanted by the way your skin looks when the light hits it just right. He makes a mental note to draw you like this when he gets home - that is if you haven’t forbidden him to do so anymore. But who is he kidding? He’ll do it anyway, it’s an addiction.

His feet take him closer to you, and soon he’s gazing over your shoulder from a foot away, watching you watch the painting that’s looking right back at him. He’s trapped in the gaze he created and it’s taunting him: This is a mess. Then why doesn’t it feel messy?

Steve is so close to you, he can smell your shampoo, the faint remnant of the perfume you put on this morning, probably. It’s intoxicating, it draws him in and he can’t take his eyes off of you. His fingers are itching to touch you. He can imagine his hand moving your collar away to trail kisses from your shoulder to your collarbone - stop it, Steve. His face is heating up and his hands clench beside his body. 

“How long have you been working on this?” You spin around now suddenly, those lively eyes stare back at him, more intense - more real than he’s used to. And Steve can’t handle it, but his body isn’t looking away either. 

“Not that long,” he whispers as his focus lands on a moderate splatter of lilac beneath your eye. It’s not a lie, he’s memorized your features. Steve doesn’t even register your answer, he’s fixated on that little purple drop of color on your skin. It has a hold on him, he can’t do anything. 

“Why are you staring like that? Do I have something on my face?” It’s a silly joke, but Steve can’t tell you that you do. It would risk you swiping it away. And he can’t have that. Not when he wants to do it himself. He can’t do that, though, the purple spot is mocking him. And then, suddenly, like a bystander, he watches his hand move towards your face. He can’t stop it, it’s like an accident - he just needs to look, but he can’t do anything about it either. 

When his thumb finally makes contact with your skin, the world around him freezes again. There you are, so close before him, he’s touching your face, and it’s nothing like he thought it would be. He’s calm - so calm. Why is that? What is wrong with him?

Steve can hear your breath hitch when his fingers settle beneath your ear, his thumb resting next to the droplet of paint. He can finally feel his heart beating again, it’s getting faster now. He moves to wipe the lilac from your face, but he’s betrayed once again. The paint leaves a smudge beneath your eye and Steve is having flashbacks from the night before. 

Now you look just like his painting - his vision mixed with the perfect reality presented before him and he’s not sure, he can handle it. The world seems to spin when you take his hand from your face and look at the color on his finger. Then your eyes flick back up and his gaze locks with yours. Is this really happening? It feels so surreal.

The moment takes over Steve’s brain. It’s like he’s in one of those movies Sam likes to watch. There should be some piano queued in a second and then the main characters lean in to finally kiss in the rain. This won’t happen here, this is reality. But somehow, Steve isn’t so sure about it as soon as he thinks it.

Your eyes are still staring into his, wide, and it’s as if you’re not quite sure what’s happening either. If you feel anything like him at the moment, you must be captivated by the atmosphere that has been built around you. Steve is sure it can’t just be his big fat crush on you. It’s something new, something that just happened - the moment you took his hand in yours. 

Oh wow, you are leaning in. Panic surges up his spine. He can’t do it, not like this. This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re the princess and he’s the rat living in the peasant’s walls. But suddenly you're lips connect with his and it’s so simple, so effortless. He’s questioning everything at this point. Maybe you’re a witch and he’s a black cat. You are a little wicked, after all. And the way this feels - you and him - it’s like you belong together.

The hand that is still holding his guides him to your waist where it’s placed with promise. Steve can feel the paint transferring to the white cotton beneath his fingers but he’s too busy trying not to faint. He has done this before. He knows how to kiss, but he feels like a toddler with training wheels now that he gets to actually taste you. When your hand snakes around the back of his head, however, he regains consciousness. Your fingers press into his skin and he finally moves his lips in unison with yours. He can taste the minty aftertaste of gum on your tongue when he dares to explore it and he’s sinking into you like melted chocolate. Your breath tickles his cheek and when he pulls you a little closer to him, a surprised huff escapes your kiss. 

Then your hand slips from his neck and pushes gently against his chest. He pulls back, dazed eyes staring back at you. He’s yearning for more, whatever this was, and he’s chasing to stay in the universe you catapulted him into for a second longer. 

Your gaze travels over to the portrait again, then back to him and your thumb grazes over his sweater. “You owe me a new shirt.”

“Anything you want.” It’s a husky whisper in which his eyes stay fixated on the movement of your lips. He would say yes to about anything right now. His brain is mush. 

“It’s a date, then.” It looks like you want to nod, but you’re still staring at him with those tranced eyes - Steve can’t get enough of it.

He swallows thickly. “Okay.”

And then you just smile and leave him standing there, longing for a second more of your presence. But you have turned the corner faster than he can register and that’s when reality is setting back into his brain. It’s like he is snapped out of a vivid daydream, but he can still taste the mint on his tongue and he still has the purple smear on his finger. This was real, this actually happened. 

His eyes get caught on the painting once more. Intensely staring back at him with mockery: You’re an idiot. He knows that.

“Shut up,” he whispers to the drying paint on the canvas as he moves to pick up his brush again. But now that he has had the real thing, his drawings don’t do you justice anymore. 

I know it's a little weird, but I like it. I hope you do, too. You are welcome to share your thoughts - reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 💙

Wanna be added to the taglist?

@fangirl-swagg @mi-amoree1111 @lastwandastan @royalwritersoftheuniverses @dinwifey @stuckysgirl27 @broadwaybabe18 @buckybarnessimpp @goodkittyspost @simpxinnie @circe143 @valkyrie418 @mirikusashes @noideawhyimdoingthislol @nikkitc0703 @lethallyprotected @erynnnn @misshale21 @wattpaduser200 @buckyseddie @adoreyouusugar

[buginateacup]

On the first day of Christmas my hostage gave to me...

It starts with the socks.

Now many would say socks are among the least exciting Christmas presents to recieve. And provided you are of an age where preferred presents would take the form of Lego or rollerskates you may in fact be correct.

But a good sock is worth appreciating nonetheless. As people old enough to buy their own Lego for Christmas can confirm.

However socks were not what Megamind was expecting when the festive kidnapping bag (Minion had INSISTED on adding tinsel) was removed from his regular hostage's head and instead of screaming in terror like she was supposed to, Miss Ritchi looks around and says, "Hey did you bring my- oh good you did." and had indicated with great delight that one of the many little giftbags Minion had collected along with her from a crowded December street was intended for him.

Megamind dove for the bag immediately and is now standing stock still staring at the socks in his hand.

They are a bright Christmassy green. All the better to contrast the bulbous heads of grey aliens decorating every inch of them.

The faces are wearing Santa hats.

They are objectively, inherently

Awful.

"What... are these?" He demands finally.

"They're socks!" Roxanne offers brightly, trying not to giggle.

"Are you sure?"

Roxanne had not intended to give Megamind socks. Giving presents to your regular kidnapper was well...kind of weird if you thought about it too hard. But the socks had been in a three for the price of two sale and when she'd gotten over laughing at the design herself she simply thought, what the hell. It wasn't like she couldn't give them to one of her cousins, she reasoned. Seeing Megamind first was simply a gift of opportunity. So here she was, trying not to think about it and watching Megamind's face twist into an expression like he'd just bitten into a watermelon flavoured lemon.

"Well you could wear them on your hands but I'm not sure what kind of sock puppet they'd make?" She adds, fighting (and loosing) the battle to keep the laughter out of her voice.

He's still staring at them a little confusedly as he says, "I don't think anyone's ever been brave enough to give- to give me socks before."

Roxanne rolls her eyes, "You must have done well if you've never been given socks for Christmas."

She'd meant it as a joke, expecting some joke about a lifetime supply of coal as black as his heart or some other Grinchlike pronouncement. Instead Megamind's eyes dart the way she's seen before when he's running full tilt with some wild villainous plan only to stumble over the correction of some unspoken societal rule and he draws himself a little further into his cape and mutters a short "No."

Roxanne doesn't let her face slip an inch. Megamind does not do well with sympathy, on the rare (and they are exceedingly rare) occasions when some bubble of truth surfaces from the whirlpool that is his constant performance any "sorry's" or attempted understanding just make him snappy and viciously sarcastic.

She gives it a moment then raises both eyebrows in the most mocking way she can, "If let me have my hands back I'm happy to demonstrate?" She suggests, deliberately saccharine.

"Oh no!" Megamind jerks back into motion, "No juvenile attempts at bribery are going to get you out of facing your doom, Miss Ritchi!" He shakes them in her face and that's when he discovers the bells sewn into the ankles.

Celery has been added to the water-lemon and they are having a party in his mouth.

Roxanne bites back a snort with everything she has and asks "Was that an option?"

"No!" Megamind rather desperately wishes he had a hat similar to the not-at-all-similar faces on his new socks. Instead he spins in place and hopes his collar is tall and menacing enough to hide the fact his ears are blushing.

"Damn," She doesn't sound too worried.

"Yes well," he mutters, "Socks to be you," and Roxanne's laughter peals bright as bells through the Lair.

[bambiimutt]

hiii!!! Can you do masky as a father figure to edgy emo/scene teens? 👀

Father Figure Masky

Of course I can my love!! I actually haven’t thought of doing something like this so I’ll give it a shot!!

ೃ࿔*:･

Not any tw’s if I missed any please let me know. Just some wholesome Tim! Lots of fluff!

-I feel like he probably finds you in a Library. He doesn’t go often but when he usually spots you. you’re always reading a book or sometimes drawing. He never sees your parents so he assumes you must be old enough to be out on your own.

-he’s typically in there for.. well not really anything. To get away from the noise. From the typical people. He usually sits in a corner, book in hand slightly slouching in his chair, legs crossed over each other. His satchel usually sits beside the squeaky chair, occasionally he pops a pill, swallowing down water and going back to whatever he’s reading.

-you come in one afternoon, grabbing the book you’ve been reading the last couple of weeks and heading towards your spot. But when you arrive you’re met with a few teenagers from you school. “Shit.” You’re quick to turn on your heel before they see you and try to find some other quiet corner to sit in. And when you do someone else just so happens to be sitting there.

-you clear your throat. “Uhm..” Tim looks up from his book, eyebrow cocked. It’s you. “S-sorry. Uhm. Do you mind if I sit here. I won’t bother you or anything.” He’s silent for a moment, his fingers curling at the page before he closes the book. You’re quick to roll your eyes when you don’t get a response “hellooo?” You wave your book in his face before he speaks “g’ahead” he moves up slightly and watches you carefully. He takes note of your funky hair, how it isn’t natural. The piercings on your face and the clothes you wear.

- this is all where it kinda started. You’d start sitting with him whenever you knew he was there, he’d learn why you were always here, how your parents just never treated you the greatest and the only way to escape was to come to the library.

-you finally ask him one day why he takes so many pills, why he needs so much medication. And oddly enough he feels okay to open up to you about those things.

-I think he would feel some sort of comfort. He likes that your different then others. In a way you’re like him, but maybe not so violent. And he tries to keep that part of him away from you. He tries to just be the happy him, but it’s hard when he’s been out all night blacked out stalking innocent individuals.

-he ends up buying you some art supplies. He first took note of your artistic skills from the moment he seen you. He likes the weird things you draw, it almost eases his mind to know he’s not the only one with weird stupid scary thoughts.. though you are more of a edgy teenager.. he’s just not normal.

-your name in his phone is kiddo. He probably sends you stupid fucking memes he finds on the internet that he thinks are so Hilarious but they’re actually so fucking cringy.

-Calling him dad for the first time. Yeah it kinda just slips out and he’s shook. You think he’s angry, uncomfortable but he’s in pure SHOCK. Really? You look at him like that? That’s so… sweet. He cares for you deeply and wants to see you go far. So the fact that you see him like that.. damn you might have just wiggled right into his heart.

-it takes him some time getting used to it but at some point he fully allows you to call him dad. He’ll pick you up from school, he’s always the one to listen to you when it comes to bullies at school, he buys you lunch, makes sure you have school supplies that you need. You call him asking him to pick you up because you don’t wanna be there anymore? He’s on his way.

-“can you take me to the MCR comeback concert?”

“Fuck no.”

-Trust me he’d love to take you to those things but his money goes to his medications and his house, he’d rather have a roof over his head then be surrounding by teenagers crying and screaming. Butttt.. that doesn’t stop him from buying you things that you’re interested in. Band shirts, new hair dye, comics, etc.. he even goes out of his way to make sure you have new things, new phone.. whatever you want. I think he’s taking the dad role straight to the heart.. but it makes him happy.

-if you were ever in a situation to be put up for adoption. He’s 100% willing to adopt you. But if you’re old enough to be moved out, he’s got a bedroom all set up for you.

-he takes his road trips.. and fully takes pride on the fact that he listens to dad rock. He sings horribly to the music while you groan and plug your ears, and searching frantically for your headphones “dad please! Shut up!”

-he does let you play your music majority of the time though, and he actually doesn’t mind any of it. He thinks it’s pretty cool.

-“I bought hair dye..” you look at Tim and sway side to side, hands behind your back. He stares at you from the couch before shutting his eyes and sighing “alright, grab a plastic bag and get to the bathroom.” He always dyes your hair. And he’s always wrapping the damn plastic bag around your head too tight. “Gotta make sure that dye stays in there” and gives you the meanest dad back slap.

-if you ever graduate, he’s in the back of the stadium watching you proudly from afar. And of course he has gifts for you, what kind of father would he be if he hadn’t. Once you’re both in the car he’s got a small box and a large bag ready for you. Some new clothes, items and those damn concert tickets you always talk about.

-he’s a good papa. He’d never judge you for your interests nor what you looked like. He thinks you’re super bad ass and he’s proud to be such an important figure in your life.

[megapteraurelia]

wildflower — your first time skipping practice.

summary | delinquent!reader having to join karasuno's volleyball club and— ugh, did she really have to? warnings | cursing, smoking, (emotional pain) word count | 3568. a/n | hii! this is part two of female delinquent!reader (though, i might change this from super delinquent to just angered-and-hurt-teen!reader) please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

You had to give one thing to the volleyball club: it worked perfectly as background noise for you to kick back and fall asleep to. 

You were holed up on the second floor, back leaning against the railing, eyes closed and ready to get taken into a faraway land, deep in your slumbers. Balls bounced off the floor; a dull sound compared to the bright clap when they met hands, and it worked like clockwork, one after the other, like a metronome.  

The coach yelled some instructions, a couple of “Nice receive!” and “Nice serve!” ringing out, but their voices seemed far away as you longed to dip your head in water and lose yourself in the rustle of liquid, holding your breath; the need and desire rising within you to claim your air, to claim your life, to consciously choose, each and every time, to return to the world of the living. 

Yells of joy chimed through the hall, interrupting the sounds of idle playing your mind had grown used to, and you cracked one eye open. Drawing your attention immediately was the orange-haired pipsqueak, jumping up and down, his form nearly vibrating with excitement. Hinata Shōyō was as annoying as a little mosquito, buzzing around with far more energy than should be legal, and so loud. For somebody like you, who liked to have downtime, he was as close to a curse upon your conscience as possible. 

And, like clockwork —

“Hinata! What are you so excited about, idiot?! You better not prove to me that this was just a fluke on your part, so come back down, loser — “

“ — it was no fluke!! I’ll show you, Kageya — “

Yep. 

Once one of the idiots got fired up, that seemed to light up an entire blaze underneath the other’s ass, and it was like a compulsory scratch they couldn’t stop itching. The worst thing was that it wasn’t just those two, who kept going. Usually, they were pretty easy to ignore once one got accustomed to the new volume gauge they set every time, so you glanced over the whole field and deliberately sent a rather mean glare to Azumane Asahi. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could recognise the weird way his shoulders twitched as a shiver ran down his back. 

You snickered quietly to yourself because scaring this huge of a young man was never not gonna be funny, before closing your eyes again to settle back. 

Except, here came the reminder why you could never catch more than 15 minutes of nap time at once whenever you had to attend this stupid club.

Sadly, amongst the entirety of the team, there were two other idiots, who managed to be just as loud and excitable and interrupted the workings of your inner mind once it tuned out the weird first-years. You didn’t even want to know what they were doing, though you could guess that it had a lot of ‘fooling around’ in the name. Their voices though, much to your demise, were still loud enough to carry to you. Damn it, even though you chose the most far-away place in this gymnasium to waste time at.

“Noya! Watch this!”

“Wooooaaaaaahh, Ryū, that’s so cool! You look like a superhero!! Wait, look, I’ve also been working on my newest move — “

Deliberately trying to tune out the voices, you once again tried to lean against the bars to sink into some formless version of daydreaming. For a bit, it worked. You dove deep into your mind, trying to find your spot where you could live and exist without restrictions, where you could imagine anything and everything. Like, a comfortable, cosy hut next to a deep lake. Below the surface, a wild array of life that welcomed you as one of their own — several types of fish, beavers and otters, water snakes, and snails; all of them accompanied by colourful algae. And you. You would fit in so well; nobody to throw you out, nobody to talk to you roughly, nobody to set you into this world only to abandon you in it. No. This lake would be your home.

“Excuse me, [Y/N]-san.”

Your eyebrow twitched. 

You did not want to be dragged out of your mind, so you pointedly ignored the voice trying to speak to you and hoped with all your might that they understood to leave you the fuck alone.

But, when was life ever kind to you?

“[Y/N]-san.”

Were you going to keep ignoring her, pretending to be asleep to avoid whatever conversation she wanted to strike with you? Yes. Was Shimizu Kiyoko going to stand down there forever, calling up to you for your attention? Probably not. So you bet against her patience, accumulated by dealing with the nuisances in her team, and instead on your endless one of being a piece of shit. 

What you didn’t think to include in your calculations was that this was never a one versus one. If it had been, you might have succeeded in getting her to give up and go, but backing her were also the rest of the teammates — especially those two loudmouths. 

“Oi, who do you think you are, ignoring Kiyoko-san when she gives her precious attention to you?!”

Ugh. 

“Yeah!! Do you know what I would give to have her even look at me?!” Nishinoya Yū chimed in, just as fired up at the prospect of their dearest manager being disrespected like that, and before you knew it, the bars of the railing next to you rattled, and your eyes opened on instinct and in defense, immediately narrowing, because what the fuck was that idiot doing? 

Heaving himself up, gripping the metal with his hands, was Tanaka Ryūnosuke, whose face you could only describe as having bitten into a sour apple. He was giving you a death stare, which was interesting seeing as how you had disinterestedly watched him freeze up in front of any girl he tried to talk to. Eyebrows raised, eyes squinted, mouth curled into a grimace. 

You returned his glare with no hesitation.

“Kiyoko-san is the heart of the team, and you’re just gonna act like she’s invisible?! Not happening. On. My. Watch.” Tanaka all but spat at you, his voice daring you to take him up on the offer to challenge him. In all honesty, you would love that. It had been ages since you had gotten into a good brawl, and the way he came to his manager’s defense, you didn’t think that he seemed like somebody who would shy down from getting into a fight. 

But you also were somebody who liked to provoke people some more, so you glanced over his shoulder to Shimizu, who shifted a bit uncomfortably. Maybe she didn’t like for people to make a fuss about her; maybe she couldn’t care less. Who could say?

So, you scoffed out, “What do you want?”

Tanaka started fussing almost immediately at being ignored, but you kept looking at Shimizu, and she narrowed her eyes back at you, “Now that we are two, we can take notes about how the guys play during their individual practices simultaneously rather than have to force them to wait or not give them the necessary attention.”

“And?”

“Oi, what do you mean ‘and’?! Listen here, you littl—”

“Ryūnosuke,” one word from Shimizu and he was as silent as a little puppy. You rolled your eyes when he let go of the bars, softening the blow to his knees by landing in a bend. 

You stood up as well, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your tracksuit, “Look. I’m not here because I want to, so no, I don’t care to help you out. And no, I also don’t care that it makes me sound like an asshole. Take care of your shit on your own.”

“— you do sound like a right proper piece of s—”

“Pft, who does she think she is?”

“—Sugaaa, this is scary…”

“Do we have to have her in the team—”

“Maybe I should follow her example.” — “Tsukki, no!”

“Alright, guys, calm down,” Daichi’s voice interrupted as a flurry of voices spoke at once; his stepped-up presence settling the others, authoritarian yet gentle, steadfast once again. It irked you to no end, and you couldn’t help the scoff that left your lips, drawing the attention of a dark brown gaze as you made your way down, grabbing your bag tightly. He had merciful eyes, you thought offhandedly, a kind look on his face, even though the friendly smile was forced. Somehow the fact that he still looked at you like that made you feel weird, even though you didn’t want him to do that, even though you knew that the smile wasn’t really meant for you. 

“How about we just take a little break, yeah?” he suggested, and even though the air was tense — when it became clear that the captain was going to handle it, their shoulders all seemed to loosen up a little, becoming less burdened with the weight of you. 

When he saw that you weren’t coming down to meet with him but instead beelined straight to the entrance, or in your case the exit, he jogged up to you.

“[Y/N]-san, wait up!”

You didn’t want to look at his face again; the smile he would have to pressure his muscles to form, so you kept your head low and when he was near enough, you gritted your teeth together and hissed at him to stop expecting you to do anything. He wanted to reply; you could hear it in the intake of breath, in the change of air as the familiar heaviness settled on your shoulders about having to convince them that you didn’t belong; the familiar anger that you had to make yourself look like a fool because they just wouldn’t get it on their own. 

“Let her take a walk around the block to cool off, Sawamura,” the coach butted in before Daichi could get a word out, “and let the others come down as well.”

You didn’t lose any time at heading his word, though instead of walking around the block, you walked straight out of school and didn’t come back.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, your fee hasn’t been paid yet, and you know how incredibly strict he is with missing payments. I wish I could let you through, anyway.”

You didn’t know why you had even tried to see whether your mother was true to her word. Of course, she was. She was a lawyer for god’s sake. Once her word was given, it was like a binding contract; it didn’t even matter that you had not consented to it. But then again, you were underage, she was your legal guardian and she was the one who paid for your swimming classes.

You gave the sweet receptionist at your usual swimming hall a tiny smile because, after all, she had grown to be something akin to an aunt for you, the way she always set aside little treats for you and made sure you showered and blow-dried your hair before exiting the swimming hall, always nagging you to not catch a cold.

“It’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t, but you also didn’t want to disclose your entire history with your mother when other people were waiting in line. You swiped your useless membership card off the counter and back into your pocket and bid her goodbye before turning back to leave. Stuffing your hands into your pockets you stepped out into the cold autumn air, fingers fumbling for a cigarette to keep you warm and stress-free. Well, not really stress-free, but at least you could pretend that with each breath you sent into the sky, your worries could be swapped along. 

It had been four days since you were last at the volleyball club practices. You couldn’t bring yourself to go when you knew you were just wasting time away there, so you usually just went home. Your mother hadn’t known, because she stayed late every day at the office anyway. It wasn’t like she cared to talk to you still.

You walked up the street to return home, but when you stood in front of the familiar wooden door to your house, your pockets and your bag had an easy time convincing you that you did not have your key with you. 

You frowned as you tried to remember where you had seen it last, but that was hours ago at school. Had you left it in the locker? You looked through your bag again for good measure, but again, your hands did not find the key to your home. You rang the doorbell — maybe one of your parents was at home? 

No answer.

Groaning, you turned around. Time to walk all the way back to school. If life was a gamble, you’d bet against yourself every time.

Karasuno High was almost eerie in the evening, and definitely way too cold. Jogging up to the entrance, you slipped through the door into the foyer, the lockers all lined up neatly. Your name, your name, your name, your name — ah! There it was.

Opening it up, you prayed silently that your key was to be found. You were not in the mood to deal with the consequences of a lost one, nor the conversation that would follow about how you should keep better track of your things, even though you were not in the habit of losing belongings the way your mother liked to throw at your head.

“Ah, thank god,” escaped you when your fingers found the key lodged in your school shoes, though how it got there, you had no idea. Fishing it out, you stuffed it into your bag and closed it up, in case it decided to jump out and run away. 

“[Y/N]-san.”

You closed your eyes for a second and sent a short strong-worded letter to the universe, before standing up and turning to the teacher, who you knew had just dismissed a team of volleyball-crazy teenagers and who was currently looking at you through his glasses, his eyes serious. 

“What.”

Takeda sighed at your response, but came closer nonetheless; not enough to chase you away from its proximity, but enough that you knew he wanted to talk to you. Fuck, you really did not want to have any conversation with anybody, but you stayed put anyway. 

“The principal visited practice today.”

You tensed up but said nothing. The principal did what? 

Takeda noted your posture, the tight grip you had on your bag, and continued, “It was a mandatory check-up on how the club was faring with you having joined it. You weren’t there, so when he asked for your whereabouts, I told him I had sent you on an errand.”

Wait, what? 

As he was talking, you had already prepared yourself for the fact that you were going to be expelled, that your mother was going to throw you out, that you were going to join the homeless on the streets of Japan, that you were a failure who couldn’t even manage to not stay in school — not that you really deserved to, seeing as how you continued to self-destruct even though you knew the consequences awaiting you.

Yet, here Takeda was; his wavy black hair cropped short, glasses slowly making their way down his nose bridge, mouth set in a line and lying for you. 

You stared at him in surprise, eyebrows for once not drawn heavily over your eyes, but almost meeting your hairline in complete shock.

“This will not happen again,” he said firmly, looking into your eyes, deliberately and attentively searching for your gaze so you could understand him crystal clear, “I will not cover up your absences for you should the principal come around the next time. Stay away if you must, wreck your future if you feel like that’s something you need to do, fine, but I will not jeopardise Karasuno’s volleyball club again like that.”

He didn’t even allow you to respond, just turned around and left the school through its entrances, leaving you speechless. 

You hadn’t asked for his good graces, hell, you didn’t even want them yet he covered for you anyway. Why would he do that? Was there something he got out of doing so? If he didn’t want to endanger the club, why...would he risk it the first time? Why?

You looked at the swinging door and the retreating figure, and felt the blood rush back into your hand when you softened the grip on your bag. You stared and stared and stared until your eyes begged you to blink.

As soon as you stepped through the door with the key that, thankfully, did not jump out of your bag and escape you, your mother’s voice resonated through the house. You didn’t think anything of it, since she used to be in meetings and calls with colleagues all the time at any time, but when your name passed her lips, you froze.

Was Takeda not enough of a surprise? 

“I’m waiting,” she called out, her voice impatient, and for a second you contemplated just leaving again, but when she called out your name again, this time more urgently, you rubbed the spot between your eyebrows and moved.

You didn’t have to answer because as soon as she saw you appear at the threshold of her office, she fixated you with a cold look, one leg in her dress pants folded over the other, her heels sharp as always.

“The president called me today and reported about how you’re doing at school.”

You pressed your lips together. Of course, your mother would be in contact with Karasuno High about your performance, like the ever-controlling freak that she was. Her fingers were crossed, her blazer decorating the backrest of her chair, and even though you knew she wanted you to look at her, you kept staring past her face at the blazer and its buttons.

“He said you’ve been keeping to the agreement we made,” one of her fingers started tapping against her hand, and you shrugged your shoulders in response — you sure as hell were not going to correct her.

“Look at me.”

You really didn’t want to, but her voice was hard enough that you knew she was not playing around. Reluctantly, you allowed her to search your eyes for the confirmation that you knew she was not going to find, and—

“I knew it,” she leaned back for a second, her posture once again wavering under the strain of having you as a daughter. You gritted your teeth together and she continued, her anger flaring up more and more, “I know you. The school lessons? Sure, I could believe that you attended them, but I knew you were going to have trouble with the club activities. As if that fool Takeda could lie to me and think he could get away with it without me finding out.”

This angered you, too. Not that you were skipping your extracurricular responsibilities but that your mother knew you weren’t going to like it and she threw you into the deep end, anyway. You thought you even heard her voice take a subtle note of schadenfreude that she ended up right. You also felt a sting of anger when she called Takeda a fool, even though you didn’t disagree, but…he cared enough to cover for you, didn’t he? But what did it matter? Why were you — 

“But why did I expect something different from you?”

It shot out of you, your tongue hot and stinging from the force of the feelings behind them, “So, why did you sign me up for this shit?! If you know that I hate it, why would you force me to do this? Do you just enjoy watching me fail? Is that it? You like watching me fall on my stupid face?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why wouldn’t I want my daughter to succeed?” she waved your concerns away like she always did. Like she never bothered to see past your words at the hurt feelings that brewed inside you, “Your discipline is abhorrent, and so you need to learn.”

Your mouth opened to retort something, but she cut you off, sighing, “Though, I can see I need to change your incentive otherwise you will not work.”

Eyes narrowed at her words, and even though you really hated the way it sounded as if she saw you like a toy she could fix, you crossed your arms in front of your chest, trying to calm down your breathing, waiting on what she had to say.

Her fingers brushed the hair that escaped her perfect sleek ponytail out of her face, “If you promise me that you give your best and attend the activities each week, I will pay for your swimming class each week.”

Your heart felt like it might be able to breathe, might be able to relax, might exist outside your being, and you looked at your mother, and even though you hated her so much it hurt, even though you hated how much you wanted her approval, even though you didn’t want to strike any deals with her...if it meant you could swim again, you could be free again—

“Okay,” you whispered.

to be tagged | @ilovemymomscooking