#every time i think about the scene of him chanting i think of

[firefly--bright]

sound//waves

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u.

summary ; each sound has its own shape, something tangible for you to feel. jean's shapes are weightless but important, and you find the importance of your own shapes through him. warnings ; reader being self-conscious of her voice :') idk what the trope is here. pining idiots who don't realise they're both in the same boat. a/n ; hehe,,, this fic was a pretty long time coming i think? but its for @/samepictureofjeankirsteverday on instagrams celebration for hitting 1k days!! so congratulations!! its also inspired by her own fic, quietude on ao3 :) pls give it a read its SO CUTE and i loved it sm <333 congratulations again :33 ALSO i have never done karaoke before so im sorry for any,,, errors. i genuinely dont know how they work and ive watched only like 2 animes with a very vague karaoke scene </3 just pretend that every inaccuracy is For The Plot taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy

masterlist is in pinned post ✿ enter my taglist ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿ playlist to listen to while reading! (it has a couple karaoke songs wink wink) ✿

right tile art credits ; @ppushable on tumblr!

you'd always been conscious of how loud your voice could get. 

a little annoying, you thought, because whenever you got excited about something, your voice would jump through octaves, creating an exponential curve on a graph. when you were with friends who knew how to make you laugh, your throat would make a weird sound - stuck between a guffaw and a choke of self-conscious laughter - if it was particularly funny. and your voice was always stuck between the contrasting spaces of either being too loud or too quiet, never really being able to gauge what was required when. 

you'd rather listen than talk. your voice would work around the right people, your mouth having a mind of its own, spilling contents you didn't agree to, but you'd regret the sound of it later. secrets would lie, open, barren, self-aware, in a disgusting pile of weird decibels on your table, in the space between you and whoever had to bear witness to it. you always cringed at the sound of your own voice after hearing it back in video, wherever it was captured. 

you grew up quiet, never growing used to using your voice until you were a late teenager. not knowing the importance of words until they were said, until after the reactions were met. 

and then you met jean. loud, boisterous laughter filled the room as he shouted the rules of the game, clearly drunk, at a party you couldn't remember the importance of, and you were next to your equally as loud and agreeing friend who shouted cheers and another one, her other half, she had loudly exclaimed, her twin, really, and you could hear the resemblance in the way they both chanted a cheer of “jean! jean! jean! jean!” continuously as the guy wearing a button-up shirt that was now soaked with wine with a bottle of the liquid held a considerable height away from him, drinking with twitching lips and shut eyes. He stopped with a spluttering cough, unashamed still, a large, cocky grin plastered over his lips - plump and red with the tint of the wine. Then he let out a loud whoop and you wondered how he didnt feel the guilt of being loud weighing down on him. Maybe it was the alcohol, you assumed, taking a cautious, controlled sip of your own. Sasha and connie soon joined him, and along with their arm came yours, linked in between sasha’s tight grip.

Introductions were made, voices inclining louder to be heard over the music. “Sash told us about you,” jean shouted, a surprisingly inviting smile on his intimidating face, and you joked around, “yeah shes in love with me!” jean all but nodded with an approving smile, and the rest of the evening by pounding music that you could feel your heartbeat on, and you don't hear jean’s presence until about two weeks after it all.

He was quiet then. Suddenly his face went back to being intimidating, and his voice was heard through a groan the first time you heard it after the boisterous party. “Marc, can you please-”

Marco continues about his day, and then you add on with your unfamiliar voice shrinking under the sounds of the cafeteria that was quickly filling in with tangible shapes of voices. The rest of them have to lean in a little closer to you to listen, and your voice shakes against your chest at the bearable effort just to talk about your mundane and frankly low-grade joke about stagnant coffee that you couldnt even remember after you said it, but somehow made them laugh.

“Oh hey!” marco spoke from beside him after he spotted your head approaching them from a distance, his voice a happy, upbeat version of it’s usual quiet and important self. You waved to them with a smile, not uttering a word until you were at their table. With sasha beside you, you let her do the talking at first. Consonants loud, slight country accent clear as the day above you, she spoke about the “boooorrriinnggg” lecture she just had to attend, her back slumping against the seat. Your face rested consciously on your palm, an unintentional look shared between you and jean that said mostly nothing but quiet and secret amusement. His eyes were pretty, speaking a thousand, weighted words against his lids, all of which were heard clearly by you. Hes a stranger, really, nothing more than a name and a scruffy but pretty face, but that didnt stop the bounds of familiarity working their way through the shared space between you. Marco snorts from beside him, and pushes his remaining fries to the brunette. Sasha hums approvingly, comforting, the waves travelling to you safely. Undisturbed, just how youd prefer them to be, and her voice floats above your body, letting it settle there, with you looking at it’s gentle remnants.

“Ackerman’s classes are always a terror-shock,” jean spoke, now, directly to  you, eyes on yours, and you had to stop yourself from being consumed by the tidal waves of sound - his voice, low, warm, joking, natural as if your presence was just enough for him to find comfort in.  

You laugh along with him and your voice - a hungry animal of itself - involuntarily, becomes more itself than you’ve ever found it to be. Which is a shock, but then sasha rests her head on your shoulder, asking you, “when’s your next class?” her voice vibrating on your shoulder, travelling through your bones. Your voice - the hungry animal - or whatever it gently became, replies with a, “in a couple minutes.” 

“What block?” jean asks, and marco checks his phone for his own calendar. 

You hum even if you don't have to think, “block-b. Just a bit of a walk.”

“I have class the same way. I can walk you,” he says, casually, picking his back up from the ground beside him, his knee knocking into yours for a moment. He doesn't apologize. You get up next, picking up the remnants of the trash left on your table and follow him.

His voice is a constant after that. Surprisingly, his voice becomes something you reach out to, the tendrils of waves asking you to stay a bit longer, to shed your coat, to give him your bag to hold. Gentle commands that all but fuel your hungry voice, lungs soaking into whatever has become of his laughter mixed with yours. 

“Karaoke night!” sasha shouts, entering the apartment with no remorse of her voice being louder than the howling dogs at night. You exchange a natural, knowing glance with jean who stands next to you in the kitchen, handing you a spoon. Connie follows her in, and his presence is just as loud, the shape being a little sharp against your palm, just enough to remind you that this is your friend. His bag flops against the table and he groans with each joint that moves in him. 

“Im going to sing the best songs-” he starts, but jean is quick to cut his voice off, as usual, “-you’re going to sing CPR by Cuppcake you crazy bastard, im going to hit you-” “im not going to sing that! I have taste and dignity and-” “-you have a will to make us suffer.” jean states, and the two of them go back and forth while you hand marco’s cup to him in the living room. “Thanks,” he says, whispered among the background, his lips pursed with an attempt of hiding his laughter. 

You smile back at him, but your laugh isnt hidden. You turn around, hands on your hips, exclaiming, “okay! Karaoke night in three hours. Then we go to mitras’ and eat something good.”

Sasha agreed with a mouthful of food and a muffled voice, and you reeled from the fact that you could project your own voice into the apartment with such force. You’ve always been loud, and your mouth always ended up working by itself, spilling contents you didn't agree to be spilt, and you grew quiet again with the consciousness of it all. You never knew how to strike the right balance between quiet and loud.

But then you met jean, who was looking at you, his mouth drawn between half smirk and half amusement, brows raised only slightly, enough to keep you questioning.

“What?” you asked him. Cornered him, really, and your voice was meant to be sharp but ended up being soft around it’s edges, a happy smile accompanying it, and jean’s smirk widened, just by a bit. He shrugged. “Nuffin,” he said, voice half-hidden and half-proud under the food he was chewing. 

Chips. Barbeque, the ones you bought especially for him, the one sasha was hoarding. You narrowed your eyes at him in faux suspicion, but let it go only a bit after, turning your back to him as his voice travels to you without hinderance. “Sash, stop eating th3e damn-” “i’ll do whatever i want to!” she says, turning her back on him as well, facing the marble countertop of the kitchen with jean’s - now her - bag of chips, crinkling under her fingers as she dug through them, feeding one to you.

Karaoke was set. Three hours timing, as you said - a little too loud, unconscious of it being that way - and your shoes squeak over the floor. There had been a significant wait, but connie’s rambling had done you good. “For once,” jean said, voice barely heard over the sound of all the other occupied rooms, “he’s useful.” “that’s not what you said last night.” connie says, but his voice is octaves higher than jean’s and impossible to ignore. You open the door to the room with a smile, and marco groans. “Guys, keep it in your pants for one night.” “im not the one-!” jean starts, but sasha clamps his mouth shut with her hand. “If you're not going to sing, i don't want to hear your stupid, neighing voice complaining,” she said, a murderous tilt in the sound, something you didn't want to mess with.

Sasha in a bad mood wasn't sasha at all - a learned fact that had been taught very unfortunately to you - and you tried your best to get her moods up with whatever means necessary, hopping next to the big screen and detangling the wire of the microphone as marco scrolled through the song options, humming under his breath. A round of lemon sodas was immediately ordered, and jean left a seat for you in the corner of the couch facing the screen, an unsaid determination to get you to sit closer to him. Connie slung his arm around marco’s shoulders and, like the demon on the former’s shoulder, guided him to choose Copacabana by barry manillow.

“Wanna duet, beautiful?” he asked you, hand flat open for you to hand him the mic. You raised your brows with a smile, “you cant handle me, springer.” even if in reality, it was you who couldnt handle him, his voice ten times louder and unashamed than yours, something you admired.

“sash! Connie’s challenging you!” you say instead, smile poisoning your sentence, making it irregular. “hey! I never said-” he starts, but sasha bounces off her seat to your voice, hugging your arm, taking up the challenge and squinting at connie with vitriol. “You're on, baldie.”

Connie’s not a competitive person. He’d never cared about grades, about being first in class, about races, in board games - it was all just that to him. A game, something to have fun about; an admirable trait if went unpaired with the rest of his jokes. But he liked doing things out of spite - a revenge that flowed so deep that he had to do something drastic. 

Even before the music turned on, before their cue, they'd started their serenading, making marco wince with an adoring smile as he grabbed sasha’s outstretched, inviting hand.

You made your way back to jean, as you always found yourself doing, licking your lips against the cold of the AC blasting in the room, the floors shaking under the weight of your beating heart to the thumps of the song, rhythmic and out of tune. Marco sang well, you knew this, but his voice got lost under the competitiveness of sasha and connie, shouting over each other and clambering over the lyrics as they ran away from the screen, still getting the words wrong. 

You laugh, sitting down, stealing a chip from the bowl jean held in his lap as he flipped through the book of remarks strangers before you had written in the same room, their handwritings messy and intoxicated with the extensive - and expensive - cocktail menu, hearts littered under the praises of their time. 

“I wonder if they added it,” you said, almost shouting as he leaned in as well, head ducking near your mouth to hold your words in his heart. Impossibly close, his cologne masking the smell of the leathery couch and the stinge of cold air, and he lifts his head, a curious glint in his eye only enhanced by the rotating, artificial, lights that played their colours on the wall along with the trapped soundwaves. “Wanna check?” his lips upturned into a smirk, a pink light bouncing off his hair, then green, then a blue, the same colours in the same order projecting onto you and the adoring afflictions of his voice were not lost on you.

Jean chuckled, the sound hiding under the unbearable symphonies, pointing his finger at one of the notes. “Someone wrote-” you had to lean in close to hear him, afraid that you wouldn't catch the waves woven so delicately and carefully for you, that you'd miss them, somehow, “-that they are sad that… oh shit, thats connie.” the note, scrawled with a blue ballpoint pen, complained about how there was a lack of the sonic movie soundtrack on the machine. You laughed, your shoulders shaking under the now weightless time, a physical proof of your smile. Jean held it in his heart, woven carefully, as if it would slip away somehow.

 

Something to do. Together, like a secret, because really, how else would he say it if not like this? Like the shape carved itself just for you, smooth and soft. How else would he say something unimportant so close to you, his hand encircling your shoulders, arm resting on the back of the couch, voice the only thing you hear even if the loudness of the setting is all too present and all too distracting. Because that’s what this was, even with the distracting and present and loudness of the setting, he asks you, and his words form their own shape and fall into your lap, a gentle, warm question with round edges, easy to hold in your open palms that eagerly closed over it to not let it go.

Your heart beats to the thumps of the song. Your teeth ache with the sweetness of his voice as you nod with the same glint in your eye, and the unsaid but well-heard command is enough to get him standing up and walking to the machine, checking and flipping over the songs that offered themselves, his white shirt tinted against the moody lighting, the old bracelet you made him hanging over his wrist with a poorly tied knot that somehow withstood the test of time and weather and temperatures of his warm body. His hand scratched the back of his neck, and the present song was almost coming to an end, not that you were paying attention to it, but it was hard to not remind yourself of the moment you were in when the moment included him, the same ground he stood on being the same ground your feet rested on, the same room his voice held and clung onto also being the same room your own voice was in, floating to his, something you found it doing a little too often.

Your name was spoken on the microphone, brightly, with a wide smile, something you hadn't been used to until you met sasha. Your eyes met hers, crinkled at the ends with a smile wider than her heart, as she pointed at you, “your turn! jean-boy, choose something!” met with another shared and important - because all of them were important - glance with jean, eyebrows raised, affection rippling over his features, and you relented, hopping up to the microphone as she handed it to you.

“Oh, but when i asked you to, you didn't sing? I see how it is," Connie said, teasing smile on his lips. Marco shook his head with a smile as you shrugged. “You dont pay the rent,” you said simply, and the opening to cant take my eyes off of you by frankie vallie clung to your clothes, spreading a wide and knowing smile over your face, glancing at jean again. Again.

Sasha watches. Seeing it play out - not rehearsed, a little clunky, your shoes creaking under your weight as you hop to the beat, looking at jean who, in turn, looks at you, and sasha watches. Your voice hums out the tune before you sing it, before the lyrics start rolling in, impatience staining your tongue because of excitement, and she watches. Connie gulps down his drink from the corner of the room and tries getting up, but marco pushes him back down with a gentle and forceful hand, “dont,” his voice says, lost again, and connie doesnt ask why. Sasha hands her microphone to jean, clunky and unrehearsed, and he takes it without reluctance because he could never refuse being near you. 

Your shoulders shake without effort or thinking, and the usual hesitance that comes to jean so easily, like habit, almost disappears, finding solace in god knows where but he’s just glad its not there right now, with you. Brilliant smile, voice usually small and a little uneasy now grows with the swell of the song and he cant help but not sing. His voice is nothing but background and really, all he’s doing is humming into the mic just as you were moments before, and he sees everything. Your voice makes it hard not to notice you, stark against the background of the four walled-room, head bopping to the beat. It's hard not to notice when something so tangible and breathing and beautiful is in front of him, singing, smiling towards him, looking at him like you do with your eyes all shiny and almost sparkling under the shitty lights, he thinks, how can someone make a karaoke room feel like a shrine? 

He's not poetic. He knows this - out of the two of you, you find more of the metaphors, the small but noteworthy variables with the phrases and words - but he’d turn into a poet just to make one of the songs you like to sing so much. Humming under your breath, kept there until future and important use while making coffee, lost lyrics that you couldn't remember building up at the back of your throat as your hand flew across the your computer’s keyboard but even then he’d choose your inexperienced and unpracticed voice over a well made concert. 

Your lips shine with the light, and he forgets how to breathe. His mic floats somewhere near his mouth, he’s sure of that much, but everything else is lost to him. Your voice becomes his guide, wavering a little at the higher pitches, careful of the lyrics. You mess up once, laugh it off, shrugging your shoulders, and your smile is etched onto the speakers, making their way across the room and into his ears and, god, he can feel it. The beat doesn't matter to him, his heart finds the way of your voice and beats to it. As soft, as careful, unhesitant and unrestrained until the three minutes and twenty-four seconds of the song are over. And all he did was blink.

You turn, handing the mic back to sasha, connie’s standing applause met with a wide, unbashful grin and a little bow, faux pride in your posture. 

Jean all but follows your footsteps only a little ways from sasha, as she chooses another song of her liking, and his eyes are on you, adjusting the sleeve of your shirt that had folded up. You look at him, lips moving under his gaze, sound travelling and only a little delayed because jean thinks about your lips for too long. “You have a good voice,” you remark, smiling, and he blinks. Thank god the place is only dimly lit because his face feels red, heart pumping dangerously close to his chest. 

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs confirmation. Really, he just wants to hear your voice again.

You hum. He leans in to hear it as if it's something more important. It is, to him, every molecule that's disturbed by your voice to reach to his ear is something that he needs to be accounted for. He’ll make a home there, he thinks, where your voice lives in between the atoms, the shape it makes mid-air, just for him to hear.

“HORSEBOY THIS ONES FOR YOU,” connie shouts in the already loud speaker, making jean wince, connie pointing his finger between jean’s brows, a scowl on the latter’s features. The starting notes of “my heart will go on” start playing, and jean groans, head tilting upwards, catching the way you laugh softly, and turning to you incredulously. 

“Y’know your bald head is shining like a disco ball right now?” he says in retaliation to the now belting-his-heart-out connie, his hand making a fist over his heart, eyes screwed shut, pinch between his eyebrows, knees bending at an almost-painful angle that will most surely make them hurt later, with marco doing the background vocals, eyes closed, and… was that a tear? 

“Jesus, and then? what did he say?” sasha’s voice loudly asked, uncaring for any sleeping neighbours that would surely be jolted awake by her, coercing you to tell her more about the terrible group project you had just gotten out of last week. “He said he’d just give the work to someone who owed him a favour.” you said with mild but mostly dissipated annoyance.

Marco winced from in front of you, legs crossing two steps at a time. Jean scowled, turning his face to yours from where he climbed beside marco, “what the fuck?” to which you could only shrug with pursed lips. Sasha’s arm was around your shoulders, her fingers tracing comfortable shapes on the cup of your shoulder. 

“Wait, who owed him a favour?” connie asked from behind you, two steps under yours. You spared him a glance and shrugged again, “no idea. And then, of course, he told me, last minute, that they couldn't do it and he didn't have the skills,” you put air quotations around the last word, clearing your throat for dramatic effect, “to complete it himself.” 

“What the fuck does that even mean-” “what a fucking dick,” “god, im so sorry,” jeans voice was the first one you heard, followed by sasha’s, and then marco’s. “I wish we could still guillotine people.” connie spoke up just after you crossed the last step, marco’s shoes squeaking to a halt before your door. You fished your keys out of your pocket, opening the door to its jingle.

“Guillotines are for rich people, dumbass,” jean said, rolling his shoulders back as if the sentence itself burdened him.

“of course you’d say that, you french fuck.” connie spoke, wiggling out of his coat the second he stepped through your door. Sasha went headfirst for the couch, collapsing into the cushions without any plan to remove her own coat. Her soft snores soon filled the apartment - a trait both her and jean shared. The two could fall asleep anywhere and anytime, state of their body be damned. Jean had told you, after a long nap, his voice a low hum, that he had insomnia as a kid. He didn't know how he grew out of it, but it ended up with him on the opposite side of the sleep spectrum - unable to wake up unless shaken very violently. He asked you to slap him awake once, and when you hesitated, connie stepped in with a loud smack to jean’s cheek.

Marco stretched out his arms while walking to sasha’s room. “Im taking her bed.” he says, a tired yawn stretching out at the end of his sentence. Connie groans, “where will i sleep?” he asks, looking at you with a smirk, “if only a beautiful girl with a pretty voice tells me i can use her room…oh, if only,” he sighs, placing the back of his hand on his forehead. 

“Yeah. if only, you bitchless moron.” jean says, and you shake your head with a smile. 

“Do you think women are bitches, jean?” connie asks, the hand on his forehead finding itself on his chest, gasping. sasha ‘s snores break through his sentence.

“No! I.. i love women. I mean, im not like, im not… like a slut or anything, but-” “sounds like something a slut would say. Fuckboy.” “I respect women!”

“Ladies, ladies. Stop fighting over me.” you say, walking towards your room without sparing either of them a glance, expecting jean to follow you. “Cuddle with marco, con, I know you want to.” 

Connie groans, again, a little too dramatically to be taken seriously in the first place. There’s no malice hidden in his voice, none of the usual complains you would've found, “fine. If you say so. See, jean? This is how you respect women.” 

“Youre only saying that because she’s pretty.” jean says. You try not to let it get in your head as you enter your room, your door creaking open. “Night, marco!” you whisper-yell across the hall, even though sasha’s eyes wouldn't open even a peek with any amount of sound. “Goodnight!” he whisper-yells back from across the hall, only a couple steps away from the door of your room. 

Jean and connie’s voices are still arguing about something, but you're too tired to make their words out, all of it becoming gibberish. You clear your throat - a sound that’s enough to get them to stop. “Goodnight.” 

“Hey, wait-” jean speaks, and connie snickers from behind him.

Your room is silent, save from the irregular sounds of the cars passing downstairs, gravel under their rubbery tires. Everythings been said and done; teeth brushed, face washed, pillows fluffed (by jean’s persistence). You collapsed onto bed, leaving enough room for jean to squish into, the sound of ruffling blankets and the plush, squishy pillow under your ear. He lays on his back for a moment, before facing his body towards you, the deliberate motion creating squeaks of spring from the mattress. Everything has its own sound. Jean’s hands tuck under his head, and you resist the urge to laugh at his position. He sees right through you.

“Whats so funny?” he asks, whispers, really. You're not sure why. Maybe it's the overwhelming silence, the inability of breaking the warmth that crosses across both of your bodies, sharing the same blanket.

“You look funny tucked in like that,” you say, imitating his hushed voice. Maybe it is too important, you think, to talk about things that are funny in the moment for no reason but to keep your heart steady against the faraway but present sound of his - just one of those sounds that didn't need to be heard to know it was there for you.

His sigh turns into a laugh. You're both laughing at nothing, soft puffs of air, carbon dioxide overlapping carbon dioxide. Sounds are science, right? This felt a lot like poetry. Maybe they all merge together, and Jean speaks up before you can think more about it, “do you think Connie is spooning Marco right now?” 

You laugh a little more. “Are you jealous?” “that we’re not…cuddling?” he asks, a little unsure, but with a small smile anyway. He's hesitating. You know him enough to know the way his voice - though soft and pliable right now, gaseous against your palms, shape unreadable - sounds when he's unsure. You shrug. “Are you?” you don't know if the whispering is making you bolder or if you're just tired. You’ve always been a little conscious of your voice, a little too in your head about needing to be soft, uncaring if your sentence goes unheard. It doesn't matter as long as youre peaceful, as long as your voice doesn't disrupt disrupt disrupt.

His cheeks go a little red. It's how you know you’ve got him. Your smile turns softer, a little more understanding. “I…okay,” he says. You're both not sure what he means by it, but you can't help but marking it as important, just as everything he’s said to you.

“Your voice is…really pretty, by the way.” jean states, eyes not meeting yours. His lips form a thin line after saying it, as if he’d been wanting to keep it a secret, as if the fact that it somehow got out was a fault. You don't have much to say to that, though, so the sentence lays there, between the space of the pillows, between the blankets. It’s weighed, careful but untamed, and it lingers there for a moment, soft and pliable and unconscious. 

“I mean… like everytime i hear your voice its… its nice. Not just when you're singing. I like that too.” he rambles, voice still a hush, words still soft and pliable - putty-like, shapeless but you catch them and you don't let them go, let them seep into your skin and against your bones and into your bloodstream. “When you pick up the phone, or when you're humming something. I know it's… i know you think it's not meant to be heard. But I hear you. And i… I like hearing you.” he says. He likes hearing you. He likes hearing you. The words don't have shape. They wave over you, not tidal, not forceful, but like the same warmth of the blanket that rests over your shoulders, crinkled at the edges, a little worn out as if he’s been saying it to himself before giving it to you. 

God, and youve always been conscious of your voice. So when you speak next, its a surprise to you when its not the same whisper he was speaking in, instead only a bit higher than it, enough to contain only bits of your voice, the carvings on the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat and behind your teeth have no use hiding, now, because your voice projects forward just enough. Just enough because he thinks your voice is pretty.

“I… i like yours.” you say. Your eyes slip a little shut, and you feel more than hear him shift towards you, his arm crossing over your waist. “Its beautiful. Peaceful. Even when you're…insulting eren.” you sigh into his chest. His breathing holds you just as his arms, and his warm chest stutters a bit as if he’s taking a deep breath, something that tickles the parts of your hair that are near his nose. Every sound has its feeling, every sound creates waves and its on you to make them twice more meaningful as they are despite the words they hold, and even as jean gives you wordless reactions to your senseless but meaningful words, they're all accounted for. They're all just as important, just as held as everything else he’s said because its him.

“Thank you. For speaking to me. For letting me hear you.” you say with finality, no room for argument. As if he’d argue you. His lips press to the top of your head, unmoving. His palm covers your ear, making the soft sounds of his breathing muffled, but his thumb traces shapes of his sound against your ear. 

It tickles a little, but you hear the movement clearly. 

Sound waves, importance given to them. By you and by him. 

✿

[derpycatsu]

ohhh so hes pathetic. ok. got it. Deploy The Hyperfixation

[iannmin]

HEAD OVER HEELS | p.sh 박성화

pairings + warnings: heels!obssessed!hwa x fem!reader, creampie, breeding kink (literally breeding everywhere >_<), just pure smut so mdni! 18+, unprotected sex, exhibitionism (?)

synopsis: “get hot on ya heels”

a/n: just got some inspiration looking at some of the reblogs from my previous works on hwa and one of them said that hwa may have a kink of loving to their s/o in heels, so credits to whoever who said that i love you

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

you owned a lot of heels, but “a lot” would definitely be an understatement. the heels came in tens, even dozens - from the classic YSL’s to the fancy Dolce & Gabbana’s, but regardless the type, it all boiled down to a single reason: park seonghwa.

hwa would always buy you heels everytime he goes out for shopping with his bandmates. his poor and innocent friends thought that it was “nothing more than an act of love” but oh,, you knew for sure that it wasn’t. it was simple, really, he loved how you looked in them when you two were having a lil baby making session <3. so when he hastily kicked off his shoes and fumbled his way over to the bedroom at one in the morning where you were just about to tuck yourself to bed,, you weren’t surprise at all.

“jagiya, look hehe” he shook the huge shopping bag, smug look smeared all over his face. “let’s do it now” don’t get mistaken,, hwa had his priorities set straight so he didn’t care one bit when he carelessly tore the luxurious Louis Vuitton wrapping in half like a spoilt child. you barely uttered a reply but he was already holding both of your ankles, slipping on the wine red heels on your feet. it took a few moments for hwa to soak in the sight - you in his plain white tee with your lace panties coupled with the pair of high heels….god,, and when it finally came to him, hwa could only mumble “f-fuck…s’pretty….gonna ruin you princess” before instantly reaching for the buckles on his belt.

jeans and belt pooling around his knees with his veiny cock slapping against his abdomen, he set you up in a mating press, hooking both of your legs over his shoulder. gently kissing each side of your ankles, he aligned his girthy tip against your hole.

“hah…fuck…wanna breed you so bad…you’ll be such a pretty mommy f’me” *schlop!* in an instant, his hips slammed tightly against yours and his girthy base came into contact with your folds. that’s it. seven-inch all in at once. this was the feeling you’d never seemed to get used to no matter how many times the both of you did it, so it got you instantly gripping on hwa’s shoulder blades. “nnnggh….hwa…feels s’full…s’good...” tears were threatening to spill from your eyes, so he reached in for a sloppy kiss, a string of saliva connecting from both of your coated lips.

but,, of course you were wrong to think that it was the end because hwa was pussy-drunk. extremely drunk with the thought of you. all he desired was to pound that tight pussy loose and watch it seep with his cum. so he did exactly that. with sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead, he buried his head into your neck, deep groans casting vibrations against your skin. with every hard thrust, your nails dug deeper into his shoulders, whimpers turning a pitch higher. "h-hwa...gonna cum..."

"hold on for me princess, i wanna try something.." hwa instantly flipped you on your stomach - ass up, face down in a doggy-style position, and when he entered your sensitive hole again to continue his pounding ordeal, you swear you felt his cock reach in about an inch deeper. oh boy,, you were going to lose your mind very soon.

it took the both of you no more than half a minute to reach your highs and when it did, it felt straight out of a porn scene. with hwa's groans turned into nothing but an endless chant of curses and high-pitched whimpers, and your moans turned into broken sobs, he pressed his hip as deep as it could have gone against yours, releasing loads and loads of hot white cum, filling you up full. and when hwa finally pulled out, his cum was everywhere - seeping out of your hole, dripping down your thighs and heels, coating your wine-red heels in a layer of translucent fluid. he hate to admit it but the sight of you nearly got him hard again.

"fuck...princess, i love you so much, could do this everyday"

[mandarinmoons]

dad!spencer

DAD SPENCER SPENCER AS DAD

yknow that scene where JJ calls Will and Henry over the phone so she can read to Henry? or atleast I think she read to him it was so long ago that I watched 😭 anyway, what about that with Spencer and a toddler Bailey? he’s on a case but he still wants to make sure he’s present for his daughter even if he’s not physically there

<333

Your ears rang as Bailey’s cries echoed through the house. She had been fussy and inconsolable for days and you knew why, her dad was gone.

Spencer flew out to a case all the way in Nebraska leaving you to take care of Bailey all by yourself until he got back. You weren’t cross with him, you knew his schedule was hectic and that he tried his best to be a part of both of your lives.

For Bailey however it was a different story. The second her dad walked out the door she was upset and ran to the door to run after him. The only way she would fall asleep is by draping one of Spencer’s shirts over her, her breathing would calm down and a moment later she would be at ease.

It had been four days since Spencer left and there had only been limited text messages between you two. The case turned out to be more complicated than initially thought and it was taking up more of the team’s time.

You and Bailey were cuddling on the couch watching one of her favorite cartoons. Bailey had a crying fit and after some time she managed to calm down a bit and now here you were, caressing her back as her tear filled eyes were focused on the TV in front of her.

As you felt yourself doze off and your head leaned to the side, your phone rang which caused Bailey to get fuzzy.

“Shh there there,” you sat up and pulled Bailey into your lap as you dug your phone out of your pocket, seeing it was Spencer calling you sighed in relief and immediately put it on speaker.

“Hey Agent Daddy,” hearing your words made Spencer chuckle and Bailey’s eyes went big as she heard the laughter.

“Hey you two, how are my favorite girls doing?”

“We’re doing okay, Bailey misses you a lot.”

“She does?” Bailey immediately made grabby hands at the phone.

“C’mon, say hi to daddy.”

Bailey got the phone in her hands and chanted “daddy, daddy, daddy!” in an excited voice.

“Hi baby, do you miss me?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, daddy will be home soon, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Spence, do you think you could sing to her a bit?”

“Yes yes, daddy sing!”

Both you and Spencer laughed as Bailey grew excited over hearing her dad sing to her.

As Spencer sang along to the lullaby he recited to Bailey every night before bed, she nuzzled into your chest as her cheek was squished against you, her eyes fluttering shut as she relaxed.

You pried the phone from her hands gently and took it off from speaker mode, pressed it to your ear and quietly spoke as to not wake up your daughter.

“She’s finally asleep.”

“Has she really not slept these past few days?”

“Well only when she tires herself out from crying.”

Spencer chuckled lightly, “I feel bad now.”

“Hey it’s okay. You’ll be home soon so she’ll feel better in no time.”

“I hope so.”

Silence took over the line for a moment and you could hear Spencer trying to cover up a yawn, he was dead tired but still managed to make time to call you.

“You should go to sleep, I don’t want to keep you up for too long. You still have a lot of work to do.”

“Yeah,” Spencer yawned and rubbed his eyes as he looked at the time, 8:47 PM in the evening and yet it felt like it was 1 AM for him.

“Be safe, yeah? Think about how happy Bailey will be once you get home.”

Spencer smiled as he thought about his little girl running into his arms as soon as he walked through the front door.

“Give her a kiss from me please.”

“I will, good night.”

“Good night.”

As the call ended you looked down at Bailey and watched her sleep peacefully in your arms. Her hand was gripping your shirt and you chuckled as you remembered what you wore, the same shirt of Spencer’s that you draped on her as she slept.

Taglist: @radioactiveinvisible @whoisspence @sreidisms @lanascinnamongirls @luvkatryna @sp3ncelle @iluvreid @khxna @keiva1000 @reidstheyfriend @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @kimm4710 @niktwazny303 @reidsdaisies @mindfullycriminal @cumulo-stratus @themarauderseraslut @gayfor-rosadiaz @gubsbuubs @multifandomsimp69 @chyozai

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Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[unhappy-last-resort]

Run Run Run (Yandere Sylus X GN Reader)

Warnings: Chase scene, is probably ooc

A/N: I know nothing about this man, just saw him on the feed and he gave me a brain worm which I cannot allow to stay.

My shoes skid across the wet gravel, struggling to find traction as my palms hit the ground and pull me forward. Each breath burns in my lungs as I keep my eyes trained forward. All I gotta do is weave through these alleyways and into the main shopping center and I'll be safe.

Even with the wind rushing past my ears, heart pounding in my chest so loudly I think anyone could hear it, and the loud crunch of my shoes on gravel, I can still hear him behind me, each sound of his dress shoes hitting the ground like a countdown to an invisible clock. I managed to put some distance between us, but not by much. If I just run a little harder, maybe I can lose him.

I can see my first turn coming up just ahead, I gotta make sure that I don't slip. Just as I'm about to turn the corner, I spot a small dry patch of gravel and plant my foot on it as I pivot, launching myself forward and down into yet another dark alleyway, my muscles screaming at me to stop. I'm almost there, as long I just keep going, I can make it out of this!

Just breath in, out, in, out, in, out. Steady breathes, steady feet, I can do this, I will make it home! Another turn, I grab onto a water spout on the corner to keep me from slipping, just two more turns! I push to run faster as I hear a cackle behind me.

“Go on, little rabbit! Keep running!” I can hear the grin in his voice, the pure joy in his voice. If only I hadn't stuck around in that hotel to see what was going on. Damn it, why didn't I wait before calling the police! Then I wouldn't be stuck in this stupid fucking situation.

I sniffle and blink my growing tears away, I can't cry, not yet, I have to run! Another turn, I feel the sole of my shoe lose grip for a moment and for a second I feel every fiber of being come alive as a fresh feeling of panic surges in my veins, time slowing down as it feels like I'm watching myself through a window and I can hear steady footsteps approach from behind like a drum getting louder and louder with each step. The white hair, the blood red eyes. For a moment I imagine him turning into a demon, wings sprouting behind his back, knees cracking backwards into hooves, a big, toothy grin filled with pointed teeth and yellowed eyeballs filled with malicious glee at having found its new human to torture and feast on-

My shoe catches friction and I keep running. I have to make it, I have to make it, I have to make it. Just one more, just one more, just one more. I chant it in my head over and over, probably a hundred times within a minute. There it is! The last turn! I just gotta run through there and then I'll be surrounded by people and safe-

My heart drops as I see the puddle around it. My soul sinking into the ground with it.

No! I can't lose hope! I just gotta keep going, keep running, and be mindful. That's it! As I approach the turn at a breakneck speed, I feel part of myself reeling, waiting for the moment that I slip and fall. The second I do, the second I mess up even once, it's over for me.

My foot hits the puddle, water soaking through the material of my sneakers and wetting my socks and my heel digs into the mud. I can see it, the lights, the people, the stores, the cars. It feels like seeing heaven for the first time, but I'm not at heaven yet. My other foot hits the gravel and I can feel a new feeling take over my veins. Hope.

The end of nightmare is just a few steps away, just a few more. I've reached to where the light touches the walls beside me, it's gold and pink, giving a new sense of warmth to cold, blue alley. I stretch out my hand, tears stinging my eyes as I reach to grab the light and-

A feather?

The breath is knocked out of my lungs as I hit the ground with a thud. Small, stabbing little pains shoot throughout my back and press on my skull. My vision is blurry, but I can make out a shadow above me.

“I gotta admit,” The voice, it echoes in my head and turns into an internal mockery of my failure. “That was getting tough. Unfortunately, for you...”

He leans down toward me and his eyes glow red. Red, red, red.

“I have some questions I'd like to ask.”

[americanwh0rerstory]

jack off [Tate Langdon]

summery: Y/N isn’t around so tate jacks off thinking about them

content warning: Masturbation, use of Y/N, f!reader, cumming on a photograph, poorly described masturbation in an attempt for me to learn how to write

A/N: just a quick scenario, not the greatest but it’s something

NSFW MDNI: CONSUMPTION IS OWN FAULT

“f-fuck” he groans, his grip tightening around his shaft as he pumps his hand up and down it repeatedly, occasionally looking at how his foreskin rolls over his tip with every up stroke. he lay on your bed with his legs spread, dick standing at attention, and his shirt hitched up slightly exposing his midriff. Soft whines and gasps escaped from between his slightly parted lips when he sped up, his breath coming in quick and desperate pants from the increase in speed

“Y/N, don’t stop” he whines, his voice needy and desperate like it always was when he was around you, he craved your touch yet that was the downside of being dead: he had to wait for you to be ready, to have free time. he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind momentarily though and began daydreaming about your hands wrapping around his cock, how your tongue looks giving small kitten licks to his slit when beads of precum formed, how your boobs bounced with every exaggerated movement, the soft skin on your thighs… fuck he needed you

his daydreams got him bucking into his hand even faster and with more desperation if that was even possible. his hand moving at lightning speed, rubbing vigorously up and down his shaft. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, please Y/N” he whined, chanting your name like it was a ritual to summon you but much to his dismay it didn’t. he just kept daydreaming whilst sliding his hand over his cock before he noticed the photo on your nightstand

he retrieved the photo with his free hand, it was a photo of you and your friends. it wasn’t a lot but it was good enough for him. he stared at the photo, only at you though, his movements faster now that he had a visual representation of you. he imagined undressing you, removing you from the clothes in the photo, kissing down your torso, tasting your nectar…

“Y/N- fuck-“ he moans loudly, his body trembling as his orgasm rippled through him. he watched as his cum spilled over the photo, coating your smiling face in a glossy sheen of tate.

once he caught his breath, he replaced the photo and pulled his shirt off. he knew you liked to wear his clothes so he left his shirt folded on your bed for you, and also as a sign that he had been in there whilst you was out. he left the shirt on your pillow and the cum-covered photo on your nightstand before leaving the room, going back to waiting for you

A/N: how the fuck does one write cumming scenes. how am i meant to describe how it feels. i think this is the only downside to my smut

[bruciemilf]

No Capes! AU where Bruce and everyone else is an actor.

Famous Hollywood moguls Thomas and Martha would've rather died in real life than make Bruce a child actor so he didn't start till he was 24

It's an ongoing gag that Thomas always tweets "On my way to die again! As if you didn't know" with every Gray Ghost remake

The Waynes are always just. So chaotic

Bruce and Selina constantly bring stray cats on set; Bruce just hides them under his black shirt famously known as a void with no end.

Behind the Scenes cuts have images of this man pulling 10 cats from under there and the director is convinced he has a cryptid on set

They have to edit so much footage because Bruce always says "sorry" after "punching" someone. "Bruce, they have padding, they're fine!" "And no health Insurance. Do something about that."

Sometimes he forgets to take off the costume after filming. The record set for how many Subways he sent into a panic is infinite

That being said, Bruce's kids aren't afraid of him at all, and WILL run up to him everytime they visit to chant "dork! Dork! Dork!" While flocking around him. He cries from happiness

But he cries all the time, so it's hard to tell for what

The movie's soundtrack is just Bruce's middle school playlist, " They said they needed something rotten and terrible, like, -- poison for the ears. If you listen to it you get sick."

Bruce's biggest "diva moment" was refusing to give up the eyeliner and he still sends apology cards to the cast and crew for his " horrible behavior"

"He just kinda said no a bit loud and ran out of the studio while sobbing quietly."

Literally every villain on set is a sweetheart. Selina does her own make-up as well as Bruce's and Oz's and you can see Carmine lurking like a little gobling behind them just to scare her

There's this joke that none of Selina's streams ever go well because the crew is her curse. She's trying to talk about how to steal on set, meanwhile, Bruce next to her, "Did you know cats have no collarbone. Also, the electric chair was invented by a dentist."

You'd think everyone's favorite duo would be Bruce and Selina, and you wouldn't be wrong, but the public can't wait for Bruce and Carmine to have a press conference or interview together

Mostly because Carmine obviously dealt some shady cards in his past and Bruce is so clueless . " Have I ever tried coke...No, I like Pepsi." While Carmine is trying not to laugh behind him

Edward is just as bad. He's trying to tell the director that's not how bombs are made, and someone's head exploding wouldn't look like that, and Bruce is like :O Eddie, I didn't know you were a gamer

Edward is a menace on set and Bruce stays blind to it because he like him. There's rows of videos of Bruce stopping mid scene, going " Eddie," before jumping on the guy like the kitten he's NOT

Alfred still brings Bruce lunch and snacks and he throws down with Oz for no reason. He always brings the kids (read; they sneak in) and it's very clear they're not getting any shooting done that day

Dick, age 10, impatiently asks why Gray Ghost can't have a sidekick. In the last moments of the movie Dick runs in, improvises a scene with Bruce, and the fans love him too much not to include him after

You just leave Bruce alone when his babies are on set; Damian is strapped to his chest cause he's so small that everyone almost steps on him, Jason is giving the writers tip, Tim is taking pics of everyone, and Bruce smothers them with kisses constantly

[sigmalaussene]

Top ten weird ways Oswald Cobbepot gets called in Gotham

As I was rewatching Gotham, I decided to write down every name that people in the show canonically call Oswald Cobblepot aka the Penguin. It was a wild ride. Please enjoy

10. "Funny looking fellow"

(season one)

We start with a simple one. This isn't even an insult, it's just a fact. He is, indeed, a funny looking fellow. I'm pretty sure they say it more than once too.

9. "The Dapper Gangland Kingpin"

(season two)

This one it's just silly, especially since it was written on a newspaper. Just... that's weird ? Idk it's silly it makes me chuckle

8. "Yellow rat snitch"

(season one)

We start getting a little weirder. Why a rat? And, more importantly, why yellow???

7. "Stupid lame birdbrain"

(season four)

Just so mean. Especially since this scene it's his dumb husband making a room full of people chant it

6. "Golden goose"

(season one)

Right back to season one and it's incredible dialogue. This one is particularly amazing thanks to Oswald's reply to it, which was, of course: "Honk honk". I can't even start to describe that scene. It's a classic.

5. "Beaky nosed freak"

(season five)

Definitely the best nickname the last season had to offer. Like, you know that moment when a guy kills your bestfriend/girlfriend and you call him the silliest name you can think of? This is one of those times.

4. "Scaley faced bitch"

(season one)

This is the first one in the show, directly from the first episode. I am a firm supporter of calling men bitches when they deserve it, and he did, so I wholeheartedly approve this message. Adding the scaley face part just makes it more poetic.

3. "Sad little breadhead"

(season two)

This one from never fails. Imagine it delivered with the most condicending tone in the world. Just amazing. Makes me laugh every time.

2. "Fruitcake leprechaun"

(season two)

This. This is the one that started it all. It was thinking about this one that I decided that this rewatch I was gonna write down all the nicknames. I dont know if it has something to do with english not being my first language, so I don't have the background of the word "fruitcake" used as an homophobic remark, but this name is one of the funniest things I have ever heard in my life.

1. "Limping little chickenbutt second banana"

(season one)

This couldn't not be on the first place. I am obsessed with the writers of this show, i want to get inside their brains. Because like what does it mean? How did they come up with this? I need to know every thought that crossed their mind for them to write this. This is art. This is poetry. Incredible. Amazing. Absolutely insane. Kudos to the actor who played Maroni because if they gave me that line I wouldn't be able to say it with a straight face.

Bonus:

(For the fans, he is also called "the only thing Nygma cares about". Just... you know, in case you forgot)

Some recurrent nicknames are: "Pengy", "Ozzie", "freak", "cockroach", "punk", bird related names (bird/birdman, feathered friend, chicken, turkey...) and "little"/"tiny" followed by almost anything (man, friend, dirtbag, bastard, creep, twerp, freak, weasel...)

Edit: i realize i didn't mention "Major Crumblepot" and that's on me sorry guys

His haircut is described as "disco vampire hair" at one point (another classic)

He is also called "specimen", which is really funny, and "dewdropper"?? for some reason I don't remember but it was in my notes and I couldn't ignore it lmao

[the-universal-sun]

stan putting off regressing when he needed to and having a meltdown with fidds and/or ford helping? ❤️

Hey guys! Sorry it's been a few days. I've been a little sick these past few days, so I've been away from my computer for the most part. But I'm feeling much better now! This takes place in the 80s, an AU where Stan and Fiddleford got Ford back after a couple of years!

There is a scene wherein Stan briefly hits his head with his hands, starting at "When that doesn't work..." and ending at the end of that small paragraph.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange. In the house, the soft hum of the evening felt insistent, like the ticking of a clock that grew louder with each passing minute. Stan sat in the living room, surrounded by the comforting chaos of his brother’s ramshackle house. The creaking floorboards seemed to echo his thoughts. He could feel that familiar pull, that soft haze and gentle fuzzy feeling tugging at the back of his mind-an urge he’s learned to resist being tempted by. Though there were the reassurances of both Stanford and Fiddleford that there was nothing wrong with him, that how his head gets sometimes is completely okay, that they loved taking care of him. Stan got up and paced the cluttered floor, his mind racing as he tried to drown out the world around him. He felt the familiar tug at his mind—the sensation that he kept trying to ignore all day. All week, really. Doodles lay scattered across the floor, evidence of his battle with the sensations that enveloped him. Every time he absentmindedly started coloring or drawing, he felt a wave of anxiety choke him, leading him to tear the paper into shreds and toss them into the trashcan.

     It's not that Stan doesn't like it, the fuzzy feeling he gets, but it's embarrassing, he's a grown man approaching 30, dammit! He shouldn't be carrying around a stuffed bear, coloring, and playing with blocks while two other grown men flutter around and coo at him! Sometimes when he's in town, he can feel people's eyes on him, like they know what happens-like they're judging him, like he's a freak. He can feel the need crawl around and itch under his skin. But he can't! He needs to prove to himself that he's capable of acting and being an adult! That he is an adult!

     "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" Stan chants, frustrated by his own harried thoughts, wanting his mind to calm down and let him be, to escape the fuzzy haze creeping up on him. For all these thoughts to leave his head. He brings his hands up and pulls on his hair, hoping the pain can bring some clarity to his mind. When that doesn't work, he switches to hitting his hand with his palms, muttering "stop it, stop it, stop it..." with each hit until he feels six-fingered hands grab his wrists and pull them down with a-

     "Stanley, stop!" It's Ford who's grabbing his hands, his face drawn. He doesn't look angry, he looks upset-distraught-but not angry. Stan thinks he wants him to be angry, to yell and fight him and treat him like a damn adult. "What are you doing? What's happened?"

     "Nothin' happened. I'm fine." Stan bites out, trying to pull his hands back from his brother's iron grip to no avail. "Let go of me, Stanford. I need-I need to go" He pulls harder, almost wrenching his shoulders out before he feels another pair of hands come up and gently but firmly grasp his shoulders. Why do they have to be so gentle with him? Even when he's acting normal, when they get into arguments or small fights, there's no hitting or punching-nothing beyond the play fighting Ford and Stan will do sometimes. Stan's not used to it, not after violence has been his life for almost a decade.

     "What ya' need to do is calm down and talk to us, Stanley. Let Ford and I help, we're worried about you." He hears Fidds' voice in his ear behind him, his hands on his shoulders. Ford's hands firmly but gently held his wrists. Stan wants too badly to sink into that haze, to let them coddle him and hug and rock him, but he can't. He doesn't even know why anymore, why he hasn't let himself indulge.

     "Well stop worrying about me-I'm a grown-ass man and I can deal with myself." He can see Ford's eyes shift to look behind him, a silent conversation with Fidds. Usually, that would bother him, but right now he just wants to get out from their grasp, go to his room, and hide away from them-and the world-until he can get his head on straight.

     "I think I'm starting to understand what the problem is here. Stanley, it's been approximately 10 days since you've gone down-" that's what they call it when Stan's head gets fuzzy and he acts like a kid-"and after months of the same routine, your mind and body are used to going down at least twice a week. It's safe to say you're just in need of-"

     "No! I'm not in need of anything 'cept you letting go of! Me!" He tries to wrench himself to the side but crashes to his knees with a stilted sob as Fidds' arms wrap around his body from behind just as he makes his move. Why did they have to push this? To have his body so used to these feelings that he now needs it to function? Why did they have to care for him. He doesn't sob, he refuses to say he did. Stan just brings his hands up-Ford let go when Stan made his move-and presses his face into them so hard he can see stars bursting out from the darkness. "I can't do this," he muttered piteously into his hands, his voice warbling and throat feeling thick. " 'M not a kid, I don't need this. I shouldn't need this. I need to grow up." He wants to cry, he wants to go under, he wants Poindexter. Stan just wants to noise in his head to stop. He whines, feeling Ford kneel and bring an arm around him, Fidds laying his head down and Stan's shoulder and nuzzling it, shushing and humming.

     "Stanley...It's alright to feel like you do, and it's alright to feel frustrated by it. You've lived a hard life, and we both know comfort like this was a rarity in our home. But you can be safe here," Ford sits down next to Stan, his knees aching from the kneeling. "Fiddleford and I would never judge you, Lee. We love taking care of you."

     "But why? Why do you like taking care of me when I act like that-like a kid? Why do you care about me?" Stan's voice breaks on his last word, tears bubbling up to the surface and spilling down his cheeks, dripping and staining Stan's sweats.

     "What's not to care about, Stan?" It's Fiddleford who answers this time, Ford seemingly at a loss for words at Stan's questions. "You're such a kind-hearted and warm fella. You care so deeply about your friends and family, I know you'd go to the ends of the earth and then some for 'em. And you're funny as all get out. Real hoot, I'd say. Caring for you is like a breath of fresh air, Stanley. It soothes m' soul. So you can be tiny if you need to, Bubs." Fiddleford's words get a small laugh/scoff out of Stan, the kind words bringing some warmth to his heart. But he looks towards Ford, needing to hear him say something, anything. A confirmation that he does care for Stan. And his words hit like a gut punch.

     "I love you, Stanley. You're my twin, my best friend from birth. You never judged me for my hands, for my curiosities and obsessions. You protected me from bullies and my own thoughts. You came at my darkest hour to help me, even after we were estranged for a decade. You made a life and job for yourself here, you paid off my loans and debt. You brought in F and helped him stop his memory gun usage. Stanley, you worked tirelessly for two years to bring me back after the portal incident. You're my hero, you always have been. And I can't possibly describe how much joy it brings me to see you unwind and relax, to look so happy, to be so happy. I love caring for you, truly, from the bottom of my heart, to be someone you can trust to protect you. I love you." And that does it, Stan's sobbing into his arms, into Ford's arms, his heart feels like it's bursting, and he can feel himself plummet down. His mind calming as his fuzzy haze washes over it, his mind losing the battle as soon as Ford finishes speaking, the confirmation that he is so loved is what he needed, he realized. That he wasn't some weird burden on them when this happens, that he didn't have to be an adult all the time. He hasn't felt this loved in forever and hasn't ever been cared for as he is now.

     He's still sobbing into Ford's arms as he's led up the stairs into his room, a pair of hands changing him into his softest sweater-it's got footballs all over it-and wrapping him up in his Teddy Bear blankie. He blinks and sniffles as he feels cold wetness swipe across his face, Fidds had wet a wash cloth and was wiping the tears from his eyes. Stan smiled at him, giggling when Fidds smiles back with a goofy grin. Sixer helps him lay down in bed and tucks Poindexter in his arms-still cocooned in his blankie-brushing his hair back and away from his forehead, like Ma' used to do when they were really young.

     "There we go, Lee, feeling nice and comfortable and cozy? Is Poindexter tucked in enough?" Fidds asked, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, tucking the quilt under Stan's legs even tighter, knowing how much he liked that feeling. He nods and mumbles, not feeling up to speaking. He just wants to lie there with Poindexter, Sixer, and Fidds and stay in this hazy feeling forever, his body aches now that he's relaxing, he was so tense for days. "That's good. I've gotcha here a book to listen to, is that alright?" That's more than alright to Stan, who just nods and hopes Fidds does the voices for the book, he loves it when they do voices for the people in his books.

     "Here, Lee, let's not chew on your friend's ear. I've got you something better." His brother says, guiding Poindexter's ear out of Stan's mouth. He didn't even realize he was chewing on it. He gives his stuffy an apologetic pat as Ford guides Stan's pacifier into his mouth. It's got a car on it that's made to look like "The Stanley Mobile". It's so cool. Ford made it as a surprise for Stan a few weeks ago. He snuffles behind it, leaning his cocooned and burritoed body into Ford's as he settles down beside him, an arm reaching over and cuddling Stan as close to his body as possible. Stan just snuggles into his shoulder, feeling his breathing and matching it, leaching his brother's warmth and hearing his matching heartbeat.

     "There was once a Velveteen Rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid..." Stan just relaxes into his brother's warmth as he finds himself enraptured in Fidds' storytelling. His mind finally calmed and his heart sated and happy.

[sweetkpopmusings]

miserable (you & me) | h. jisung <3

a/n: jisung unlocks a part of me that is deeply emotional and romantic like ...... i love and cherish him so much :-( i really got in my feels with this one, and i hope you enjoy a glimpse into what i think being loved by jisung is like <3 also yes i gave him my favorite lyric of the song as a treat because his lyrics pull me apart and put me back together every time :,-) pics not mine~

content: angst, happy ending | wc: 1.3k | warnings: none really! | pairing: jisung x gn!reader | requests:open

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“i don’t wanna lose a part of me, you are my heart, you know?”

jisung couldn’t believe he was living out an overplayed scene in every book, movie, song, and tv show ever created. maybe some clichés were just universal experiences. if that were true, staring out blankly at flashing lights on the tarmac after the plane touches the ground must be a rite of passage for every modern human. his body barely registered the number of hours suspended in the air, as his mind only focused on one thing: you. if asked about the music he listened to during the flight, he wouldn’t know how to answer. truthfully, he didn’t listen to anything other than the internal chant of your name mixed with alternate beats of i’m sorry and i wish i said so sooner. 

jisung barely survived the past few weeks. existing with love and heartbreak in one body simultaneously sounds made-up, but that was jisung’s reality after he walked away that night. a reality he created and regretted more than anything.

it was classic. both of you were stressed from too many things going wrong in your lives, and the agitation bled into your conversations and actions. even your facial expressions were tinged with negative emotions not meant for each other. then, as it so often happened, one wrong sentence ruined everything. 

you knew jisung didn’t mean it when he said “if you’re so unhappy every time you see me, then why do you keep inviting me over?” 

but he said it, and you heard it, and it hurt. 

though jisung’s face fell at the sound of his words, all you could think to say was, “i think you should go. you have an early flight tomorrow.”

jisung stood there, mouth open, waiting for words–the right ones–to come out of his mouth. the silence hung in the air for too long. he saw your eyes glistening with tears, and he didn’t want his presence to be the reason the tears fell. again, out of exhaustion and fear of a fight, he said the wrong thing.

“okay, i’ll go.”

jisung’s heart broke when all you replied was, “safe travels.”

neither of you made a promise to see each other after jisung returned. both of you assumed you would see each other as soon as he was back, but both of you feared that the other person wouldn’t want to reunite. somehow words unsaid weighed on both of you more than the misspoken ones. but it felt too late. neither of you knew if continuing the conversation tonight was right, so neither of you said anything. jisung’s plane took him away the next morning, and you couldn’t find the courage to close the distance between you two any time soon.

that fear hung over jisung for the entire trip. it ate him up inside, yet he didn’t have the courage to face it. for weeks, he felt frozen. then, perhaps from the adrenaline of finally being in the same city as you again, he found the courage.

as soon as he unlocked his front door, jisung threw his bag on the floor, and, without a second thought, he turned on his heel and rushed to your place. he didn’t care if he had to wait at your doorstep all night and well into the morning. jisung could not, would not rest until he apologized to your face. you deserved that. if his words were what hurt you, then you deserved a million more kind words from him until you were healed. 

his heart was about to burst out of his chest during the seconds between his knock on your door and you pulling it open. you were so beautiful to jisung, and your beauty became more profound when he saw you again. he felt he could cry looking at you in your doorway. even he hadn’t realized how deeply he had missed you until you were within arms’ reach. 

everything had felt so far away for so long, but, with you, finally, jisung felt connected to everything around him. he felt like he could breathe for the first time when he heard your soft hello. he felt the world start spinning again when you said his name. he felt his heartbeat return to his chest, replacing the dull ache that had filled it since he turned his back to you that night. 

“i’m sorry.”

a small, instinctive smile flickered on your face at the sound of his voice, “come inside.”

jisung nodded, shaking from the desire to spill his heart out to you. thankfully, you sensed this, and you gave him the space to make things right again.

“i’m so, so sorry, y/n. i know i shouldn’t have left that night like that, and i know i should’ve apologized sooner. there are so many things to say to you, and you don’t owe it to me to listen. i just need you to know i’m sorry and i regret what i said and did that night. you didn’t deserve that.”

jisung paused. he held your gaze, eyes very clearly filling with tears. he waited for your permission to continue speaking, which you gave with a nod. he blinked, took a deep breath, and filled himself with equal parts courage and love for you.

“i also regret not saying anything, anything at all, sooner. i got in my head. i was so scared that saying ‘i’m sorry’ over text wasn’t enough, and i felt it was unfair to talk like normal when things clearly weren’t normal. i needed you to know how sorry i am. then, as the days passed, i realized a phone call wouldn’t be enough either. well, that, and i was so scared you wouldn’t answer my call. i would’ve deserved it, but a rejected phone call somehow felt more painful than a prolonged silence, so i didn’t call. i’m a coward, i know, and i am sorry for that too. that’s why i’m here.” 

jisung paused again, wiping his tears before gently holding your hands in his own, “you can kick me out as soon as i say my last word. i won’t fight you on it. i hate that i hurt you right before getting on the flight. i missed you so much that i lost my mind. i never want to feel that lost again. i never want to lose you. so i’m sorry. i will do everything you need me to, just so i can make things right again. you are my everything, and you deserve more than everything i can give you.”

tears fell from your eyes this time, which made jisung cry even more. the way you looked at him as you took in his apology gave him hope. he raised his hands to wipe your tears and then cradled your face softly. you were enveloped in his love and the relief that, despite the mistakes, he chose to come back to you. he kept his promise to choose you every time. that was more than enough proof that his apology was real.

your hands covered his, and you smiled despite sniffling, “i forgive you, jisung. thank you for apologizing, and thank you for coming here tonight.”

jisung felt as though he could sob and shout from the rooftops in joy. you forgave him. he hadn’t lost you. his heart would be complete again. 

“thank you, y/n. that means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

a comfortable, tender silence washed over you in your living room. you held each other, cherishing the distance disappearing. this was how things were meant to be. this was what you and jisung would always work for, no matter what got in the way, because the shared space between you was the strongest center of gravity you knew.

once all of the tears dried, jisung smiled brightly and confessed, “i really missed you so much. you are my heart, you know?”

familiar butterflies filled your stomach in response to jisung’s sweet, romantic words, “i missed you too, jisung. i’m so happy to have you back. more than you’ll ever know.”

the way jisung smiled at you made you think that maybe, just maybe, he knew exactly how happy you were.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[badly-drawn-doflamingo]

This is one of my favorite scenes because of its layers and I’d like to share it with everyone!

The symbolism for every character here is rough.

The tangerine trees and flag weep as Nami and Chopper stand around Brook and Carrot.

Bellemere, with her beloved trees, and the pirate flag Hiriluk loved so fondly; they cry for they died in a similar way, and now they’ve lost another.

Brook. Has lost another. Carrot, lost a brother.

She doesn’t move, drawn in on herself as she knows the news and is handling it the best way she can as a child, however Brook does something very, very different.

He THROWS himself violently to the floor, and in a rage we NEVER see him in, not like this, he curses himself, and apologizes to the air about him, a mantra of sorts.

I don’t think it’s just an apology to Pedro, no, but to the Rumbars he failed in the EXACT same way.

To Brook, who was acting captain, those men died due to a mistake on his part, an error he didn’t think about or prepare for, and they were butchered, one after another like ants under a stronger man’s boot. The left overs and rotten remains hung about him for 50 years, and he knew he failed Yorki entirely.

He believes in this moment, that he, after being given power by Luffy, has failed Pedro ALONE entirely, just like he did before.

“If only I.”

Chopper was there with him. It was a we if anything but no, not to Brook.

“If only I was stronger,”

A chant he probably already has said before many, many times during the nights and days and hoary mornings and fantasy moments of the dusk alone and with others; if only he had been stronger, maybe those men would have made it to live like he’s been blessed to now.

Jinbe speaks up, giving advice just like Fisher would have, and now we see TWO captains, one disabled, throwing his beloved hair into the dirt, forgetting his own promise to a little boy who waits beside an aging tired man, and a man who’s lead strong since his mentor died.

It’s such a wonderful scene of morals, and reactions, and grief and loss and even PTSD.

Oh Brook,, it’s not your fault. Never was, but, will he ever forgive himself?

[hughiecampbelle]

Autopsy (Will Graham Oneshot)

Character/s: Will, Hannibal mention

Word Count: 1,363

Tag List: @locke-writes

A/N: Heavily inspired by the freezing temperatures that have come on suddenly :) I just love the winter and the snow. Something about it makes me feel alive lol. Anyways, I am having so much fun with these fics!!! I was really afraid I wouldn't be able to stick with it, and ik it's only the second day, but I have a good feeling. I have a lot more to watch lol bc I want to write for Hannibal too, I just feel like I can write Will better, if that makes sense? I know him better. Idk lol. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤

WRITING EVENT 🔪🩸

I still think of you. The words come to his mind as they have constantly, consistently, since the day you died. Not dead, he corrects, but murdered. The day you were murdered. Taken from him with violence, with cruelty, without remorse. Small things. Big things, too. Reminders. Lately, the change of the season, autumn to winter. The long, dark nights he searches in the linen closet for an extra blanket. The way the stars seem a little brighter. How the leaves, what remains of them, shudder in the wind. The hot water he shivers under, trying to warm himself up. The air is sharp, nipping and biting at his skin as he stands in the yard, in the road, in the woods. Shivering. The frost in the grass, on the pavement, sparkles, threatening to melt in the sunlight. The apples of his cheeks growing rosy, his face shielded by the collar of his coat, by the frame of his glasses, by the knit hat he wears that belonged to you. 

I still think of you, he chants. A quiet, naive, foolish part of him hopes you know. I Hope you can see him, feel him. He doesn’t bow to a higher being. He does not break his back and contort his spine in a manner of prayer. He does not step forward between the doors of a church, a temple, a house of holiness. This is as close as he’ll get to believing, to worshipping. Standing here, the temperatures dropping, the sky a watercolor painting of pinks and oranges, purples and blues, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. He can crawl into the minds of killers, of degenerates, of the insane. That is easy. The crime scenes spell it out for him in a language no one else seems to speak, to read, to understand. He can watch as they stab and slice and suffocate without flinching. A witness to the filth of humanity. What he cannot do, what he cannot understand, is your perspective. He has studied the autopsy reports. He has memorized every inflicted wound, every mark of self-defense. He has touched the objects, the weapons, that were used against you. But when he tries to get into your head, your mindset, there is a blankness that mimics untouched snow. 

Were you scared? Did you beg for your life? Did the infinity that is death creep up on you while you slipped away or was it thrust upon you like a white hot pain? Did you cry? Call out for your mother, your father, for him? They found you in the snow. A shallow grave dug before a storm, a blizzard. It made things harder. Slowed decomposition. You were missing for two weeks. That’s all. Fourteen days. He smiles despite himself. The absurdity of it all. He should have fought harder. He should have threatened until he got his way. Of course he had a bad feeling. They all did. But he wasn’t prepared for this. You didn’t come home. Your side of the bed sat empty, undisturbed. Your boots, your coat and hat and gloves hung with care by the front door, left on the mat so you wouldn’t track in slush and snow. The books you were reading, the case files you were analyzing, all waited on the coffee table, expecting you home at any time. Even the dogs, unaware of the situation, slept soundly. They knew where you lived. They stalked you for weeks on end. It was their pattern, their modus operandi. They wanted you. They loved you. And that is why they had to kill you. 

Killed because of him. His therapist disagrees. It wasn’t anything he did. It wasn’t anything he could have prevented. That’s a lie, he thinks, but doesn’t vocalize. A nervous habit: bringing your engagement ring to his lips, holding it there, before dropping it back on the chain around his neck. He waited a long time to get it back. Finally, Jack agreed. He hasn’t taken it off since. He tucks it under his shirt, the cold of the ring against his skin. You haven’t been sleeping, Hannibal states, and Will has no choice but to agree. Bruise-like circles painted beneath his eyes. How can he? How can he when the bed is so large and there is a gaping wound where you used to lie? How can he rest when he knows how you’ve suffered? The instruments used to hurt, to kill. He ends up downstairs, on the couch, his eyelids heavy. The image of your body on that metal slab. You must’ve been cold, that much he knows. You ran out without shoes, your socks, mismatched with silly patterns, thick with frozen mud. Without your jacket, without insulation, your thin shirt torn and ripped. Cut open. They were in your house. They watched you. How can he sleep when he sees a pair of eyes, bright in the dark, staring him down. Watching him. Waiting. 

It should have been me. The thought never leaves him. He can shun it away for a few fleeting moments. Between sips of coffee, tea. Before and after he spits his toothpaste in the sink. As he cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt. Should, Hannibal points out, is a dangerous word. He nods, but does not comprehend, does not care for. The killer learned your routines. They knew when he would be out, when you were alone, when you were at your most vulnerable. He never should have. But how could? Don’t. This is my fault. The idea is sickening and, strangely, comforting. He ruminates. He sits for hours in the morning, at night, in the time between lectures and crime scenes. He goes over what he could put together. The house, your home, littered with investigators, with yellow tape and analysts. Collecting hair, fur, fingerprints. He has nowhere to go. Him and the dogs staying with Hannibal. Just until they’re done, he assured him, but he didn’t mind. When the time came to unlock the front door, to walk through and re-enter the life he’d put on hold, he couldn’t do it. Backed away from it like it was wielding a knife. Just recently has he been able to face it. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Your things right where you left them. Even the dishes, a glass, a mug, a plate, exactly as before, nestled in the sink. Dirty. Unwashed. Begging to be scrubbed clean.  They wouldn’t come after him, that he was painfully aware of. They got what they wanted. He was of no use to them. Not anymore. He could bloody his hands and knees, begging and pleading, but they are gone. Looking for their next victim. Their prey. If they’re not going to hurt him, hunt him down as they had done to you, he will punish himself instead. He will stand in the cold, the frozen temperatures, and wait. He will watch his own breath until it’s too dark, until the night takes over and the sky, inky black, mocks him. Another day you have not seen, experienced, lived. He will shed everything until the thinnest layer. He will put himself in your place, laying in the snow, waiting for his skin to grow numb. If he could he would bury himself. Dig his own grave. But the ground is too thick, too hard, and so he must wait. He must imagine. He must be patient. When it’s become too much, when he is sure he can no longer feel his limbs, he will drag himself back to the house, the dogs, the lonely bed. And he will try again the next night, thankful the winter lasts as long as she does. Dreading the days the sun waits to set and the snow melts, when the wildflowers bloom and the cold dissipates. It’s only been a year and yet, it’s felt like a lifetime. How much longer can he carry on without you? How much longer can he live this life where he cannot sleep, he cannot eat, he cannot find your killer? I don’t know, he shrugs. I don’t know.

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

Thinking of a modern frat Harringroveson au with chubby!Billy, because he’s my favorite, and a scenario that’s similar to that one tumblr(?) post about the girl who lost her keys at a frat party, if anyone knows what I’m talking about.

Specifically the part where she wanders around the house looking the morning after, and no one is particularly helpful until she runs into a guy who sends a text to the group chat with a description of the keys, and suddenly like twenty of them spring into action like soldiers and find her keys in less than a minute?

It’s peak boys will be boys and I love it so much.

So I’m thinking about Billy, Eddie, and Steve being in a frat. Particularly one of the larger ones, so the house is roomy and kind of daunting when first stepping into the foyer.

Steve is taking an exam and he, very miserably, let it be known that he would be gone for most of the afternoon, seeing as his next couple classes were nearly back to back after his test. So, he’s out of the house all day, and Eddie takes the opportunity to have a scary movie marathon with Billy.

Because they might as well do something other than sit around and wait for him to come home, and why not watch something creepy? Steve hates scary movies, so it only makes sense.

The house isn’t buzzing with activity at two in the afternoon on a weekday, so the couple settle into the living room. Have some popcorn, get comfy on the sofa, light a fall-scented candle to match the cooling temperature outside, and it’s perfect.

Until Tommy (I’m picking on him this time, sorry) meanders in about halfway through The Fly.

Maybe it’s a running bit in the house, something born of affection, that it’s acceptable to poke fun at Billy for his size. He’s one of the bigger guys, in every sense, and he gets easily flustered, so he’s teased a lot. They chant his name when he does keg chugs at parties, and they even call him The Tank.

Partly because he can put a lot away, and partly because he’ll do some serious damage if he decides to throw down.

Maybe Tommy takes the joke too far. Instead of giving Billy a pat on the back and calling him big guy, be calls him lardass. Maybe he comments a little too much on Billy’s eating habits, trying to get some kind of rise out of him.

While Billy used to get pissed, used to get in his face and promise to kick his ass before someone intervened, he just gets… uncomfortable now. Usually whenever Tommy enters a room, before he even opens his mouth.

Like right now.

Eddie has his arm around Billy’s shoulders, cradling him against his side, fingers tip-tapping against the blond’s bicep as he noses a kiss into his hair.

“This sweater’s real cute on you,” he murmurs. Billy hums appreciatively, and Eddie smiles as he digs his hand into the bowl of popcorn in his lap. “My cute little muncher.”

A door closes in the close distance, and suddenly Billy goes a bit rigid where he leans against Eddie’s shoulder.

Tommy pads into the room, hands on his hips as he glances between the tv and the couple sitting on the couch. Spreads an amused little smirk, eyes tracing up and down the scene.

“No Steve today?” he wonders. Eddie shakes his head and turns his focus back to the movie. “And did you just call him little?”

The freckled brunet snorts, and Eddie huffs a groan and lolls his head back.

“Can you leave, please? Crawl back into whatever hole you spawned from?”

“Hey, this is the communal living room, I can come in here if I want.” Tommy plops down in the recliner and cocks his head to the side. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Eddie lifts his head again, brows drawn together as he shifts to fish his phone out of his pocket after he pauses the movie. He rubs up and down Billy’s arm where his hand is still resting, and taps on his screen.

“I’m trying to watch a movie with my boyfriend, Hagan. He’s never seen The Fly, and we’re on kind of a schedule ‘cause we have to finish both movies before Stevie gets home,” Eddie says. “I’d say I wouldn’t mind if you watched and just kept your trap shut, but I’d really rather you just leave.”

“So you’re saying I can’t come into the living room in my own house? What would El Presidente think of that?”

Tommy clicks his tongue. Billy shifts when his eyes fix on him.

“I’m saying you make my boyfriend uncomfortable, and I’m saying you should fuck off about it.”

“I make him uncomfortable? I can hardly go anywhere in this place without seeing some kind of perverse display.”

Eddie quirks a brow.

“Perverse display?”

“Well, yeah.” Tommy crosses his arms, and it’s remarkably bratty. “You guys are always feeling him up, or sucking face, and he’s always pigging out. You don’t see how that could be disturbing?”

There’s a beat of silence. Eddie’s mouth pinches into a line when he notices the tinge of red in Billy’s expression. Notices how he leans closer, making himself smaller, and how out of character that is.

Eddie wants to rattle off an insult about how Tommy’s hair is always a mess, his room is filthy, and point out that his girlfriend has been cheating on him since the dawn of time. He wants to tell him how fragile he is if he thinks that two people sharing a kiss is obscene, or that snacking on popcorn is pigging out.

Eddie wants to say all of it so bad, but instead, he types briefly, and hits send.

Instantly, both Billy and Tommy’s phones buzz, and they both pull them out of their pockets. To Tommy’s horror, it’s a notification from the group chat. A voice note with a text attached to it.

Trying to watch a movie and this fuckhead Hagan can’t decide between being fatphobic or homophobic. I think we’ll start looking for an apartment so we can watch movies in peace.

It takes merely seconds for messages to start rolling in. Everything varying from what the fuck to hell no to questioning if the text is genuine, and if Eddie is serious about moving out. Eddie grins, and briefly hopes that Steve remembered to silence his phone before his exam.

Then, Tommy’s phone starts vibrating with a call. His eyes go wide, and he swallows before answering.

Eddie bites back on a laugh, knowing that only one person besides Steve has yet to have texted back.

“Hello?” Tommy answers.

He cringes briefly, and nods to himself as he pulls his phone away from his ear, and taps the screen.

“Am I on speaker, dipshit?” Jason asks.

“Yes.”

Tommy’s voice is suddenly timid, face hot with shame, and Eddie presses his lips together when a laugh threatens to sputter out.

Over the phone, Jason sighs.

“Hey, Bill? Edd? Can you guys hear me?”

Eddie clears his throat and exhales a calming sigh.

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good.” There’s some static and some shuffling over the line. “You okay, Billy?”

For a moment, the blond is quiet, but he relaxes a bit when Eddie gives him a soft squeeze.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says.

“Cool. I’m kinda caught between classes right now or I’d deal with it myself, but I promise it’ll still be handled. I’m really sorry you guys had to put up with this, so I’ll have a couple pizzas sent to the house.”

Eddie nods in approval.

“We appreciate you, boss man,” he says.

“Alright, I’ll let you guys get back to your movie. Hagan, I hope you have street clothes on.”

Then, Jason hangs up. Things are quiet for a moment. Anticipation is thick in the air, and then there’s a new message in the group chat from El Presidente.

Hagan is excommunicado, effective immediately.

Eddie snorts when not a single text rolls through after that, but there’s the sound of movement upstairs.

“John Wick,” Billy murmurs, nodding. “Nice.”

There’s footsteps. Heavy scraping. Tommy stands up from his seat, ready to bolt upstairs to see what the commotion is, but he doesn’t make it further than the base of the stairs before the noise and voices get louder.

Then, things come flying down the steps, and Tommy barely jumps out of the way.

Armfuls of clothes, shoes, a backpack. Tommy’s eyes blow so wide Eddie thinks they might pop out of his head.

The mattress is next, with the sheets still on, and then figures come into view. Argyle and Jonathan carrying a dresser down the stairs in nothing but their socks and underwear, full drawers threatening to slide out and spill clothes everywhere. Patrick is right behind them with a nightstand in his grasp, alarm clock and bong still resting on top. More voices follow, and more and more comes tumbling down the stairs.

Nothing is moved carefully. Wooden legs are skidded across the floor, corners are banged against the guard rail and doorframe, and Tommy’s laptop is thrown like a frisbee out onto the concrete walkway.

It’s beautiful, Eddie thinks, how fast the pile of trash and other belongings accumulates, and how he counts probably fifteen heads as the guys dump everything out into the front yard. They wail at Tommy as they pass, booing and poking and some even pinching him before the guys all disperse like roaches when the light flicks on.

A few pass by the sofa, offering condolences like they’re at a funeral, and Argyle even tousles Billy’s hair before he disappears.

Tommy is left standing there, staring through the open doorway at his entire existence spread out on the ground in front of him. Eddie snorts when he sees the tiny Tommy Hagan has been removed from group notice appear in the bottom of the chat, followed by a plethora of saluting emojis.

He ropes Billy closer into his side and kisses his hair, shutting his phone off.

“You gonna be hungry for pizza?” he murmurs.

Billy tilts his head up to look at him, eyes glassy, and chews his lip.

“Mhmm,” he hums. “You think Stevie’s gonna be stressed when he checks his phone?”

He closes his eyes when Eddie squeezes him and presses a kiss to his forehead. Relaxes into the embrace when the front door shuts.

“I’ll send him a picture when the pizza gets here so he knows you’re okay.”

“Why wait ‘til the pizza gets here?” Billy muses.

He hums a laugh and turns further into Eddie, tucking his face in the crook of his neck and smoothing his hand over his chest. The brunet sighs comfortably as he feels around his lap for the remote, and traces shapes against Billy’s bicep with his free hand.

“‘Cause the only thing cuter than you in your comfy sweater is you having a snack in your comfy sweater.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Don’t want him to miss out on it.”

Eddie smiles as he presses play, and Billy chuckles into his neck.

“Me neither.”

[pedrospatch]

Lonely Too Long l (To Hell and Back Drabble)

Series Masterlist

Summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+ only, minors DNI. Flashback of implied SA, but no descriptions. Soft Joel, Joel sings to reader. *If you happen to be reading the series, I recommend reading this one because it starts setting up Joel and reader’s relationship. This is also the last flashback she’s going to have since it’s a heavier one than the last two.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Dust to Dust is one of my favorite songs by The Civil Wars. I know the song did not come out until like 2013, but we’re just going to pretend. Also, I know that the gif is video game Joel, but god I love him just as much and it fits this scene so we are gonna roll with it. I know this might not be everyone’s cup of tea but I wanted to write it so I did. 🤌🏼 I am still organizing the taglist for this series, it will be start with the next chapter. This was mostly for me but hopefully some people out there enjoy it too. 🤍

You couldn’t scream.

You’re trying to cry out, but you can’t.

Chest tight, your lungs won’t expand.

You couldn’t breathe. 

One hand around your neck, the other is fumbling with the zipper of your jeans.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he grinned, his fingers roughly scraping against the skin of your lower stomach.

In the corner, your cellmate is curled into a little ball in the floor, hands covering her ears and her eyes squeezed shut.

She’s probably praying she won’t be next.

She’s seventeen so even in the midst of your own chaos, you can’t help but pray she isn’t next too.

You thrashed around underneath him. It’s futile, but all you can think about is getting him off you.

Grin fading, he let out a heavy, irritated sigh. His hand left the waistband of your jeans. He reached behind him and pulled out his gun, bringing it up to into your view—it caused you to cease any and all movements. “Listen to me,” he said, pressing the barrel of the pistol against your temple. “It’s simple, really. Keep squirming and I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Do you understand, dollface?”

When he received no response, he dug the barrel deeper into your skin, his finger on the trigger.

“Do you understand?” He repeated, his tone low.

Nearly paralyzed, all you could do was nod. 

“Good.” He roughly flipped you over.

The sound of his belt buckle clanking rang loudly in your ears. As he yanked your jeans down to the middle of your thighs, you closed your eyes.

Both your mind and your body went numb.

A light, late night rainstorm came out of nowhere, sweeping over the town. The soft, pitter pattering sound of raindrops on the window above your bed had almost lulled you into slumber.

Almost.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

The words blended into a steady but silent chant.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

You’re fucking safe.

Slapping the palm of your hand to your forehead, you exhaled a long, heavy sigh and stared up into the the darkness of the bedroom.

You couldn’t be certain as to what time it was, but it had to be well into the middle of the night. You’d been tossing and turning for a couple of hours but somehow it felt like a hell of a lot longer than that.

You were fucking exhausted. You nearly ached for some sleep, but every damn time that you closed your eyes, vivid images of the past came creeping in and chased it further and further away.

Your brain just couldn’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that this place wasn’t dangerous.

That you didn’t have to sleep with one eye open.

That nobody was going to hurt you.

That you were safe in a soft bed in a real house.

You weren’t lying on a dirty cot in a human cage.

Sighing again, you thought about Joel who was in his bedroom down the hallway, sleeping.

It brought you comfort knowing he was close. But for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, part of you couldn’t help but feel he wasn’t close enough.

You. The same woman who vowed never to trust another human being ever again—you wanted him fucking closer. Actually, it wasn’t a want so much as it was a need.

You needed him to be closer.

Sitting up, you tossed the sheets back and swung your legs over the edge of the mattress, your bare feet meeting the cold, hardwood floors. You stood and quietly padded out of the bedroom and down the hallway towards Joel’s.

“You know where to find me if you need anythin’,” he’d assured you before he had gone off to bed.

You stopped in front of his door and lifted a curled first, knocking lightly. About a minute or two went by, and just when you started to realize that you’d made a mistake and whirled around to make a run for it back to your own room where you could hop back into bed and pretend that the thought of this hadn’t ever even crossed your mind, he opened up his bedroom door.

“Thought I heard a knock,” Joel mumbled sleepily, rubbing at his eyes with one of his hands. He wore nothing but his sweatpants, his hair looking about ten times more disheveled than usual. “Everythin’ alright?”

You swallowed dryly, trying your hardest not to let your eyes wander away from his face—it proved to be almost too difficult to keep from staring. Joel’s shoulders were broad, his chest was wide, and his stomach was soft; his sweatpants hung on the low side on his hips and revealed the trail of dark curls that started at his lower belly and descended until it disappeared underneath the elastic waistband.

You caught yourself before they could go lower.

“Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?” he asked, stifling a yawn. Thankfully he hasn’t seemed to notice you gawking at him. He rubbed at his eyes once again and then observed you, trying to figure out what it was that had brought you to his room at this hour. “You need somethin’? Are you cold? Did you need an extra blanket?”

You lightly shook your head in response. No.

He tried again. “Are you still hungry?” he asked as he gestured towards the stairs. “I can make you another sandwich if you want—”

He was cut off by another shake of your head that told him that wasn’t it.

“You just can’t sleep,” Joel realized after a minute. He frowned—he could see how tired you were and for as much as he didn’t want to think about it, he had a feeling that he knew what it was that was on your mind and keeping you awake. “What can I do to help, sweetness?”

You blinked, standing there almost dumbfounded.

Clearly, you hadn’t thought this through.

You would knock on Joel’s door and then what?

You would talk to him about what’s on your mind?

Letting out a tiny frustrated huff that was directed at yourself, you waved a dismissive hand in the air.

Forget it. There’s nothing you can do.

As you turned around to leave, Joel reached out to take your arm. He curled his fingers lightly around your elbow. “Well now, hold on a minute. You’re at my door for a reason,” he said. He watched as your eyes flickered to his hand around your arm, but he couldn’t be sure if his touch had bothered you. He dropped it, not wanting to risk pushing you too far or crossing a line, not when he had made progress with you, progress he didn’t want to lose. “You not bein’ able to sleep—it have anythin’ to do with you still not feelin’ safe?”

You hesitated.

“It’s alright, darlin’. You can be honest with me.”

The sheepish expression on your face said it all.

No, I can’t sleep because I don’t feel safe.

“Would it help if you slept with me?”

You raised your eyebrows at him, eyes widening at his proposal. At least, the way he’d said it.

Excuse me?

Realizing how it had sounded, Joel flushed. “What I mean is, would it help if you slept in my bed?” He winced. That hadn’t sounded all that much better. “You sleep in my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor,” he sputtered out quickly. “That’s what I meant. That way I’m right next to you and you ain’t alone.”

Gnawing nervously on your bottom lip, you took a minute to think it over.

If you wanted him closer, this was your chance.

But why? Why did you want him to be closer? Why did you need to have him at your side?

You’d been on your own for an entire fucking year.

And it had been by choice.

You didn’t want to be around other people, sure as hell didn’t need to be around other people.

And then Joel Miller makes his appearance and all of a sudden, you’re at his door in the middle of the damn night because you feel the need to have him at your side?

Finally, you nodded your head. Okay.

“Come in.��� He stepped aside, allowing you in. Not wanting you to feel trapped in his room, he left the door open. “And you’re free to go on back to your own room whenever you feel like it.”

Joel picked up his discarded tee shirt from earlier, a small labored grunt escaping him as he brought himself back into an upright position, the bones in his lower back crackling with protest. Turning over his shirt right side out, he tugged it on as you took a look around his bedroom, a larger space dimly lit by the small lamp on his nightstand.

That’s when you saw it.

Perched on a stand, it was nestled in the corner.

A guitar.

Curiously, you walked over and knelt in front of it.

You reached out and softly ran your fingers across the strings, smiling to yourself at the sound it had made.

“Found that while out on patrol with Tommy a few weeks ago,” Joel stated as he came up behind you slowly. “Gibson. Little worse for wear, but in damn good condition all things considerin’. Woulda been a crime to leave it out there,” he chuckled. “I know Ellie’s been wantin’ to learn, it’s the main reason it came back home with me. I haven’t shown her yet since I still gotta clean and polish her up.” He took a brief pause. “You know how to play?”

You ran your fingers across the strings once more, and a loud, terrible noise that wasn’t even close to music caused him to wince. You then looked up at him over your shoulder with an amused grin.

Does it sound like I know how to play?

Joel couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” He leaned over and picked up the guitar. He walked over and took a seat on the side of his bed, patting the seat beside him. “C’mere, sweetness.”

Getting up to your feet, you wrapped Joel’s flannel closer around your body as you padded over to his bed, perching yourself next to him.

Head down and focused, he began to strum a few notes. You couldn’t help but to be mesmerized by how his large hands moved on the instrument, the way his long, thick fingers—

Swallowing dryly, you cut the thought short.

Curiously, you put a hand on his shoulder.

Joel paused the tune. “What is it, darlin’?”

With your opposite hand, you touched your throat and then pointed at him. Can you sing?

He gave a half hearted shrug. “I do like to sing,” he admitted almost bashfully. “Always been fond of it ever since I was a kid.” He chuckled. “Before goin’ into construction, I wanted to be a musician. But I knew it would never pay the bills.”

You squeezed Joel’s shoulder and gestured to the guitar, then to his throat again. Will you sing me a song?

Joel felt the back of his neck burn and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Normally, I would probably say no,” he admitted. “But, seein’ as you saved my life and all, I’d be a real asshole if I said no to you.”

Lifting your chin, you shot him a smug look. That is very true. So go on then, Johnny Cash. Play me a song.

“Alright. Any requests?”

You nudged him lightly. Very funny.

“Okay, um. Gimme a minute to think of a song.”

Withdrawing your hand from his shoulder, you sat back against his pillows and pulled your legs up to your chest, hugging your knees.

Nervously, Joel inhaled and exhaled a deep breath and began strumming the guitar. Chills shot down your spinal cord as a hauntingly beautiful melody filled his bedroom. He turned and angled his body towards to you as he began to sing.

“You’ve held your head up,

you’ve fought the fight

you bear the scars, you’ve done your time

listen to me, you’ve been lonely too long…”

Your mouth fell open slightly.

“Let me in the walls you’ve built around

we can light a match and burn them down…”

The rich baritone of his voice caused goosebumps to eruprt all over your flesh. Furiously, you rubbed at your bare legs, but it was useless.

With every note Joel sang to you, more appeared.

With every note Joel sang to you, the harder you found it to breathe steady.

With every note Joel sang to you, the more beats your heart seemed to be skipping.

“Let me hold your hand

and dance ‘round and ‘round the flames

in front of us, dust to dust…”

Joel glanced up, his dark brown eyes holding your gaze as he sang the final verse of the song.

“You’re like a mirror, reflectin’ me

takes one to know one, so take it from me

you’ve been lonely

you’ve been lonely too long.”

Even if you could speak to him, you would’ve been left speechless—all that you could do was stare at him in complete awe.

Joel set the guitar down. “I’m alright,” he said with a sheepish little laugh. “My voice ain’t nowhere as nice as yours.”

You stiffened slightly.

What are you talking about?

“Don’t look at me like that. I know it was you who I heard singin’ back at that cabin when I was comin’ back around.” He gave you a crooked grin. “Earlier I was just playin’ dumb, but I know it was you. You have a gorgeous voice, and I’d love to hear it again someday.”

Hugging your legs closer to yourself, you dropped your head down onto your knees, embarrassed.

What was the matter with you?

Here was a man who had taken you in, offered you a warm bed under his own roof—gave you clothes and fed you, even offered to give up his own damn bed and sleep on the cold hard floor beside you to make you feel safe enough to sleep.

And you still couldn’t say a fucking word to him.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Forcing your head up, your gaze met his.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” Joel assured you. “It’s just like I told you downstairs. We’re gonna take it one step at a time.” Lifting one of his hands, he reached out holding it out to you, his palm face upwards. “And I swear, once you find your voice, I’m gonna do all that I can do to make sure you never lose it again.”

Biting your lower lip, you placed your hand in his.

Joel have it a gentle squeeze. “Atta girl.”

Much sooner than you would have liked, he let go of your hand and stood up.

“We should get some sleep. You’re gonna need all the rest you can get before you meet my kid. Ellie. She’ll be here first thing and I should warn you she can be, uh, she can be a lot to process.” He let out an amused snort and reached for a pillow, tossing it onto the floor. “You can have all the blankets, I’ll just take this throw here—”

As Joel reached past you for a green flannel throw blanket, you grabbed his arm to stop him. His face was just inches from yours.

Close.

But again somehow still not close enough.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, softly.

Warm and laced with mint from the toothpaste he had used to brush his teeth before bed, his breath tickled the tip of of your nose, sending a pleasant shiver up your spine.

Your eyes looked right into his as you scooter over to the other side of his bed—it was firm, cold. Like no one had ever occupied that space before. But it was foolish to think that a man like Joel Miller had never had another woman share his bed before.

You patted the spot beside you.

Sleep up here.

“You sure about this, darlin’?”

You patted the empty spot again. Yes I’m sure.

Joel squinted at you. “You ain’t gonna strangle me in my sleep, are you now?”

His half serious joke was met with a glare.

Keep it up with wise cracks and I just might.

He held his hands up in defense. “Just checkin.”

As you crawled underneath his dark green sheets, Joel slid into bed beside you, making sure to leave a good three foot gap between the both of you; he murmured a quiet goodnight and switched off the lamp on his nightstand before rolling over onto his stomach—not even two minutes later and his soft snores filled the room.

You turned onto your side, facing him. Through a beam of moonlight steaming in through a crack in the curtains, you could just make out the outlines of his facial features. He’d fallen asleep facing you.

Closing your eyes, your body sank further into the mattress, heavy with exhaustion.

Taut, tense muscles finally relaxed.

Tight jaw finally unclenched.

You’re safe.

You slowly started drifting off to sleep.

With Joel beside you, no nightmares came to visit.

[chiiyuuvv]

fuma as a crush and bf ₊˚ෆ

crush/bf!fuma x fem!reader 0.7k words requested!

▸ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺?

When fuma has a crush on you, he’d..

(♡•♡) give you small smiles whenever you enter the room, whenever you open your mouth to speak, whenever you make eye contact.. It’s just his way of saying hello without sounding like an idiot. 

(♡•♡) stutter whenever you talk to him. It’s part of the reason why he likes to stick to small smiles. Not because he hates your presence, he just hates the fact that he stutters so much around you, his cheeks burning red as he bats his eyes to the floor, finding his shoes extra shiny

(♡•♡) be protective over you. He likes to call himself subtle, but anyone walking by can see the glares he gives to men when they try to even take a glance at you. You don’t know it yet, but you’re his girl, so no one is going to be looking at you in any type of way >:(

(♡•♡) follow you like a lost puppy. Or should I say, “she said she likes this, so I’m going to do the same thing” knowing good and well he despises whatever action you’re doing. If you decide to put bows in his hair, he’d be cringing on the inside, but hey, at least you’re happy 🤷‍♀️

(♡•♡) confess when you’re trapped inside a run down elevator. Usually fuma would like to keep his feelings to himself, but he hates when he begins to second guess the situation, thinking about all the possible ways something could go wrong. It limits him from being happy, and he hates feeling trapped inside a box. So as you’re sitting there in silence, he’d randomly blurt out the feelings he’s been holding back, finally able to get them off his chest. He doesn’t expect you to like him back, so to say he was a little shocked when you got up and kissed him was an understatement. 

When you’re dating fuma, he’d..

♥‿♥ want to go grocery shopping together! He’d insist on carrying all the baskets and paying for all your purchases, your only job is to point at the things you want so he can get them for you. Likes to socialize when waiting in the checkout line, his arm wrapped around your waist while he pushes your head to his shoulder; he’s not exactly a pda type of guy, but he does crave your warmth from time to time :3

♥‿♥ put his hand on your thigh whenever you’re in a dinner setting. This isn’t to rile you up in any type of way, just like a comforting reminder, chanting the words, “I’m here,” if you somehow manage to forget. He’d also feed you snacks if you’re out on a picnic or something. It honestly reminds me of High School Musical, the scene where Troy and Gabriella are trying to throw grapes into each other's mouths. It’s romantic yet silly, something fuma cherishes.

♥‿♥ want you to go to the gym with him. You don’t even have to work out, he just likes it when you’re watching him do his form. He feels powerful almost, knowing he’s the reason why you drool, which keeps him motivated to do better 😋

♥‿♥ be your #1 supporter. Like I said before, fuma doesn’t like being trapped inside a box, so he’d encourage himself to step out of his shell and face his fears, the same goes for you. He understands why you’re scared, but he wants you to understand that he will be with you every step of the way. When you finally face your fear, fuma would be so proud of you, spending the rest of the day (or week (or month)) spoiling you, celebrating your victory. And if you didn’t, fuma would console you, because at least you tried your hardest, you know?

♥‿♥ nag at you. Fuma is not only your boyfriend.. He’s your mother atp. Nags at you for going outside without a jacket. Nags at you for staying inside and playing pokemon all day. Nags at you for refusing to eat your vegetables – he’d give you one stern look, and right then and there did you know that you messed up. He doesn’t want to seem mean, but he wants you to take care of your health is all :(( 

︴bonus! @kehnarii, i told you were thoughts were in good hands!!

▸ taglist 🎧 @starryriize , @cherrycolaberry , @kehnarii , @wtfisgoingright

🎬 navi

@chiiyuuvv on tumblr . do not steal works/headers/line dividers

[anoant-haikyuu-dump]

More Nekoma HCs

• Teshiro’s really good at those pen spinning tricks, the other first-years pop off when he does it. He also has the best handwriting of the first-years and they borrow his notes before big tests. Lev's handwriting is borderline illegible— he claims its cause he's Russian but everyone calls him out on his bullshit ("Dude, your first language is Japanese??")

• Fukunaga carries around a slide whistle, when he's not on court he plays it every time someone dives for the ball

• Shibayama's the kinda guy to send buzzfeed quizes in the team groupchat and make everyone take them ("Dont you guys wanna know what cat breed you are?"). Most of the team groan but secretly find it endearing. Kuroo unabashadly loves it and commends Shibayama's team spirit

• None of the second-years are good students— Kenma spends class playing mobile games under his desk or napping, Tora doesn't listen but even if he did he wouldn't process anything, and Fukunaga's in his own little world 90% of the time. Kenma skates by with general smarts but Tora and Fukunaga are in the TRENCHES. Kuroo and Kai help tutor them when needed

• The whole team LOVES Akane, that's their cheer captain!! She gets along best with Fukunaga and Kenma because they're closest to Tora but I think she'd also vibe a lot with Yaku cause they have a similar sassy energy (and height but shh). All of them treat her like an absolute queen, mess with her and you got 10 guys knocking at your door

• Tora picks people up a lot, he just grabs them and throws them over his shoulders. The most common victims are the second years but also Shibayama since he's "bite-sized" as Tora so eloquently puts it. He tried it with Yaku a single time which did NOT go well, he hasn't again since

• When Hinata's in town to hang out with Kenma Inkuoka and Lev WILL find a way to crash it no matter what. The just happened to show up at the same arcade, what a conincidence!! Kenma gives them the death glare but unfortunately for him Hinata is more than happy to let them tag along

• Kai is generally really chill but when he yells he's louder than even Tora. The team finds this out at training camp when they're settling in for the night and the first years decide its a great time to have a pillow fight. One flies directly into a sleeping Kai's face. The other teams can hear the reprimanding through the walls (bro doesn't fuck around with his beauty rest)

• Sometimes they do video game nights at Kuroo's but Kenma is either straight-up banned or given severe handicaps. The one time he loses is during MarioKart when Kuroo starts waving his hands in front of his face and Kenma stops playing to wresting him away (he still manages to beat Tora somehow)

• Kuroo and Yaku argue all the time but if anyone else talks shit about them they hop to the other's defense immediately. You do not get away with making fun of Yaku's height unless you're Kuroo himself.

• Kuroo's the biggest fan of Fukunaga's jokes, as a fellow pun enthusiast he appreciates him keeping the court light-hearted. He laughs way too hard even when they're not that funny and sometimes fires a quip or two back. Also Kuroo's definetly the type to literally slap his knee when laughing

• (Ignore the awful picture quality) There's this scene from the Tokyo Battles stage play where Shibayama dances along with Akane and Alisa from the stands and it's the cutest thing ever i'm obsessed. Anyways I think he's the king of the bench cheerleaders, he teaches Teshiro and Inuoka all the little dances and chants

alright thats it for now, long live Nekoma