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ugh-yoongi · 1 year

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a yoongi soft thought i have been having recently: streamer!yoongs with an also streamer reader, they both work independently but the fans know about their relationship and love it so much! i was thinking about them deciding to do a stream together where the reader does his makeup and they talk to the public, very cliche very soft lol

hope you like the idea, luv your writing ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

omggg you have no idea how much i SQUEALED reading this message. thank u so much for sending it i am now overwhelmed with soft yoongi feels 😭

i have never actually watched a twitch stream??? so i hope i did this justice & you enjoy! <3

stream is starting

pairing: yoongi x reader (no pronouns used) genre: est. relationship, streamer au; fluff warnings: fluff overload. reader does yoongi's nails and makeup. they kiss a lot. idk what to say they're just very in love!! i don't think i said even ONE curse word in this that's how soft it is. unedited. rating: e for everyone wordcount: 1.6k listen to: carly rae jepsen - run away with me; jungkook - seven (nightfall mix)

It starts, as most things do with Yoongi, after a night out.

He’d gone out with Hoseok. Wanted to blow off some steam after a long week for both of them. You’d sent him off with a kiss, a text me if you need a ride that was met with an affectionate roll of his eyes, and finally a have fun, love you that he returned with a smile and a kiss to your forehead.

Now, it’s nearing two a.m., and you’re in bed with a facemask on, staring down at your phone.

Yoongi had sent you a picture. It’s blurry and unfocused, clearly taken on a whim, but those are undoubtedly Hoseok’s hands. You’d know those slender fingers anywhere, but it’s the nail art that tips you off. Each finger is painted black except for his pinkies, which are decorated with smiley face stickers, sealed with an extra-shiny clear coat. Beneath the photo, two texts from your boyfriend:

Is this hard to do They’re cute

You snort, typing out a quick reply.

No, it’s not hard Why, you want me to do your nails?

You expect him to say no. Not because of some toxic masculinity bullshit, he just does too much with his hands. Chip a nail playing guitar? The acetone would be out immediately. Smudge the polish? His pout would be overwhelming.

So you’re surprised, then, when he says yes; when he sends you a few pictures he plucked off of Pinterest, accompanied only with a half-dozen question marks.

Yeah, I can do that, you send him.

Even more surprising:

Maybe on stream? We haven’t done one together yet You can finally do my makeup too

You shouldn’t be surprised by the numbers, considering Yoongi has been hyping it up for weeks.

Kept posting teasers. Had a countdown timer on screen during his usual streams. Acted all coy and shy whenever his chat would ask him about it. Could barely swallow his smile when they demanded to know if you were finally making an appearance. Couldn’t hide the way his cheeks grew pink at all, and that tiny crumb was enough to send the internet into a frenzy.

So, no, you shouldn’t be surprised, but the view count on Yoongi’s screen seems too big to be real.

Yoongi is as shocked as you, but there’s pride simmering beneath the surface. Not once has he turned down an opportunity to show you off. Refuses to keep you hidden despite how private he insists on being otherwise. Doesn’t want you to feel like you’re a secret; wants everyone to know how much he adores you.

You’re certainly feeling adored now. “Does that say thirty thousand?”

“Sure does. Think you can perform under that kind of pressure?”

You snort. Pinch playfully at his side. Yoongi squeals, twists away from you, but he’s more serious when he comes back around. Reaches for you as he settles, hands on your hips, thumb brushing the warm skin beneath your sweatshirt. “Thanks for doing this with me,” he says, and you know Yoongi means it the same way you say I love you.

All you can do is smile, suddenly overwhelmed by how fond you are of him. How it feels like your heart grows three sizes every time he flashes you one of those gummy smiles of his own.

“Of course,” you say, because there’s only—“Five minutes. You ready?”

He pulls a face. Asks you to sit for a quick light test. Spends a few seconds fussing over it even though you think it looks fine. Makes sure all your supplies are organized and at the ready—you decided to let Yoongi’s stream decide all the colors and stickers, so there’s stuff everywhere, and you can see how stressed he is.

So you reach out, smooth over the furrow between his brows. “Relax, baby.”

He huffs. “I’m trying, it’s just—”

“You’ve done this a million times.”

“Yeah, by myself. Not with you. Not in front of… Jesus, there’s even more of them now.”

You roll your lips to hide the smile that’s creeping up. “C’mere,” you say, sliding your fingers through his belt loops. “Everything is going to be fine, okay? This is just for fun. Deep breaths.”

Yoongi listens. Closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. Holds it for a few seconds before he exhales, and it probably doesn’t do anything to dampen the buzz, but at least he looks glued back together. “I know.” Another inhale, another slow exhale. “I just want this to go well.”

“It will.”

He looks like he wants to argue. Push back on it. But Yoongi knows you just like you know him, and he trusts you implicitly. He wants to argue. Instead, he says, “Okay,” presses a soft kiss to your lips, and that’s the end of that.

“What color did they decide on?”

Admittedly, you might’ve gone overboard. Surely you didn’t need to bring over every eyeshadow palette you own, but you wanted options, and now those options are coming back to bite you in the rear. There are too many.

Yoongi huffs. “I don’t know. I can’t scroll through the chat because you made me put my hands in this ridiculous thing.”

“It’s a UV lamp. You don’t want your nails to chip, do you? After I just spent all that time and effort—”

“Okay, okay,” Yoongi relents, and a familiar blush creeps up his neck. Over his shoulder, you can see his chat explode with messages. “You see what I have to put up with?” he asks them.

“Yeah, it’s awful,” you agree, leaning in closer to the monitor. “Hi, guys. What color eye makeup should we do?” The chat erupts again. Messages come in faster than you can keep up with. “Wow, there are a lot of you. Of course I’m going to do eyeliner. Oh—I’m seeing a lot of requests for purple. That okay with you, babe?”

“Sure. Give the people what they want.”

With a smile, you pat his cheek with a gentle hand, cooing at him. “So accommodating. Isn’t he the best, chat?” Yoongi rolls his eyes, blush deepening. You think he’d hide behind his hands if they weren’t still drying. “Okay, nails are all done. Want to show them how they turned out?”

Like most things with Yoongi are, it’s easy.

He sits patiently while you prime his skin, commenting on how nice it is, and he makes small talk with his chat. Tells them how the two of you met, how disastrous your first date had been, how Yoongi thought he’d blown it for good. He’s told all of these stories before, but it still warms your heart to hear them again—to hear the way he speaks each word with such care, such affection.

“Show them how beautiful you look with your eye makeup done.”

He rolls his eyes, but does as you request anyway. Once again, the chat explodes, and the amount of emotes whirring by nearly makes you go crosseyed. COUPLE GOALS!!!! stands out amongst the chaos, and you know Yoongi has read it because another slow, gummy smile takes over his face.

You do his foundation next even though he doesn’t need any. Even though the chat demands he drop his skincare routine and he admits he doesn’t have one. “It is so unfair that you have this skin and can barely remember to moisturize.” You pretend to boo him. “God truly has favorites.”

“Yeah, you,” Yoongi says, and it’s so quick, so automatic, that it catches you off guard. Has you spraying the setting spray before you can tell him to close his eyes. “Aish, what was that—”

“Sorry!”

“I’m blind,” he wails. “You’ve blinded me!”

“I did not—”

But you’re up and off anyway, disappearing into the bathroom for a wet washcloth. You can hear Yoongi’s raspy laughter from the hall, know he’s not grievously injured and is just playing it up for laughs, and you don’t mind. Loving Yoongi means seeing all of his parts, and you know he’s got a darkness in him just like everyone else, that sometimes he finds it hard to escape it, so you want him to be this carefree and joyous always. Want to hear that laughter all the time.

You’re hovering in the doorway when he says, “Do you think this is what they meant when they said love is blind?”

And you’re… struck. You can feel how much Yoongi loves you in everything he does; can hear it in every word he says whenever he speaks about you. He handpicks each one, wraps it in the care it deserves. Not because they’re fragile, but because he wants to, and that kind of love feels a little overwhelming. Has you blinking back tears.

You’re not going to cry on stream, so you take a second to get yourself together before you walk back in the room. Say, “Are you done being dramatic yet?” because it’s easier to joke, and Yoongi shoots you a smile that says he knows.

“Of course,” he answers. “Please continue. The chat is patiently waiting to see the final product.”

You make a show of looking over his shoulder again, at pretending to read all the comments. You press a kiss to his temple just because you’re there. “Oh, they are, are they?”

One catches your eye: is anyone else painfully aware of how single they are rn.

#yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi fic #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #yoongi x you #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic #jewel writes

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ship-graveyard · 6 months

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P1Harmony MTL - Fashion 💅

- mtl to let you pick out their outfit for a day -

🫧 - most to least | 🌙 - gn!reader | 💞 - ot6

———————————————————————

Most Likely

Keeho:

♡ - when you suggest it he’s absolutely thrilled

♡ - bonus points if you let him pick out your outfit in return

♡ - has some uhhhhhhh unusual clothes sometimes but they make him happy and he has the confidence to pull off literally anything (and if you make fun of him for the slightly uglier things he owns he’ll just just laugh and threaten to make you wear them instead)

♡ - he’s so passionate about his personal image and he’ll use the chance to boost your own style and confidence because he loves you and needs you to see how stunning and creative you are

♡ - MODELS the outfit for you afterwards (he’s already thinking up new ideas for next time too)

———————————————————————

Intak:

♡ - thinks it’s a cute idea (and also would do ANYTHING for you)

♡ - gives you a full tour of his closet complete with stories about where he got each item before you even start

♡ - enjoys fashion but doesn’t always have the energy to put together a solid outfit, so he really appreciates this

♡ - is 100% down to wear something from your closet if you lend it to him. doesn’t matter how different in style or size it is, he just loves the idea of having a constant reminder of you (and if it’s different enough from his usual outfits for people to ask about it, he’d love the excuse to talk about you lol)

♡ - likely to drape something random of his over your head/shoulders and watch you with puppy eyes until you agree to wear it in return (also bonus points if your outfits match even a little bit)

———————————————————————

Jongseob:

♡ - unbothered king. finds the suggestion strange at first but it grows on him

♡ - as long as you understand his comfort level and give him ultimate veto power to say no to anything at any time, have at it. he trusts you

♡ - once he relaxes a bit he’ll be suggesting and trying on really ugly combinations just for the fun of it and you’ll both be giggly messes

♡ - gets especially excited for accessory recommendations and tries to steal some of your keychains and cute trinkets in return for lending you a few of his

♡ - posts an ootd if he really likes what you picked for him bc he likes seeing reminders of you when he looks in the mirror, and he can save that feeling forever in pictures

———————————————————————

Theo:

♡ - a bit particular about his outfits, so he wouldn’t outright refuse, but he would complain at first about how he doesn’t really see the point

♡ - UNTIL he realizes that your plan includes accessorizing and then he’s all in

♡ - jewelry, makeup, nail polish, and literally anything else you bring along will have him preening. he will sit so still while you work

♡ - his favorite part would be letting you style his hair though. it’s mostly just an excuse to get you to play with his hair, but he keeps suggesting new and complex hairstyles for you to try (even if you can’t figure them out, spending time with you like this makes everything worth it for him)

♡ - very likely to lend you stuff from his own closet casually, so he wouldn’t be too reciprocal but only bc your outfits are already somewhat influenced by him

———————————————————————

Jiung:

♡ - would find it a very sweet suggestion, but is ultimately very reluctant to actually go through with it

♡ - he’d be more interested in dressing you up, but if you agree to give him some say in the final result (and ask nicely), he’ll cave

♡ - he would probably love handmade or customized clothing, so if you do any kind of fabric art (sewing, crochet, knitting, embroidery, etc) or personalization (patches, paint, studs) he’d be more than happy to showcase any of your work

♡ - he’s dressing you up in return (probably in his clothes bc he’s so proud to have you and just a liiiiiiittle bit possessive)

♡ - will model the outfit for you and then get overwhelmingly embarrassed about it (and oh noooo he’ll only feel better if you do a little spin and model yours too)

———————————————————————

Soul:

♡ - he’d agree and follow through with it, but his heart just wouldn’t be in it

♡ - if you find an interesting color or pattern combination, he’ll consider it, but he just doesn’t really see the appeal of putting a ton of time into outfits when his comfortable clothes serve him just fine

♡ - instead of having a special occasion for it, he prefers to have little reminders of you regularly worked into his outfit/personal items

♡ - would definitely end up stealing your clothes over time (especially clothes he can just relax in). he feels comfortable with you and your style of clothes, no matter what that is, bc they remind him of you

♡ - HOWEVER. he would be the best person to cosplay or go out in costumes with bc he can get very invested in characters and ideas

#p1h #p1harmony #p1harmony mtl #p1harmony x reader #piwon x reader #p1h imagines #yoon keeho x reader #choi taeyang x reader #choi jiung x reader #hwang intak x reader #haku shota x reader #kim jongseob x reader #p1ece #♡#🫧#🌙#💞#ive been going thru it tbh but that means I have some cute little things brewing bc I needed some comfort

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kittyoverlord · 1 month

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Can't believe the Never Stop Blowing Up finale is tomorrow!!!

I don't have a ton of nail stamping designs that fit this season, but I was able to throw together this homage to Dang and Rashab. (vid has no sound)

I got my hands on some color-changing nail polish last month and have been playing around with it, so this vid is a bit longer to account for that.

The idea is that some designs are hidden or revealed based on the color of the base polish. I know the designs are somewhat visible at all times, but I think the effect still comes off pretty well!

Hot and Cold pics:

I did the "DANG!" and "dang..." one letter at a time lol. Luckily because of his vibe I could lean in to messy lettering and didn't worry as much about kerning and stuff. The other designs are complete stamps. Ring finger says "Not From Here".

Gonna see if I can do some more themed nail art for the finale, but don't know if I'll be able to get that together in time.

-----

Dimension 20 Nail Art Masterpost

#dimension 20 #nsbu #never stop blowing up #nail art #geeky nail art #nerdy nail art #nail stamping #dimension 20 nail art #dimension 20 fan art #holo taco #color changing nail polish #maniology

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f1nalboys · 3 months

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OMG. I love the tod headcannons. Would you ever do ian sleepover headcannons?

HELLOOOO ANON sorry this has taken so long, i do apologize and i hope its fun to read!!!!

WORD COUNT: 916

WARNINGS: not proofread, weed mention, ians a perv on occassion, mostly fluff

ok number one i need a sleepover with this guy NOWWWWWW

ian refuses to call it a sleepover. you two are hanging out, chilling, that’s all. if he spends the night then thats just what happens, it totally wasn't his end goal

i truly believe ian sleeps better in anyone elses bed than he does his own not for any particular reason he just loves the feeling of being on vacation and being in a different bed counts to him fr

he comes over with nothing. like deadass the clothes on his back and maybe some weed IF UR LUCKY

he also tends to show up ‘just for a bit’ and makes a big show about sighing at the time and being like man…. i wish i didn’t have to leave but its almost time for bed……..

like girl just ask to sleep over who cares

anyways he really hates Planned Sleepover Activities

no pillow fights, no truth or dare, no spin the bottle (this can and has been done before with him, he just has to be in the mood,) no bloody mary, etc

now, of course, if he really really really loves you, he’ll do all those things and more. he is going to COMPLAIN though. like, to the point where it’s almost unenjoyable.

he does love a good spa day though…. you ask him to put on a fuzzy robe so you can put a face mask and cucumbers on him and he’s jumping for joy lowkey

and he lets you paint his nails and stuff and he doesnt care if its messy or bumpy or if you don’t put a top coat on it, he just loves that youre doing it for ihm

ANDDDD its the quietest he’ll be. youll look up at his face and hes staring down at you with such a sickeningly sweet love sick grin that its almost enough to make you barf and he won't say a single word until youre done

and even then he’ll just go “its great baby, thank you.” heheh

like 3 hours later he’ll go “you got a lot of nail polish on my skin, god damn.” and you’ll look over and hes very methodically picking it off of his skin lol

anyways. when hes over he just wants to chill genuinely

ian is interested in getting chinese food or pizza, getting super fucking high, and having movies or music in the background while you guys talk

and he really only does one on one sleepovers, siblings or family excluded. if you invited another friend to sleepover at the same time hes gonna be in the corner like ugh…..sigh……eyeroll…..ugh…..what no im fine its whatever……sigh…..

ian is super handsy as is but when he gets tired hes worse

you’ll know hes ready for you two to go to sleep when hes suddenly attached to your back, arms around your waist and head in your shoulder

ian loves sleepovers that are simply for you two to get shit done

like ian has to rework an art piece? hes coming over and youre finally gonna clean your room.

he tries to sleep in his regular clothes all the time (he does it at home i fear to say) so if youre against that you HAVE to have some spare clothes for him. or let him sleep in his underwear but then he’s gonna get that dumb stupid sexy grin on his face and ask if youre trying to get him naked

which like yes ian i am but not like that….yet

waking up with ian is great if you get up before him because hes all cuddly and sweet and murmuring in his sleep and you can just stare and admire him

if he gets up first hes waking you up but hes also fucking with you

he shakes you awake and is like BABE YOU OVERSLEPT FOR XYZ!!!!! and you jump out of bed and hes like haha got you just kidding

or he draws on your face or arms if youre a heavy sleeper and he can get away with it

AND he takes photos of you sleeping all the time on his shitty little flip phone and he never tells you about it

until like weeks later when youre hanging with him in the car eating food and he laughs and turns his phone around to show you a picture of you slumped over, mouth open, drooling.

but hes a menace

hes like well im up so i need you up to????

like god bless erin for dealing with him

but you dont have to worry about it much, he normally sleeps in if hes able to but depending on when he went to bed, he could get up before you

and good luck trying to go back to sleep because hes hitting you with pillows and squashing you and talking until you just roll your eyes and sit up

and then hed smile and go omgggg good morning sleepyhead LIKE SHUT UP

overall, ian is a fun guy to have a sleepover with if you just want to chill, not if you want to do activities if that makes sense

but hes never going to ASK to spend the night (unless youre in the car with him about to get dropped off and hes kissing you and get handsy and THEN he’ll be like babe…. cant i just hang out :((( like sigh…. of course you can bae

#f1nalboys masterlist #f1nalboys writing #f1nalboys works #ian mckinley #ian mckinley x reader #final destination 3 #final destination 2006 #fd 3 #fd 2006 #ian mckinley x you

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crescencestudio · 8 months

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๋࣭⭑ Devlog 37 | 1.29.24 ๋࣭⭑

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Hope the holiday season and the new year have been treating you all well <3 I've been hard at work this past month to get the revamped demo out to you all soon, so let's jump right into things ^^

This past month, most of my writing has been focused on the revamped demo, finishing Etza's first draft, and Druk's developmental edits.

The revamped demo is FINISHED w writing edits!!!! That honestly took way more time than I thought, but because I wrote the demo basically two years ago at this point, a lot of my writing style has changed. So while some people might think it is an unnecessary time sink, it was important for me to rewrite the scenes I could so that it felt like it accurately portrayed how the routes are looking. And, because my writing skills are better than basically 0, which is where I was starting when I first wrote the demo, I can better write a script that's closer to my vision of the game.

....So THAT ended up taking a while!!! BUT I finished that this month, which was a huge accomplishment to me and I feel much happier with the Alaris script than before, where I kinda... well, hated it. LOL

In-Game Sneak Peek: New Choices HEHEHE

Etza's draft is making good progress. I'm JUST ABOUT done with their first draft YAY!!! As I mentioned before, writing for the full game routes will be a bit slower for now since I'm now balancing more game stages than before (like coding, sprites, etc.). But I was pretty happy with Etza's progress this month since it does feel like the finish line is pretty close for their first draft ^^

And then Druk's edits are just about wrapping up!! Wudgey and I have been having lots of fun with Druk's route, and it's shaped up to be a personal favorite just because of how enjoyable the editing process has been, so I hope you all are excited for it!

For art, I've gotten some more backgrounds commissioned from Vui for the full game. I also decided to update the prologue art for the demo and commissioned dear friend @saffein-e for some prologue art and..... WELL..... SHE'S STUNNING. I'll let the prologue preview speak for itself HEH

In-Game Preview: New Prologue feat. New Art and Fade-in Text Effect

I'm so happy with it, and in general seeing the demo come together with all the new assets has been RRRRGGGHHH!!!!! I've coded most of the screens by now, but I don't want to show them all quite yet. I'll show one preview of the new communicator screens.

Communicator Feature: Texting (left) and Phone Calls (right)

First is the texting screen, and then I also updated the phone call screen! The sprites now not only emote (kinda like video call vibes), but they also auto-highlight based on who is talking!

Most of my miscellaneous stuff has to do with coding the demo. I've been doing a LOT of backend coding to make the game more polished. First is the example above with the communicator phone call feature. Without getting too into coding jargon, it basically is like a new version of the normal sprites so that it feels more interactive, with seeing the characters emote while talking to you, and has the auto-highlight function so that it is clear who is talking during a phone call!

I'm adding more camera work to the demo, more vfx/sfx to make things more immersive, and overall just adding a lot of polish to the game. It's been a lot of work, since it's involved adding alternative textboxes, cleaning up old code, revamping things (like sprites and other images), etc. But it's been worth it to see everything come together!

In-Game Preview: Pop-up Codex now instead of separate screen!

I'm hoping the beta demo can be done by the end of this week or next, so if you all would like access to it, please feel free to subscribe to my Patreon for this upcoming month! Highest tier gets access to beta builds for $10 <3

Finally, In other news, I DID release Intertwine: Another Life this month LMFAOOO

If you haven't gotten a chance to play it, please do! There's almost double the amount of script content. I've been doing an awful job of promoting it since I've been in the coding trenches. But I do appreciate the reception so far!! It was honestly bigger than I thought it would be, and I'm always so grateful for everyone's support ^^ Very happy you all liked the extra bit of content with Van <33333

For market research, I didn't do anything this past month. I DID play Date with Death in December and had massive brainrot from it. In fact, I made two fanarts of little Grimmy LMFAOOOO.

I'm sure most of you have played it, but if you haven't this is your sign to go play it. It's a free game and the amount of polish and features in it are crazy, so please show the dev team some love!!!

Hoping to have the revamped demo out soon, and the beta demo out even sooner. Hope you all have a great rest of your month, and I'll talk to you soon! <3

#alaris #intertwine #devlog #IVE BEEN WORKING HARD :CRIES:

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slugtranslation-hypmic · 9 months

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Hey slug! Obviously it's a bit older now, but I was wondering if you might be able to translate Sougyaran BAM, from Kuko? I feel like I don't quite understand the TLs I have seen, so I was wondering if there were certain references or concepts I'm missing here lol

I saw the email notification of this request at the perfect moment. Too anxious to do work or anything else productive. Too caffeinated to sleep. Fuck it. Time to look at Kuukou for an hour.

Under a cut for length

Like a lot of Kuukou's... well, everything... this song is an eclectic mix of elements that can all more or less be distilled into these couple of bullet points:

Trying to fight the listener

Dropping powerful life advice or Buddhist teachings

Claiming his music is both a game changer and the kind of stuff that gets your blood pumping

Scatting, rhyming without meaning, or otherwise making wordplay

Outside of the parts that are straight-up nonsensical, the majority of the rap is very casual to the point of being rude. However, it's also interspersed with formal religious language. Again, both of these are how Kuukou talks, but I get why this would make it difficult for someone to translate.

I talk about this a lot whenever I translate anything, but an important (and maybe the most important!) part of any translation is determining the methodology, focus, and goals before you begin. I figure that if someone's asking me to look at song lyrics for songs that have been out for years, they probably care a lot more about the minutiae of what the character's saying than if I'm writing a rap as part of a longer work where readers aren't going to give it much attention. In that second case, it's probably more important to convey the appearance of a rap--rhyme, rhythm, what have you--and make sure I'm hitting the overall meaning rather than translate word-for-word. You know? The issue is, translating word-for-word would produce mostly nonsense on this one, since my interpretation of its meaning is largely coming from reading between the lines. There's also no real meaning outside of the four bullet points above. It's all vibes. So, this is a vibe-focused translation. When Kuukou says something with no meaning (that I can tell) outside of wordplay, I've exchanged it with a fresh wordplay. At the same time, since I assume the audience wants to know the minutiae, I put footnotes at the very end for the most curious souls. Finally, outside of wordplay moments, there is no attention paid to rhyming, rhythm, or line length.

Also I spent like forty minutes on it so it isn't a polished work of art or anything of the sort. Lyrics:

You wanna piece of this? That’s cool, tough guy. Bring it on. ‘Cause I’mma mess you up. Hmm? You’ve had enough? Yeah, bitch, I bet you’re fuckin’ SATIETIED. Who the hell do you think you are? Aw, who I am kidding? It doesn’t matter who you are. I’ve never met an ass I couldn’t kick! And while I’m here thrashing your sorry butt, listen up. I’m Kuukou from Bad Ass Temple, representing Nagoya, yo. And I’m gonna be world champion. Whazzat? Who do I think I am, some kinda fancy-pants hotshot? Nah, dawg. I’m a monk, haha! Get in the zone, do it or go home, this ain’t the scene you’ve known. [1] I’m a rebellious rhymer staging a revolution. C’mon, join me! Let me hear your voices!

“Enough determination can move mountains,” as they say. Yeah, a-a-a-and I’ve got determination for days.

San gha gharan bam! [2] S-S-S-Scatting n’ rapping, rapping with my razzle-dazzle tongue [3] Check, ch-ch-ch-check it, che-wa-watch out Gha bam! S-S-S-Scatting n’ rapping, rapping, BAT’s sexy leader [4] Kick, kickin’ kickin’ killer San gha gharan bam gha gha gharan bam gha gha gharan bam Gha gha gha gha gharan bam

Say what? Rules, rules, rules—who the fuck cares about rules? I’m the ruler now. A ruler and a schooler. [5] Yo, I’ve got that brand new music— When I ring this giant bell, people hear that shit far and wide. Beat it! And lyrics? You already know I spit so much fire they call me a dragon. I’m all about the impulses, the anarchy, let’s fuckin’ go! I’m a breath of fresh air up in this shit. Eight pulls, nine pulls, ten pulls—someone say temples? [6] If you don’t know already, then you oughta listen up. You don’t need any of these options. Go make your own. Paint that shit vibrantly. Go try something new! And if it goes so well you can indulge in some goddamn rejoicin’? Then hell yeah, now we’re talking.

Yo, man. The world’s all in how you see it, as they say, and don’t you ever forget it. A-a-a-and I may be a monk, but I’m not preachin’ just to scold you! [7]

San gha gharan bam! S-S-S-Scatting n’ rapping, rapping with my razzle-dazzle tongue Check, ch-ch-ch-check it, che-wa-watch out Gha bam! S-S-S-Scatting n’ rapping, rapping, BAT’s sexy leader Kick, kickin’ kickin’ killer San gha gharan bam gha gha gharan bam gha gha gharan bam Gha gha gha gha gharan bam

Yeah, life’s got ups and downs. You asking me, “Whatchu lookin’ at?” [8] Your ASS, lol got ‘em. Wassup, wassup, I’m a rhymer. I’m makin’ some good shit up in here. Hm? Ey, dance, dance over days when our hearts are aligned [9] Shoo bidoo doo bidoo Roo bidoo doo bidoo Tickili tickili tackili-tatt-too

Yeah! Haha! My rapping’s freakin’ EXHILARATORY. Hello! Aight, c’mon on, lemme give you some of this and wake you right up. Yo, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, ho!

Gharan bam gharan bam Gh-gh-gh-gh hey! Bring it on, tough guy! R-r-rapping, rapping, r-r-rapping with my razzle-dazzle tongue R-r-rapping, yeah, gh-gh-gh, hey!

Yeah, clear the scene, ‘cause I’mma reinvent the scene. [10] Yo, get outta my way. I’m Evil Monk, the dragon of Bad Ass Temple, you know. Rrrrrrah! [1] This last is literally "clear weather (空)" or "energetic vibes (空)." At face value, it appears to be nonsense for rhyming. However, at the very end of the song, Kuukou talks about "the vibes/the scene (空気)" changing and him changing it (which can also be read as the weather changing/clearing up), which makes me wonder if those two are related. Just in case, I wrote them with a possible connection in English too.

[2] 僧伽藍 (sangharan) is a short form of 僧伽藍摩 (sangharama), a Buddhist temple or monastery. Bam is, of course, the sound of Kuukou throwing hands.

[3] 饒舌 (jouzetsu) is a fairly formal word in Japanese to refer to excessive talking. However, I was surprised to learn in the process of TLing this that it's also Chinese for rapping which appears to be how Kuukou's using it here. Also, if you're curious how English "jazzy" became "razzle-dazzle," I realized near the end of the song that I needed to start this word with the same sound as "rapping" (because he scats the j sound on jazzy and jouzetsu) whereupon I set out to find a good synonym. The issue is, I wasn't sure exactly how the lyric writers were using the term, so I put "jazzy" in an English-to-Japanese dictionary to get "loud, invigorating, eye-catching." Yeah, that's Kuukou all right. "Razzle-dazzle" is similar and starts with an r, so there we go.

[4] The lyrics say "xy な leader" (the な is just indicating that "xy" is being used as an adjective, btw) which I assumed means sexy... ekkusu ii said quickly sounds like sekushii. To be sure I wasn't barking up the wrong tree entirely, I ran a quick Twitter search on that line and found a very large number of Japanese Tweeters thinking the exact same thing I was. (It looks like Kuukou's VA once flashed his collarbone on this line in a concert, delighting scores of collarbone lovers everywhere.) That being said, searching anything on Twitter and finding horny Tweets isn't exactly a novel concept. Well, if I'm wrong about this, then at least I'm in the good company of all the thirsty Kuukou fans. Hahaha. If this seems OoC to you, I feel like it's here mainly for fanservice, not necessarily because Kuukou's trying to get some with the person he's beating up and/or preaching at. Although, idk. If you ship Kuukou with anyone, you could very well see some parallels...

[5] Literally "I'll beat up [everything] including the roulette board." Wordplay on rules (ruuru), ruler (ruuraa), and roulette (ruuretto)

[6] Literally "Terapii (therapy), terapii, terapii, tera (temple)-- Oh, the age of temples?" Wordplay/stupid joke

[7] I don't like how I worded this line, but I don't care enough to spend much more time fussing over it. Kuukou's making a joke that, as a monk, he delivers religious sermons 説法. However, in colloquial terms, a 説法 is a telling-off when someone does something undesirable. Kuukou, as a frequent doer of undesirable things, gets these from his dad constantly. Therefore, he's being like, "This isn't the LAME STUPID kind of 説法... this is the kind that ROCKS! *sick guitar riff*"

[8] These two lines seem like complete non sequiturs because they're paired together in Japanese for rhyming. (nami ga dekiru/nani ga mieru)

[9] I admit that I'm struggling to understand this line because the grammar is very irregular. Japanese Twitter is not being especially helpful here, as most Tweets featuring it are some version of "God, this damn song is stuck in my head."

[10] Literally "[Someone] changes the atmosphere/scene. The atmosphere/scene changes." See note 1

#hypmic translations #hypmic asks

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arkarti · 4 months

Note

Hi, I hope you're doing well! If you don't mind me asking, what is your whole drawing process and how did you manage to develope your style? I really love your artwork and it's inspired me to try practicing in a similiar art style, but the problem is I'm still kind of a beginner and don't know where to start lol. Even just some general tips as I struggle a lot with perfectionism.

It's perfectly fine if you don't want to answer or have any advice, regardless I wish you the best and want you to know how awesome your art is! And also make sure you're not overworking yourself, but other than that have a good day :D

First of all: aww thats so sweet! thanks anon 😊💖 And for drawing: The more you draw, the more you see what you actually like from your artworks: for me it was the rather sketchy/loose lines with flat colors. kinda messy, kinda rough - not 100% polished all the time. Fun fact: started out with semi realism, then came back to "simple" flat colors 😂 actually did the spongebob meme irl:

Anyway, this style works the best for me, cuz I don't get hung up in too many details (like I usually do). I can draw something relatively quickly in a few days rather than spending weeks on one drawing. I have like 300 wips at once so I gotta draw EVerYThInG as soon as possible 👀 idk how to really describe finding your style - I guess it comes naturally? 😅

Now, for starting: it's best to draw something you're passionate about: animals, fanart or whatever you like! biggest motivation ever. And of course the classic fundamentals: - learning anatomy (first thing) - perspective and framing - color and all that jazz

start simple: break things down into simple shapes 🙏 for example this hand:

step 01: ALWAYS use a reference when drawing - it helps! step 02: If you can't see shapes you can always try to draw them over the image to help you understand things better - great for learning!

There are plenty of great drawing tutorials on youtube where u can learn :3

And finally: don't be too hard on yourself! 🔥

#ask #anon #I tried to explain hope that helps :'3

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theangelsheardyou · 4 months

Text

Purpose! AU

Tags: major character death, depressed chuuya, hints of soukoku, hinted dissociative amnesia, decay of angels chuuya, fyodor pretty much wants chuuya to join him lol he's so whipped

I'm planning on drawing for this au too, but the quality of the pictures will be bad if I post them thru my phone. So here's my art account, posted straight from my drawing tablet, it's mostly mha art so far but I'm going to add hints of bsd in there too.

Art acc: @god-shit-girl-art

"Everything you have, and everything you've lost, I'll give it a purpose. Your past, your present, and your future, give it to me. And I will give you purpose."

Chuuya laid achingly amidst the softness around him. Linen sheets and silk pillowcases danced around him on his bed, and yet, he paid them no mind.

A heart can only take so much. But in his case, it seemed as if it had nothing left, nothing to give, nothing to own, nothing to fight for.

It had been 2 months since Dazai mysteriously died. He feels guilty for the fact that he cannot even remember how it happened. The death of his....someone....and his mind couldn't even grant him the decency to remember.

It was like that in cases of trauma. Just like the heart, the mind can only take so much before it breaks. Shattering like a mirror, some pieces will inevitably break apart, never to be seen again.

All he knows is that before he died, however he died, Dazai had used his Ability on Chuuya. And now that he was gone, so was his Ability. Chuuya no longer has the power of gravity manipulation, but for some odd reason, he wasn't mourning over it.

Whether Dazai had left him a note, a phrase, a word, or anything at all, he didn't know. It was all a part of the shattered mirror that was his mind. He couldn't even remember how he died, or if he even left him anything. Part of him wished, prayed, begged for this to all be some sort of scheme, one of Dazai's old tricks. He wasn't dead, no, this is just part of his plan. Somehow, some way he and the ADA will fix this mess, and they'll be together again. Someday, any day now.

....right?

The creak of a large wooden door could be heard from across the room, reminding Chuuya of where he was. He didn't bother getting up, or even looking in its direction. He laid there like a lifeless dog, after losing its owner.

"Nakahara Chuuya," came a voice. Deep and laced with an accent. Chuuya knew who it was, and was half-hoping to hear the sound of an ADA member, telling him to get up and that Dazai needed him for the next phase of his plan.

When Chuuya didn't reply, footsteps answered instead. The sound of hard leather soles against the expensive polished wood, it rang in his ears. He never bothered to really listen to them before.

"I have to admit, it was hard to find you," said the man, tall and slender, his shadow doing justice to his sleek and mysterious nature.

"This penthouse of yours, seems far too big for just one person. However I do believe you'd been visited many a night, correct?"

Asshole.

Did he just call Chuuya a whore?

Perhaps it was the thinly veiled insult, or how Chuuya just realized that a powerful enemy whose strength outweighed his own was now in his bedroom, but the ginger found the strength to sit back up. However slowly and groggily, with his hair a red-orange mess that framed his face and a dress shirt unbuttoned across his chest. His blue eyes seemed more grey, now that Fyodor looks at it. Were they always this dull?

"What do you want you anemic son of a bitch," Chuuya said, it wasn't a question.

Fyodor didn't answer. Instead the two stared at each other, one with eyes posing no threat and one with eyes that couldn't pose any even if it wanted to. In his mind, the Russian compared the man's blue-grey eyes to that of an empty glass. Nothing to give, nothing but potential.

"Dazai's dead." Chuuya said finally. His voice was hoarse and he could taste his thick saliva. How long had it been since he brushed his teeth or combed his hair? Was he wearing the same clothes he did that day 2 months ago? Or was it that night?

"I am aware, yes." Fyodor said, his voice and demeanor unwavering. What did this asshole want?

Chuuya looked down, facing his hands that laid aimlessly on his knees, legs folded, blankets ruffled and forgotten. There were wounds on them. Why were there wounds on them?

"However, I am not here for him."

Chuuya looked back at the dark-haired man, noticing a change in his attire. His coat that had once terrorized countless innocents in its dark tone was now white, with dark feathers around the collar. He could barely see what was inside, though.

"You look unwell." He said.

"Yeah? Great, thanks." Chuuya retorted sarcastically. "That's what I was goin' for, actually."

Fyodor chuckled at his comment, voice deep and alluring.

"You know, Chuuya, a man is only as great as his biggest weakness."

"Fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Fyodor maintained his smile, and began walking to the side of the room slowly, leather shoes rhythmically playing the wooden floor like a piano. Slow and steady, each note just like the last. Like it was leading up to something.

"It's a story of power. Lose and obtain. Give and take. Something must be lost in order for another to be found."

Fyodor took one of the floor-length curtains in one of his pale, slender hands. His illuminating lilac eyes remained focused on the redhead.

"You lost one of your biggest crutches," He said. "And in turn, one of your biggest weaknesses. Ride a bicycle with training wheels, and you'll never truly learn to ride without them."

"Wait a second," Chuuya finally gained the strength to speak again. "Are you talking about Dazai?"

Fyodor nodded, as if he was happy to hear Chuuya was on the right track.

"The man was a necessary loss. The final stepping stone to your metamorphosis. Because of him, and everyone who you've lost before, you now have the choice to become something greater."

"And what's that?" Chuuya scowled. "Another one of your chess pieces? Another pawn to your sick little game? Dazai is dead, you've won. What more could you possibly want from me?"

"Ah, you take the king away," Fyodor said, "but the queen still has all the power."

With that, his hand flew to the side, opening the curtains wide enough to see the world below it, the world outside. Cars and streetlights, people out on the town, the moon shining just as bright as before, as if nothing had changed.

"Even without your Ability, I believe you still have the potential to create more," He said, staring up into the stars.

Chuuya emerged from the darkness of his canopy bed, the first time he stood on his own two feet in ages. He walked to Fyodor's side, entranced by the light of the moon.

"Ah, how fitting for it to be a third quarter tonight." Fyodor said.

"A what?"

"A third quarter. Only half the moon is visible tonight, the other is shadowed in the dark. And yet, it's still just as beautiful, no?"

Fyodor faced Chuuya, albeit having to look down a little bit to look him in the eye.

"Everything you have, and everything you've lost, I'll give it a purpose. Join me, give me your past, your present and your future, trust it with me and I will give you a new purpose."

Fyodor stretched his hand out to Chuuya.

"Together, the moon will shine even brighter than before."

"What do you say, Chuuya Nakahara?"

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starqueensthings · 1 year

Text

Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)

AO3 | Next Chapter

Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.

A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️

A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.

The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.

In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.

The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.

Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.

The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.

‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’

The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.

“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.

Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.

“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.

“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.

“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”

“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.

“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.

“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”

“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”

The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”

The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.

“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”

Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.

“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”

He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.

Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.

“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”

He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.

The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.

Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.

“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”

Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.

“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”

His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.

The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”

Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”

You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”

His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.

“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”

You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”

Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”

“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”

“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”

“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”

***

The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.

A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.

If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.

A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.

‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.

Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.

He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.

“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.

“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”

The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.

“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.

“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”

“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.

“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.

“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”

The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.

The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”

Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.

“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”

It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.

“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.

“Indeed,” he breathed.

His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.

‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.

“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.

“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”

An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.

“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.

“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”

“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”

“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.

The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”

He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”

“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”

“That is obvious.”

The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.

“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”

“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”

“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”

Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.

“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”

His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.

It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.

The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.

“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”

So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.

Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”

“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”

The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.

“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.

Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.

You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he’d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.

“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.

“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”

He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.

The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.

“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”

“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”

His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”

He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”

He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.

#the bad batch #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #tech x you #starqueenswrittenworks #starqueensedits

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