#i do not remember how people draw him so sorry if this is very wrong

[sagescider]

love his dumb ass

[pencil-n-pen]

here after reading your Spencer Reid fic. I was wondering if you could write Spencer x autistic!reader where r gets overstimulated and basically having a meltdown and Spencer like helps her ig? Idk if that makes since, but thank you!!

BUZZ

masterlist

anon you have no idea how excited i was to see this ask. i even showed my bestie. thank you sm for the ask !!

summary: police precincts are overwhelming. Spencer knows just how to help :)

cw: detailed depictions of a sensory overload, hurt/comfort

this is pretty short, sorry !!

i am autistic and will be drawing on my own autistic experiences and what helps me during meltdowns :)

۫ ꣑ৎ

The lights are buzzing.

It’s hard to ignore. The policeman/detective/whoever he is who’s filling the team in on the case smacks his lips in between sentences. This is equally hard to ignore.

The tag on your neck has moved up from a small itch to what feels like a small stab everytime you move your head.

The muscles in your neck jump and twitch in the urge to shake— to firmly overcompensate for the feeling, to establish equilibrium.

But you know where that goes. One shake becomes two, and then everyone’s looking at the FBI agent having “some sort of fit”. You squeeze your hand until your nails dig scarlet crescents into your palms and focus on the pain instead.

But it doesn’t work. The lights are still buzzing, and the guy has stopped talking but now everyone else is talking and it’s louder and all the conversations sound like the same volume, all digging sharp claws into your brain, right under your scalp.

Your entire body itches— absolutely writhes with the feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong, too much.

Your hands twitch and jerk at your sides. You’re to focused on stopping the rest of your body to stop them and it hits you all at once that you have to get out.

But you don’t know where you are in this precinct and you don’t know where to go to find quiet and not the bathrooms because what if someone flushes the toilet and did you bring your earbuds you can’t remember it’s loud and you have to get away—

A tall figure steps in front of you, effectively cutting off your field of vision save for a specific pattern of dark maroon gingham. It’s a button down, and a black tie, and a grey suit jacket.

Your skin itches marginally less now that you can’t see anything, and then large, careful hands slot in place over your ears, applying pressure just shy of hurting.

With the sound gone, or at least muffled, your lungs don’t feel quite as constricted, and your body feels less like an open, raw nerve.

You suck in a careful breath, and then another, and then another until you think you can probably pass for normal now.

You tap Spencer’s arm once, and slowly, as to not shock your rattled brain, takes his hands away from your ears.

“I have your earbuds. Do you want to go to their secondary briefing room? It’s nice. I scoped it out.”

He leans down when he says it, eyes searching your face but not making eye contact. He’s mentally cataloging your expressions to see if you’re still upset. You’re familiar with this process by now.

“Yeah,” You force the words out of your mouth like pulling teeth and he frowns a little. He always knows when you overcompensate.

He takes your right hand in his, squeezing intermittently to keep your focus on him and leads you through the precinct, expression and body language stating very clearly:

Stay away.

You stare at your shoes the entire time he leads you to the briefing room, skin prickling at the idea of how many people saw your not-well-concealed freakout.

You should’ve found this room faster, so you could’ve been alone and no one would have seen—

“Stop beating yourself up.”

You snap your head up to glare at him. “Stop profiling me.”

He’s standing next to you, still not trying to make eye contact, though your hand remains firmly in his.

He shakes his head, then reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of earbuds.

Emphasis on a pair, not your pair.

You stare at where they lie innocently in the palm of his hands. “Those aren’t mine. Mine have a chip right there from when I dropped them getting out of the car.”

“I saw a pair when I was out the other day so I got them. So you’d have a backup. They’re the exact same make and model.”

You blink, unable to tear your eyes away from them.

He bought them. For you. Because sometimes you forget your earbuds and can’t get to them in time. Because he knows you prefer earbuds bc they’re more casual and subtle than noise cancelling headphones. He bought them.

He pushes them towards you again, and you give in, because who can say no to that? It’s easy from then to plug them into your phone and start up the playlist of music you have saved for these specific situations.

He steers you to one of the tables in the back, turning the lights off as he goes, and tucks you both, side by side, into the two chairs in the furthest, quietest corner.

His hand never leaves yours.

ʚɞ

[norrisleclercf1]

Max and lando with landos win at zandvoort make some fluff

Pretty please 🥺🥺

A/N: I'm so sorry, that I haven't written this I promise it was not forgotten I made it Norstappen x Reader hope that was okay

Oh, how hard it is to be dating two people, but when those two people are currently in some type of championship battle, you don't know how to act. Do you cheer for the underdog, the one thrown to the wolves, proclaimed to defeat the mighty Lion.

Or, do you go for the Mighty Lion, the next coming of the sport that constantly breaking barriers and records, the one who is the proclaimed legend of the sport. You stood in McLaren hospitality as it was Lando's turn to have you there as you stood in Zandvoort, watching he just built the gap more and more.

Covering your mouth you watch as he crosses the finish line the fireworks making you jump as you listen to his radio and hear those familiar words cross his lips. "Oh, Lando," You sigh, knowing this would cause an uproar for Max's fans, but also others would use this to fuel the rivalry that is growing.

Putting down the headphones you walk down as you see Lando celebrate with a simple fist bump, Charles and Max pulling in behind him. You stay back, not wanting to draw attention to you, as people didn't take kindly to you being "friends" with both Max and Lando. Lando looks through the crowd and see you, giving you a small thumbs up, you give it back but turn seeing Max walk past simply clapping Lando on the back as Charles takes his place as his yapping buddy.

"It's always those three on the podium," Someone comments, which has you thinking back making you giggle as they were there for Miami and now here. The podium was one you have remembered for you slink off heading to check on Max, as the sting of losing your home race was not easy, you already experienced it was Lando and Silverstone.

You wait in Max's driver room as he opens the door, drenched in champagne, sweat and God knows what else he's covered in. "Hi," You both whisper as Max stays silent and moves around the room to get changed you merrily watch him. "I heard Lando's radio," Breaking the silence you wait for his reaction but you can see him smiling, wither it was one a predator gives before eating it's pray or one of genuine pride of Lando being so bold, you were unsure.

"Mhm," Is all you can say as Max turns eyeing you, but you give nothing away as you try to always remain impartial the how do you say? Switzerland in your relationship as the war rages sometimes even in the confines of your shared home. "Is it wrong it was somewhat hot of him to do that?" Max asks, making you back against the wall you look up.

"Max, I told you, I would not get involved," You whisper softly as Max raises a blonde eyebrow and smirks, "Calm, I won't do anything," He mumbles and gently presses his lips against your forehead. "I'm going to find Lando, see you back at the hotel," He mumbles, turning on his heels and walking out. It was rather hard to find Lando in the see of orange.

The orange army was out in droves, but so was the papaya fans, it was rather annoying in the moment but Max would deal with it, as he moves around taking pictures and signing stuff he stops noticing the familiar curls he loves to tug and pull, scruff and yank him by. The fans love it, always calling Lando his kitten, oh how true it was.

Moving into the shadows he waits and pounces as Lando yelps and he covers his mouth, Lando fights but stops seeing the piercing blue stare into his sea green. "Simply Lovely," Max whispers as he feels Lando smile against his hand. "Yeah," He mumbles, making the older chuckle and tug him closer and kiss one of Lando's moles. "You were very hot today, told you could beat me," Max whispers making Lando shiver.

"I always beat you," Lando whispers and Max raises an eyebrow as Lando swallows his tongue knowing he just lied big time, "Don't get cocky yet, okay," Max smiles and moves hugging Lando just breathing in the scent of champagne, sweat, and just a hint of Lando's cologne.

"Love you," Lando whispers tugging him in by his waist hiding his face into his shoulder. "Love you too," Max hums kissing his neck making Lando giggle.

[devilfic]

omg we need more of the honeymoon shot bruce and reader,, maybe a one bed trope if it’s not too much to ask no pressure obv!!<3

❝honeymoon❞

II. marriage bed.

parts: previously / next plot: the in-laws are in town. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce, only one bed trope. words: 1.6k.

"I'm sorry" feels numb to say at this point. You still say it, standing at the foot of what should have been your marriage bed. It's been a long night and you'd wrung your hands of dish soap until your family practically barked at you to get to bed, to get back to your husband.

You can still hear them, cackling downstairs in the living room while your nieces and nephews tumble through the hallway. It must feel alien to have your childhood home, long devoid of familial joy, be suddenly bursting full of it. And have none of it mean anything to you.

Bruce stands shoulder to shoulder with you for a few more beats. Then he walks to the door, and you watch him twist the lock with a firm click. Your heart picks up a bit.

His steps are muted on the carpet and you take in his shoulders, the rolling hills of muscles in his back, and the pants that cling to the divots of his hip bones. The black cashmere is a gift from your mother, something preferable to his "ratty" sweats. He didn't like these very much.

Since you'd started living here, you caught glimpses of him like this. A heavy shadow of a man skulking in the darkness, waiting for you to leave for work before revealing himself. Rarely would you find yourselves crossing paths in the kitchen or catching eyes in the living room. And with each fleeting glance, he would escape elsewhere, receding into the tower the way a frightened cat might hide from strangers. Intruders. Funnily enough, you found avoiding eye contact helped that.

But now there was nowhere to run. Your family was here for the holidays and they were in every room. Eyes everywhere.

"Do you need to work tonight?" You'd started calling it that: "work". It made sense around the family (not so much your mother), and it didn't put him on edge when you skirted around the "B" word. "I can help you get downstairs."

He's half-turned to you, waiting on his side of the bed, so you can see the way his face scrunches up at a thought, "Gordon... told me to take time off. For family."

You snort, "You told him the in-laws were in town?"

"Yes."

You blink, "Oh."

Bruce had told you that between you and Alfred, no one else knew who Batman was. The lieutenant, trusted friend and ally as he were, had yet to join the ranks of your prestigious little club. It felt wrong to be in it when he wasn't; you'd forced yourself into it, and Bruce didn't even trust you.

You round the bed opposite to Bruce, and staring across it at him felt like staring across an ocean—he was so far away. You wondered how many people had shared this bed with him. How many he trusted as little as you.

You understand that the Bruce you remember was still a boy, grieving much differently than he is now, and had liked you just a little bit more.

You're the first to draw back the covers.

Bruce watches you settle in before following suit, reluctant, as if he were still wondering about the cons of sleeping in his car tonight. The weight of the bed dramatically shifts and you glide against the silk to his side when he lays down, your hand going for his upper arm to steady yourself. He jolts at the contact, staring you down like a deer in headlights.

Your second sorry of the night spills from your lips, and you squirm away from the warmth of his side and back to the edge of the bed.

You both lay like that for a while, side by side, neither of you particularly comfortable.

"Why didn't you say no?"

His question rocks the stillness in the air. You almost jolt. You turn your head and ask, as casually as you are able, "Say no to what?"

"The marriage."

Ah. "You've met my mother. It's hard to say no to her. Isn't that why you're in this situation in the first place?"

He remains looking up at the ceiling, but you see his jaw constrict, "The you I knew had a backbone."

He means it to hurt. Reminders of your youth together had not softened with time, it seemed, even if he treated you like a distant memory. You don't muster up the courage to bite back at him. Instead, you tuck your tail and keep the mist from gathering in your eyes, "...Yeah."

He doesn't seem to have expected that response. He finally turns his head to look at you, visibly confused. For a few moments, the two of you just stare at each other. Him, analyzing. You... mourning. "Is this what you wanted?"

It's becoming harder to hold back tears, "Not this. Not with her pulling all the strings. Regardless of what you think about me, or my mother, or my family, I didn't want any of this. I don't... want to be your enemy, Bruce."

You want so badly for him to believe you. You've never wanted anything more than for him to see you honestly, transparently, except perhaps to see him the same. To not have to fight.

He's about to say something when the doorknob wriggles, followed by a tentative knock. The two of you sit up and listen for who could be at the door, until a small voice calls your name through the wood, "My niece." You say, rigid. "She must be lost." You go to stand but to your surprise, Bruce is already at the door letting her in.

She stands at just about his knee, blanket clutched in her chubby arms and mouth hidden by the purple fleece. She has to turn her head all the way up to look him in the eyes, "Uncle Bruce," she says through a lisp, "where's the bathroom?"

You can't fully see Bruce's reaction from the bed. From the side, you watch his shoulders sag and his cheek rise in what you think is... a smile.

Very slowly, he comes to a crouch in front of her, "The bathroom?" He asks. She nods an affirmative. "Why didn't you ask Grandpa Alfred? He knows where everything is."

Her eyes dart to the side, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, "...Grandpa Alfred is scary."

Bruce laughs, actually laughs. He hasn't laughed around you. Hasn't managed more than a smile today, and only to placate your mother. He's warmer too, more open. You watch him. Mesmerized. "He is a little scary, isn't he? But I promise, he's really nice if you get to know him." Your niece doesn't seem so convinced. A moment passes as Bruce thinks of what to say, "How about I come with you to go ask him?"

Her eyes light up, "Really?"

"Really."

Bruce holds out his arms to her, and though she's reluctant, you watch her tumble into them with arms thrown around his neck. He hops back to his feet with her perched on his hip like she weighs nothing—and she probably does, to him—and asks her in a hushed voice if she's holding on tight.

Her little head turns to look at you over his shoulder and he follows, his smile weakening some.

You almost ask if she'd like you to come with, but think better of it. In the time it would take Bruce to complete this task, you could try to fall asleep. Maybe then it'd be easier on him to share the bed with you, "Go with Uncle Bruce. Maybe Grandpa Alfred will show you the fancy swords if you're brave enough to ask."

Your niece beams, urging Bruce to take her to him this instant, and they disappear out of sight.

You're half conscious when Bruce returns and shuts the door, but there is no click of the lock to follow after.

With your back turned, all you have to tell you where he is in the room are his small sighs. He's on his side, closer than you expected him to be so quickly, and you curse the carpet that hides his footfalls. You keep your breaths measured, pretending you're fully asleep, and wait for him to climb in.

One knee presses into the mattress, then the other, and you quickly remember the problem with this bed.

He's just laid on his side when you go sliding backwards, feeling your body collide with his chest. You force your eyes to stay closed but you are chilled with mortification. Should you move? Give up the facade of sleep and scramble for the other side of the bed? Would he shove you away?

You wait for his heavy hand to fall on your back, but... nothing. Seconds crawl forward at a snail's pace. You can feel the heat of his hand hovering over your hip where your night shirt had ridden up, but he never touches you. You take slow, deep breaths. You wait for him to wake you, then, if he won't shove you.

But that also never comes. The tips of his fingers lightly brush the skin of your hip, and then disappear. You feel his arm wiggle between the both of you, feel him shift a bit on the mattress, but nothing more. He doesn't push you away. Doesn't call your name. Doesn't shake you until you're forced to crawl to the other side.

He gets comfortable. Stiff, but comfortable, and he doesn't move you. You wonder, as the heat of his chest makes you conscious of your heart beating quicker, if it's too late to crawl back on your own.

You wait for what feels like hours contemplating it. So long, it feels like he might've fallen asleep behind you. So long, that you melt into his side of the mattress. So long, that sleep comes and morning soon after before you could even make up your mind.

[karasukarei]

Wind Breaker Drama CD vol. 1 – Fuurin, Memories of a Summer (Part 1)

I received a translation request for the drama CD that came with the first anime DVD/Blu-ray, thank you! It's quite long so I'll be doing it in sections. You can listen to it here!

I'll just be doing the script, if there's anyone keen to time it with the audio feel free to hit me up! Video editor found!

Translation masterpost here!

Note: I took some liberties with translations this time to make it read more smoothly. As always, if there’s any mistakes, feel free to let me know!

Shorthand because some names are really long:

Sakura – Sakura

Nirei – Nirei

Suo – Suo

Sugishita – Sugi

Kiryuu – Kiryuu

Tsugeura – Tsuge

Hiiragi – Hii

Umemiya – Ume

Scene 1 – 0:09~3:14

Nirei: Wahhh!

Tsuge: The blazing sun! The sparkling waves!

Nirei: This is the feeling of summer!

Tsuge: Kuu, I’m getting excited!

Kiryuu: How are they so full of energy? I’m about to melt~

Suo: Ahaha! It’s definitely really hot today!

Hii: They’re probably the kind to use up all their energy in the morning. (t/n: not quite sure if I heard this right; feel free to let me know if this is wrong!

Kiryuu: Nirei-chan, those are trendy sunglasses!

Nirei: Ehehe, I like this style! Eh, I’m getting too carried away, aren’t I?

Suo: I think it’s fine to go for a different vibe from usual! Of course, the usual Nirei-kun is great too!

Nirei: Thank you very much! (t/n: WHAT A PURE GOOD BOY)

Sakura: *grunts of anguish*

Hiiragi: Sakura? You’ve been quiet since just now, what’s wrong?

Kiryuu: Oh yo~? (t/n: THIS IS SO CUTE THANK YOU TOSSHIIIII) Sakura-chan, your face is all red, are you ok?

Tsuge: Do you have heat stroke?! You can have some of my special sports drink to replenish your fluids!

Suo: It’s all good! Sakura-kun doesn’t have heat stroke!

Nirei or Tsuge (edit: Thanks @/pikiiro!): Really?

Suo: Yup! He probably just can’t take the surrounding atmosphere.

Nirei: Surrounding?

Kiryuu: Ooh~ (t/n: this is with a cute down intonation <3) There’s a couple there, there’s a couple there, ah, there’s also a couple here.

Nirei: Speaking of which, it seems that this beach is popular as a date spot for couples!

Suo: You’ve just become embarrassed, haven’t you Sakura-kun!

Sakura: DAAAAAAAAAA

Kiryuu: Sakura-chan is so cute~

Sakura: Shut up!

Hiiragi: You guys shut up.

Suo: Ah yes. Hiiragai-san, thank you for inviting us today!

Hiiragi: It’s fine, sorry for the short notice. Umemiya suddenly asked to invite you all.

Nirei: But it’s amazing isn’t it! He won first place in a lucky draw at the shopping street!

Hiiragi: That guy does tend to win these lucky draws… (t/n: Ume-chan can you gimme your luck for my ichiban kuji draws)

Tsuge: It even comes with a stay at the inn, I’m all fired up! (t/n: I can’t hear exactly what he said, it was either 2 or 3 nights’ stay. As for the inn itself, think of it as renting out a summer house where you can do whatever you want, it’s not a ryokan where there are people at your beck and call.)

Sakura: Anyway, where is that Umemiya?!

Suo: Now that you mention it, he hasn’t come yet.

Hiiragi: That guy, he’s late again… (t/n: rip Hiiragi’s stomach)

Ume: Hey everyone!

Nirei: Umemiya-san! Good morning!

Ume: Sorry about making everyone wait!

Sakura: You’re (“omae”) the one who invited everyone you shouldn’t be late!

Sugi: It’s not “omae”, it’s “Umemiya-san”!

Ume: Sugishita, don’t fight here ok? (t/n: he sounds like he’s talking to his pet dog LMAO)

Sakura: Also! Why is this guy here?!

Kiryuu: That’s true, Sugi-chan seems to hate stuff like this…

Ume: I invited him! Since it’s summer, let’s do stuff befitting our springtime of youth! (t/n: ok I took some liberties with this translation, but I think this sounds cooler)

Sugi: Thank you very much for inviting me.

Ume: I told you guys when you entered the school right? “This summer let’s all go to the beach!” Don’t you guys remember?

Sakura: He was serious about that?

Hiiragi: This guy is always serious.

Ume: I invited Kaji and gang too but they had plans today… next time it’ll be all of Fuurin!

Nirei: Isn’t that a tall order?

Ume: Anyway let’s get into the sea! Don’t you guys find it hot just standing around here?

Hiiragi: We were waiting for you!

Ume: Oh yeah, that’s right!

Hiiragi: *groans of acidic anguish*

Suo: Hiiragi-san, it’ll be nice if you won’t need to use your stomach medicine today ^^; (t/n: reading back on this it sounds as though he’s telling Hiiragi not to use his medicine. It’s closer to “man, I sure hope you won’t end up being forced to use your medicine today” – I hope this makes sense x_x)

Nirei: Ah, hahaha…

Scene 2 – 3:14~4:59

Hiiragi: I think we can leave our stuff here.

Nirei: Eh, is that so, Sakura-san?

Kiryuu: Hmm, what is it, what’s up?

Suo: It seems that this is Sakura-kun’s first time at the beach!

Tsuge: That’s rare!

Sakura: Is it that bad? It’s not like I had any reason to come anyway…

Ume: Isn’t that fine! Since it’s your first time, it means that you can start to have fun here from now on!

Sakura: *gulps of embarrassment*

Ume: Hehe, make memories together with us. Hey everyone, let’s go!

Sakura: Oi, don’t pull me!!!

Kiryuu: Ooh- They’ve left.

Hiiragi: *sighs* You guys go too.

Nirei: Hiiragi-san, aren’t you going?

Hiiragi: We need someone to watch our stuff.

Nirei: Then I’ll stay behind. We can’t leave Hiiragi-san to take care of our stuff!

Hiiragi: Don’t sweat on it, we can take turns later.

Kiryuu: Ah, I’ll be staying behind so it’s ok~ I’m not going into the sea~

Tsuge: You’re not, even though we came all the way here?

Kiryuu: Hmm, I don’t like getting all stick from the seawater, and I also haven’t cleared my login bonuses today~ (t/n: this man has his priorities right)

Nirei: As expected of Kiryuu-san, your resolve is firm!

Tsuge: He’s displaying his virtue here! (t/n: the literal translation was “I can smell his virtue” but it’s… kinda weird lmao)

Suo: I’ll be staying behind too.

Nirei: Suo-san, you too?

Hiiragi: By the way, you guys are wearing parkas on top of your rash guards, isn’t it hot? (t/n: think of a light beach jacket, not a literal winter parka)

Suo: I don’t want to get sunburned!

Tsuge: Oh, that’s a virtue too! That’s great, I want to learn more about everyone’s virtue!

Suo: Eh… aren’t you going into the sea? (t/n: I see what you did there Suo)

Tsuge: Oh yes! Come Nirei-kun, let’s go!

Nirei: Yes!

Hiiragi: For crying out loud… I’ll be leaving our stuff to you guys.

Suo: Of course! Please take care!

Kiryuu: Everyone has so much energy~

Suo: Yes, it does seem that way.

[chiaraeliz]

some people were talking about green eyed ventus on my last post which then led me to think about how i draw ven and roxas differently, which THEN led me to go on a lil character analysis tangent (below the cut if you wanna read!)

but for how i draw them differently, i still try to keep them pretty much identical in physical appearance! minus green eyes for ventus, but that’s more because he just feels like he needs green eyes. the main difference i think is fun to play with is how they carry themselves, which leads into my ven and roxas character analysis ramblings:

i haven’t been the most active in the kingdom hearts fandom in recent years, but i remember the big headcanons for roxas and ventus always were that roxas is really angry/a little shit, while ventus was always seen as the pure/sweet one. i like to think of them as a bit more nuanced than that based off of canon, though!

i think roxas is more mellow/not extremely outwardly emotional unless provoked to be. i mean, there’s a whole game where roxas learns to understand himself, his relationships, and his emotions. i get how the angry headcanon came about from canon, but really all the moments where he is REALLY pissed off, it’s super warranted and not necessarily a main personality trait of his. instead, he just gives off a sort of quiet maturity to me (even though he’s one of the youngest characters lol. bros been through a lot)

in comparison, ventus always seemed more… energetic with both his positive and negative emotions. we see that right from the start with him in bbs with the meteor shower, and when he gets a lil salty over being told to take grown ups to disney town (i could definitely think of better examples but it’s 12 am and i’m tired). he feels a bit more immature, especially when put next to terra and aqua. hell, ven reminds me of sora way more than roxas does. we see the ups and downs of his emotions very clearly. in a way he feels younger than roxas with the way he carries himself. (this isn’t me saying he’s an uwu baby who Needs To Be Protected, but more that he projects his feelings in a more direct way imo). also, jesse mccartney voices ventus with a higher pitch and more energy than roxas (i love this detail so much)

all this to say, while i do think the angry roxas and super sweet ventus content is great and i enjoy seeing it from time to time (i might even play into it with my art sometimes tbh), i personally see them as less of those extremes. i like to see ventus as the high energy one, and roxas as the lower energy one, without dictating one emotion as their default. this isn’t really anything groundbreaking (and could probably just be a “duh chiara we all knew this” moment) but i just felt like rambling about them because i like to think about them a lot! (i’m sorry if i got anything wrong or if things are worded weird, i’m about to fall asleep rn)

[grxmreaperx]

Professor Hoffman

Pairing: (professor!) Mark Hoffman x (f!) reader

Word count: 3.1k (oops)

Warnings: 18+!! this is absolute filth. Daddy kink, choking, oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), dirty talk, p in v penetration, creampie, age gap (everyone is over 18!!), praise/degradation. Mark being a bastard. I’m so sorry

Summary: You weren’t expecting much from your criminology class. But when you see your professor for the first time, you realize the class may be much more interesting than you were expecting.

I went so overboard with this. I do not know where this came from. I apologize for my actions. Also, all of my knowledge comes from Jim Can’t Swim and Explore With Us interrogation analysis videos, so don’t come for me if some of the criminology stuff is wrong!!

You walked into the lecture hall, bag digging into your shoulder after a long day, trying to find a seat. You sighed. Almost every seat was full, people congregating in the back. You set yourself down in the second row from the front, one of the few empty seats.

You pulled your laptop out of your bag, trying to keep yourself awake. This was your last class of the day and all you could think about was getting back to your apartment and having a nice dinner.

You stifled a yawn, eyes unfocused on your screen.

“Welcome, everyone.”

The deep voice jolted you from your haze, drawing your eyes up from your computer, and onto him.

You felt a jolt run through your body as you took him in. Dark hair neatly pushed back, full lips, chest straining at his suit.

“I’m Professor Hoffman. I’ll be your criminology instructor this semester.”

Shit, maybe you weren’t so ready to go home anymore.

--

That was the one class you didn’t find yourself dreading. Your other psychology and criminal justice classes were a bore, lecturers talking monotonously for an hour and twenty minutes as you tried desperately to stay awake. Professor Hoffman’s class was actually interesting, it challenged you, made you think. He didn’t force you all to listen to him talk the entire time, even if you wouldn’t have minded hearing that voice for hours on end. He had been a detective before switching to teaching a few years back, so he played interrogation tapes, having you all watch the body language, the word choice, the facial expressions of the suspect.

And it was nice to have something pretty to look at while he taught.

You were a bit embarrassed by how many times he had caught you staring at him. You had never looked at a professor as anything more than a teacher, a mentor, before now. But during his lecture, you found your mind drifting. What his voice would sound like in your ear, how his hands would feel roaming over you, the noises he would make.

You had had your fair share of adventures in college, going out with your friends and ending up in someone’s bed every once in a while. But none of them had been anything to brag about; frat boys only in it for themselves, guys who had no idea what they were doing, or didn’t know how to make it last.

You needed something more, something satisfying.

“So, tell me, do you think this suspect was guilty or not guilty? And tell me why.”

His voice shook you out of your daydream, bringing you back to your reality. Your eyes scanned over the screen, trying to remember bits and pieces of the interrogation you were supposed to have been watching.

You raised your hand; as much as you hated it, you wanted to impress the man. You wanted to show him that you were smart, that you knew what you were talking about. And that you were paying attention, not just staring at him the entire time.

He nodded towards you, telling you to go ahead. “Not guilty. He got angry when you accused him, which is a very typical response from someone who is being falsely accused. And he didn’t use any hedge words when he was talking, which would be unusual for a guilty person. And there’s no obvious motive.”

Your professor smirked, nodding along as you answered. “Very good. That’s exactly right. Another clue to tell you this was…”

You zoned out, trying to contain yourself at his praise.

--

He scolded himself, his gaze continuously falling onto you throughout every class.

He had left the police department a couple years ago, looking for a job with shorter hours, more time to relax, less frustration.

But now he had a different kind of frustration.

Every class, there you were. Sitting right in front of him, eyes watching him intently as he spoke. He saw the way your face changed every time he walked in the room, your tired face lighting up a bit. He saw the way your gaze lingered on him when you were supposed to be working on an assignment, or watching one of the interviews you were meant to be dissecting.

He noticed your attempts to impress him, always eager to answer his questions. You were always there early, even when others began to slowly fade out, showing up late or not showing up at all.

And, he had to admit, it was working. You were smart, and he could see how interested you were in this topic, even if you seemed to be a bit more interested in him than the class. He knew you’d make a great detective one day; your understanding of others’ minds would be a great asset to the force.

He almost wished he hadn’t left the department. He would give anything to still be in his position when you were first starting out in the field, eager to learn, to impress, to please. He would love for you to train under him, your frustration growing as he teased you, giving you smaller and smaller tasks, making you prove yourself.

He pulled himself away from his thoughts, shuffling his notes together before the start of class.

“Alright everyone, I’ve posted your grades for your last assignment. Some of you did very well, others seem to be a bit distracted in this course.” He purposefully shifted his gaze, meeting your eyes as he spoke this last part.

He suppressed a smirk as he saw your face flush.

“Now, the rational choice theory…”

--

“I really don’t know what I’m doing wrong in that class,” you sighed.

Your friend nodded. “I mean, he is a pretty tough grader. I don’t think I’ve gotten above a C on anything.”

“Yeah, but I feel like my work is good! Some of it he seems to really like, and then others he’s super harsh. But I thought this last paper was really good!”

“Maybe you should go talk to him about it. Maybe he could help you out, tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

“Yeah, I guess. I probably should. I really like this class; I want to do well in it.”

Your friend smirked. “Do you like the class, or do you like the hot professor?”

You lightly slapped their arm. “Shut up, I don’t think he’s hot.”

They laughed. “Of course you do! I see you staring at him all the time! It’s ok: he is pretty hot.”

You felt your face heating up. “Ok, maybe I think he’s kinda hot, but I like the class too!”

“I hear you.”

--

As class ended the next day, you took a breath. You shouldn’t be this nervous to talk to him, he was your professor, of course he would be willing to help you. You lingered in your seat for a few moments, taking longer than usual to stuff your laptop back in your bag. As people filed out of the room, you carefully approached his desk.

“Professor Hoffman?”

He looked up, smiling slightly as he met your eyes. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping that maybe you had time to talk to me about my last paper? I was wondering if you could tell me what I did wrong, or what I could improve next time?”

He regarded you for a moment and you couldn’t help but shift a bit under his gaze.

“Of course. I have another class in a few minutes, but I have time to meet tomorrow, if you’d like.”

You nodded, thanking him as he gave you a time and his office number. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

He smirked. “See you then. Don’t be late.”

--

“What are you all dressed up for?” your friend asked.

“What? I’m not dressed up. Do I look dressed up?”

“I mean, maybe not dressed up, but you look nice. What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

They smiled. “Oh! Now I remember. You have your meeting with the hot professor today! That’s why you dressed so cute.”

“I did not!”

“I don’t believe you. You better hurry up, don’t you have to be there in a few minutes?”

You looked at your phone, cursing under your breath. They were right, you only had a couple minutes before your meeting. You sped up your pace, telling your friend you’d see them later as they walked to their class building.

“You better tell me all about it! Don’t do anything inappropriate, young lady!”

You hurried into the brick building that held Professor Hoffman’s office, trying to find the room number he had given you. Your eyes scanned the plaques next to each door, looking for the one engraved with his name. When you finally found it, the door was shut. You knocked softly, waiting patiently until you heard a voice tell you to come in.

You pushed the door open, examining his office as you entered. One wall was lined with bookshelves, filled with books on psychology, criminal justice, and what looked like case files. His desk sat in front of the window, his back to the light streaming in through the glass. He sat, leaned back in his desk chair, shirt slightly unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Take a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. You quickly complied, smoothing your skirt as you sat down.

--

He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you when you walked into his office, closing the door behind you. He should have punished you right then for testing him like that: all dressed up for him, pretty skirt cutting off just above your knees, shirt lower cut than he had ever seen you wearing in class.

“So,” he started, trying to regain his composure. “You wanted to talk to me about your paper?”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.” Fuck. “I was wondering if you could tell me what I could have done better with this assignment. I thought I did really well on it, until I got my grade back.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it was very well-written. And you have the concepts down. But your job was to analyze the video, not just repeat what I had said in class. Even if you put it a bit more eloquently than I did.” He smiled. “I almost get the feeling that you’re a bit…distracted in my class.

He watched as you became flustered, a smile still on his lips. “Well, professor, I just – I just have a lot on my mind. Sometimes it wanders, you know?” Your eyes darted around, staring at your hands, your bag on the floor, the surface of his desk.

He nodded. “Wanders to what?”

He couldn’t help the smug look on his face as you struggled to answer. He knew what your mind wandered to, he could see it on your face when you were supposed to be paying attention to his lectures. He saw the blush on your face, the way your pupils were blown. And he knew exactly where your mind was wandering to.

“Well, you know, to other things I have to do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like me?”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me. I see the way you stare at me, the look on your face when I catch you. You think I have no idea what you think about when you’re in my class? You think I can’t read you like a book, sweetheart?”

He tilted his head, watching as you took in his words. You looked like a deer in headlights, knowing he had figured out your secret. He saw the way your body stiffened at the pet name, your legs pressing together.

“I’ll tell you what,” he started, against his better judgement. “You really want to improve your grade?”

You nodded. He told himself to stop, to kick you out of his office before he put his career in jeopardy. But, God, the look on your face, so eager to hear what he had to say, pretty face flushed with embarrassment, legs squeezed together so tight he thought you might explode.

“Cmere,” he said in a low voice.

You slowly stood, making your way around his desk to stand in front of him. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he growled. “Where does your mind wander to during my class? I want to hear you tell me.”

“To you,” you said softly.

“Cmon, baby, you can do better than that.” He knew he was being a dick, he saw how flustered you were, how you were trying to work up the courage to answer his question. And he loved it.

“To you – to you…”

“To me fucking you?” he helped.

“Yes.” Your eyes were fixed on your hands.

“Look at me and say it.”

Your eyes met his. “My mind wanders to – to you fucking me.”

“Much better. Now, you really want to improve your grade, sweetheart?”

You nodded and he saw the eagerness in your eyes, waiting for him to tell you what to do.

“Then get on your fuckin’ knees.”

He smiled, chuckling as you quickly dropped to your knees in front of his chair, hands getting to work on his belt. He watched your eyes widen as you released him from his dress pants and couldn’t help the feeling of pride that swelled in his chest.

“Something wrong, baby?” he asked, cocky smile spreading across his face. You shook your head. “Then go on.”

He let out a deep groan as you took him into your mouth, placing a hand on the back of your head. He wrapped his hand in your hair, guiding you as his dick hit the back of your throat. “Such a good girl.” He leaned his head back against the chair, savoring the feeling of your head bobbing on his cock.

His looked back down at you, eyes darkening as he saw how eagerly you sucked him off, spit coating your lips, tears welling in your eyes every time you took him down your throat. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little distracted during classes too, picturing you just like this.

He pulled your head back by your hair until you were looking up at him. “Get up here, sweetheart,” he said, motioning to his lap.

You shakily got to your feet before straddling his lap, setting your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. He reached under your skirt, hands gripping your ass. He watched as you began to grind your clothed core on his dick, admiring the desperate look on your face.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he asked, hand slowly wrapping around your throat. “So desperate for me. No one been taking care of this pussy?”

You frantically shook your head, grinding down harder.

“Poor little slut. Take them off. I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart.”

You shifted on his lap, pulling your underwear down your legs and tossing them to the side. He slowly ran a finger through your folds, letting out a low hum. “God, baby, this all for me?” Your answer was cut off by him pushing two fingers inside of you, your words turning to a moan. He slowly pumped his fingers, curling them inside you while your ground down on his hand.

“Poor baby, those college boys don’t know how to make you feel good? You’re so fuckin’ desperate.” You quickly shook your head, too lost in the feeling of him working you to form words. You whined when he pulled his fingers out.

He lined himself up at your entrance, the other hand wrapping around your waist, holding you steady. “Go on, baby. Show me how needy you are.”

You slowly slid yourself down onto his cock, mouth falling open as he stretched you out. His head fell back onto his chair, eyes screwing shut, before quickly opening them again, taking in the sight of you full of his dick. He placed his hands on your hips, keeping you steady as you began to bounce. You quickly picked up the pace, grinding yourself down on him, eyes clouded from pleasure.

Your moans filled his ears, eyes roaming your body as you fucked yourself on his cock.

“God, baby, you look so fuckin’ pretty. Such a good little whore for me, hmm?”

“Yes, yes, just for you, Daddy!” you moaned, before quickly catching yourself. He saw your eyes widen, realizing what you had just said.

He wrapped his strong arm around your waist, standing from his chair, still buried deep inside you, before setting you on his desk. He wrapped a hand around your throat, squeezing slightly and pushing your back down onto the surface. “Say it again.”

“I’m all yours, Daddy,” you said softly.

“That’s fuckin’ right baby.” He set a fast pace, roughly fucking into you, one hand still around your throat, the other gripping your hip so hard he knew it would probably leave marks.

He let out a groan at the sight of you underneath him, skirt bunched around your waist, mouth hanging open, hands gripping his arms. He watched your back arch off the table, squeezing your eyes shut.

He froze, abruptly stopping his thrusts. “Look at me when you cum on my dick, baby. Fuckin’ look at me or I’ll stop again. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” you cried, eyes locked on his.

“Much better.” His fingers found their way to your clit as he continued burying himself in you. “Cum for me baby, show me how much you love my cock.”

Your nails dug into his arm as your legs shook around him, moaning loudly as you reached your high. He felt his own end coming on. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me sweetheart, where do you want me to cum?”

“Inside…” was all you could manage, still overcome with pleasure.

He smiled. “You want me to fill you up, baby?” You nodded, begging him to fill you.

His pace faltered as he came, gripping your hips tightly. He let go of you, placing his hands on his desk, catching his breath. He slowly pulled out of you, pulling his pants back up and tossing you your underwear. You carefully sat up, legs still shaking slightly.

He settled himself back in his chair, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. He smirked at you, sitting on his desk, completely undone.

“I suppose I can raise your grade on that paper,” he started. “But I do think we should have weekly tutoring sessions. You obviously need some more help with this.” He smirked at you. “Does that sound good to you?”

You never agreed to something faster in your life.

--

I really liked writing this, if y’all like it I may give you a part 2👀

[favcharacterpoll]

ROUND 6 MATCH 3: CECIL VS. C!WILBUR

Cecil Palmer from Welcome to Night Vale faces c!Wilbur from the dsmp. @10piecechickenmcnugget get over here sage

Cecil Propaganda:

"Cecil is not only the Tumblr sexyman, he is the first gay protagonist of a podcast that most of us have ever heard. From the very first episode he was unashamedly queer and no one has ever called him out or given him shit for being gay. He is a gay Jewish fashion disaster who is the mouthpiece for an incredibly bizarre town and plays the whole “this horrifying thing is completely normal”thing so well. If Cecil wasn’t there, I think a lot of people wouldn’t have felt so accepted for just being who they were. Cecil is an inspiration and the queer podcast rep we all deserved as we were growing."

"he’s gay. he’s a dilf. he’s ageless. he has been since there’s was nothing and he’s still here after the world ended. he can summon music. his mother is a oracle his father is a tree. his cat is a man who got cursed and also has wings a stinger and poison??? he thinks a tutu and crocs is formal wear and has talked to god and she said ‘I love you. I’m sorry’. he’s definitely guilty of manslaughter from negligence"

"this is the website Night Vale built!"

c!Wilbur Propaganda:

"Accurate depiction of mental health and spiral, handled delicately and deliberately, every piece of his story was thought and planned and in the end he went home to Utah. Thank you lord."

"Please don’t let the name dream smp effect how you feel about this submission, this character is completely unrelated to dream and I’m pretty sure the person who played him has nothing to do with dream anymore. This man single handedly got me through a horrible patch filled with extreme paranoia by also being extremely paranoid. Genuinely really helped me feel seen and I coped a lot by getting invested in this character. I almost cried when he died :("

"He’s so fucking stupid. I could infodump for hours this man transed my gender. Everything has gone wrong in his life. He’s the definition of a bisexual disaster."

"I didn’t fail 10th grade math bc I was thinking about c!wilbur for him to lose round one"

"I mean look at him!! his Minecraft skin is adorable!!!"

"if you people vote for cwilbur i'll draw him in a bikini."

"A VOTE FOR C!WILBUR IS A VOTE FOR GIRLBOYS EVERYWHERE"

"i should not have underestimated minecraft fans they came together"

"Season 1 changed me. I didn’t know minecraft videos could have good acting, dramatic plots, etc. Wilbur was one of the best there. His plot was so interesting with the L’Manburg and the unfinished symphony arcs. He was funny, dramatic, sad… I fondly remember my dsmp days (though I only saw up to like part of Tommy’s exile)"

[inchidentally]

hey new landoscar! (sorry tum mobile is being weird so I have to c&p into a new post)

so as per usual, Lando went straight to Max F for support and has been gaming w him - Max even made a little statement to chat and fans in general about how he just wanted Lando to totally forget the race and relax and be distracted:

🧵fray_f1

as far as Oscar, we truly do not get coverage or report of the downtime they spend together! we get mentions of it occasionally or if they're somewhere that other ppl take videos or photos then we see those. but Oscar is an intensely private person and his off-duty time with Lando is included in that.

we know they spent at least part of the night after the race in Vegas last year together and considering that Oscar basically couldn't sleep (he said he rarely can after races) and ended up scrolling a bunch of Lando-related content and left some likes/comments until the early hours - and with Lando being extremely groggy/weak/achy from his crash and hospital visit, a theory some of us have had is that the "shared commiserations" was possibly mutual support rotting in one of their hotel rooms. (side note, Oscar wasn't told until after doing press about the aftermath of Lando's crash.

so that's a solid precedent of them being able to help each other out with these disappointments, especially since Lando had not just Max F there at the same hotel but also Ria and Aarava. so it's not like Oscar was helping out in place of other friends!

but while it's anyone's guess how much or often they spend time together after these mixed/bad races, I do have to point out the group photo

where they omitted the board with Oscar's name and podium position, put Andrea in the middle with the trophy, arranged the Sprint plaques around them while Oscar sat off to the side so that everything looked equal between the two of them. like. whoever's idea that all was, what we saw from Oscar was extreEMELY mellow/subdued about that podium (just a few sad dribbles from his champagne bottle aslsalfjah) and made a hasty exit. even down to the very calm head pats and high fives of the little group from his garage in parc ferme. McLaren didn't force Lando into a post race video and did no real media at all - and all of this Oscar, as always, is happy willing and in some cases fully complicit in doing <3<3

tbh the fact that he's never made Lando or his relationship with Lando a part of his own personal PR (and vice versa) is all part of this easing up on the immense pressure placed on Lando's shoulders ever since McLaren's trajectory hit a sudden and rapid upward trend. the PR load placed on Lando has always been bordering on exploitative of him being a people-pleaser and the suggestion that he's this non-stop party person who is seen as up for any kind of media or publicity... when he simply is not. the little something we've all noticed (and some people are mad or upset about) since pre-season this year where Lando has a calm and self-preservation type reserve sometimes is him learning that an increase in status and success does NOT need to be paid for with giving away any more of himself than he does. Max F has been mirroring that a lot in their streams when he draws firm boundaries during his streams!

but back to today's post-race content: it's nothing to do with giving Lando special treatment, it's acknowledging - as Oscar himself said before they were even teammates- that expectations for Lando are set extraordinarily high and will remain so compared to Oscar for a very long time. and let's remember that Oscar doesn't have to be aware or considerate of any of that !! he could just do his own thing and expect to be treated as any driver would be after a podium! it would not be wrong to view his own career and performance and celebration as separate from his teammate's so long as he isn't rubbing it in or being inconsiderate!

but Lando is special and unique and the stakes for him remain higher for many reasons, not just fighting for second in the WDC! Oscar knows that! Oscar is a good person whose kindness and affection glows softly in the ways he is consistently considerate and knows when to not force something and to be a quiet observant presence who can give people space to determine what they need! it's why literally almost every race weekend has him supplying the word Lando needs or helping him with the GCSE knowledge Lando missed out on bc of being poached so young - and simply the way he stands that little bit behind during press and media and watches Lando rather than letting his gaze and mind wander.

and as someone who knew Max before knowing Lando, if what Lando needs is to escape everything McLaren and F1 related - even Oscar - and return to just being a mate who plays Tarkov, then we know Lando will never have to worry about what that might mean to Oscar or how it will affect him bc it won't. Lando needs to do what makes him feel safe and okay and I don't think it's reaching at all to say Oscar will have a good concept of what that is <3

[sword-wielding-sapphic]

1: Magic is a Metaphor < 2: Morgana is a Lesbian < 3: Merlin is Gay < 4: Arthur is Bi

Do you remember when you were bullied in middle school? Because if you're reading this, I think it's fair to assume that you were. And your parents would say to you, 'that boy is just being mean to you because he likes you'. That's what this is.

Arthur is just so repressed. He has really bad daddy issues, and he doesn't know how to express his emotions, and he's really uncomfortable with physical intimacy, especially with other men, especially with Merlin. And this isn't me trying to psychoanalyse away his heterosexuality. It is a very evident part of his character.

And another big part of his character is that he has inherited all of these bigoted ideas about magic from his father that he has to work to overcome. Because, of course, Arthur himself is born of magic, but his dad is so ashamed of it that he hides the true circumstances of his birth from Arthur. Honestly, I don't know exactly how that would fit into this whole metaphor. I do have a half-formed theory that it could be interpreted as an allegory for intersex identity, I know that a lot of people headcanon Arthur as trans, so idk there could be something there. But regardless, it is only through his relationship with Merlin that he is able to overcome this magicphobia, because he realises: how could it be wrong when everything about Merlin is so right. And I just feel like there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

Of course, I have to mention this iconic quote from the audio commentary of the final episode: when the executive producer refers to Arthur taking off his royal seal to give back to Guinevere as passing over "the last vestige of his heterosexu- oh sorry, I mean his marriage." So, they knew exactly what they were doing.

I also thought I would just draw your attention to the fact that at one point Arthur says, "I only care about my men, they're more than friends, more than brothers." Now, I think we can all agree that out of context, that is a very gay thing to say, and yet somehow the context is even gayer, because Arthur is pretending to be talking about the Knights of the Round Table, but he's actually talking about Merlin, how Merlin is the only person he cares about, more than a friend. And then Merlin responds, "I understand. I wish I didn't, but I do." It's barely subtext at that point. This of course, brings me to my final argument:

Arthur risked his life to save Merlin at least eight times. It could be more than that, I genuinely lost count. And you have to keep in mind that Arthur is the King of Camelot and he doesn't have any heirs. It is quite important that he stays alive. And yet anytime that Merlin is in the slightest bit of danger, he will just drop everything to protect him.

And it's really only in those moments where he's faced with the thought of losing Merlin that he shows him genuine emotion. Such as in this scene (which was cut out of 4x02 purely because it was too gay) where Arthur is planning to sacrifice himself to protect Merlin, again, and he gives Merlin his mother's sigil, the only thing he has left of his dead mum and he wants Merlin to have it as something to remember him by. Also, apparently in medieval times giving someone your family crest was basically a marriage proposal, so that's pretty gay.

You know what else is pretty gay? Telepathically communicating with Merlin and then immediately leaving Gwen in the middle of an active war. This is literally the last time that Arthur and Gwen ever see each other. Poor Gwen.

In conclusion, Merlin is the story of gay sorcerers and bisexual knights getting into love triangles. Everyone in this show is queer and you cannot tell me otherwise.

[dianagj-art]

Is there Oneion facts we can know about?

THIS HAS BEEN ON MY DRAFTS FOR SO LONG OMG IM SO SORRY, HERE'S SOME FACTS ABOUT THE BABY BOY

(the baby boy in question is ten years older than me)

I'm gonna go canon stuff first, then some fun crossover stuff:

The version that I'm using is 35-ish years old (a few years before the movie events), he's been the leader of the resistance for around a decade

He still has all his brothers and loves them very much, would kill and die for them

Way more chill than One is right now, still a beast on combat

One can manipulate vines only using the seeds Draxum makes, Oneion can summon them at will from the ground with little issue

In the story he mostly goes by Leo now, very few people call him One (but lets keep calling him Oneion to avoid confusion)

The protesis he uses is an old one from Raph, but he outgrew it and gave it to Oneion when he lost his arm. It was a bit ridiculously big for him at the time, it's still a *little* too big for Oneion, but by the time he's 40-something (movie events) its gonna fit right in

The scarf he has is not the same One has, but as One's it was a gift from Draxum, he has carry the same scarf the whole apocalypse

Still has a lot of gold accents on his clothes

He's still the best fighter out of the four turtles

He loves being around kids but doesn't, he's afraid of hurting them. He knows he didn't had a normal childhood but is not 100% aware of what part was normal and ok and what part is not, and he rathers not take a chance and do something wrong.

He ends up enjoying teaching martial arts, tho he doesn't like being called sensei, and he wont spar with anyone bellow his level (again, being afraid of hurting them)

Casey Jr becomes the exception to these

Crossover stuff!

he can and will beat the shit out of One, he knows how much One can take so he's not really worried about that

when the apocalypse started he basically lost contact with the multiverse, so no fun crossovers for him. Until by the power of "@intotheelliwoods started doing fanart of Oneion before I even had finished his design" he had access to the multiverse again!

First of his "old frieds" he saw was Poptart and Sprout (2al huggy leos) and first thing he did was to hug Sprout<3 (well, he first kinda yelled at him but I'll draw that some day)

I don't think he has met again with the rest of the separated council? I don't remember if I've stick him in any crossover situations

he loves hugging Poptart, he's teddy bear size<3 and he'll never get tired of calling him his friend and loving him "the way he deserves" because he still hasn't forgive himself for the shitty way he treated Poptart (dont worry about it)

he fucking destroyed the attempt of a slau/2al crossover time line

he says he's fine by it but he keeps bringing up the "jawbreaker" incident, I dont think he got over it, actually

he hangs out with Sprout a lot

something something, being with Sprout makes him feel like a kid again, and it makes Sprout feel like a kid again because Oneion reminds him of Big Leo

Sprout and Oneion have a spa day, they deserve it<3 they also go shopping together. Also, they are not exactly good at cooking but they try and they love working together on the kitchen

Oneion got the "Oneion" nickname by Sprout and Poptart

he stronk. he can lift Sprout with no problem, and even Toast

if you wanna have a good time scroll down the besties tag on ell's blog or mine (2)

[thetarttfuldickhead]

It’s a little unclear, in the end, how the conversation gets there, because all in all the Richmond dressing room isn’t the site of that many sex jokes, not since Colin came out and no longer feels the need to make them. But they’re still lads, yeah, and young, mostly, so the jokes still happen, even if it’s just gentle ribbing, and silliness.

So: somehow, one morning halfway into Roy’s first year as head coach, the topic turns to sex, of the rougher variety. Roy’s only listening with half an ear, he’s busy sketching out the new trick plays Nate’s dreamed up on the whiteboard, and he doesn’t really catch the build-up, but when Jamie’s name is mentioned his ears perk up without him even really noticing. It’s become instinct at that point, keeping track of Jamie (even as Roy does his best to give all his players at least some semblance of equal attention).

“We know that Jamie likes it rough, though,” Zorro says, and the rest of the group oh:s and ah:s either knowingly or in surprised glee.

“Eh?” Jamie sounds startled by the assertion, but not particularly put off. (He never really is, as long as he gets attention, Roy thinks with an internal scoff that’s far fonder than he’d ever admit to.) “What makes you say that?”

“You told us!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy can see Jamie shake his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” Still not bothered, but clearly not understanding what Zorro is getting at either.

Isaac throws him a disbelieving glance. “You don’t remember, bruv? It was when you first came here, before you started going out with Keeley.”

“Yeah,” Colin interjects, “You’d only been here for about two weeks, I think, but you came into training with these marks and bruises, and it turned out you’d hooked up with a girl the night before, but you hadn’t known she was a professional dominatrix before you got to her place.”

Hoots and titters at that, delighted and amused but not unkind.

“Exactly,” Zorro says. “And you told us you’d just gone with it because you have to try everything at least once, and it hadn’t been bad.”

Ah. Roy remembers now. He’d already been absolutely fed-up with Jamie’s attitude, the arrogance and selfishness and incessant need to put others down, and the striker’s total lack of shame and casual smugness about the marks had rubbed Roy entirely the wrong way. Not because people should be ashamed for liking that sort of stuff, of course (Roy wasn’t), but there was such a thing as common decency and unspoken rules about not parading around the dressing room like you were in a fucking porno or some shit and—

If Roy was honest about it, he’d mostly been pissed because it was Jamie, and everything Jaime did pissed him off back then (though, to be fair, most of what Jamie did back then was fucking shitty, so it’s not like Roy was wrong to be pissed. Most of the time).

“Oh.” Jamie’s voice is soft, suddenly. Small, in a way that has alarm bells going off like air raid sirens in Roy’s head. “Yeah. Um.”

The realisation hits Roy a second before it does the rest of the team, and his ears are already filling with a terrible ringing as the room falls silent behind him. He can feel himself grow rigid with rage, and with cold, curdling shame.

“Shit, man,” Isaac says eventually.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.” It’s odd, the way Colin’s earnest, unhappy voice seems to be coming from so very far away.

“What?” Zorro, still not getting it, and then he does, and Roy, at a great distance, can hear his face crumpling. “Oh shit, Jamie, I didn’t mean—“

“No, don’t worry about it, man. It was a long time ago, yeah? It’s fine.” It’s a heroic attempt at sounding casual. Might have succeeded, too, back before they all knew Jamie as well as the do now.

Roy doesn’t stick around to hear the team offer their comfort and Jamie try to wave their concern away. He walks into the coaches’ office, and the only reason he doesn’t slam the door as hard as he can is because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. 

“You all right there, Coach?” Beard looks up at him from behind his book, brow creased in quiet assessment.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Nate jumps down from the desk he’s been perched on. “Did someone die?”

And Roy wants to tell them to fuck off. Wants to punch the wall so hard it stops his mind from spinning. But he’s been talking with Dr. Fieldstone about that, hasn’t he, how his maladaptive coping strategies are tripping him up, and fucking over the people he cares about in the process.

So he takes a deep breath. And he doesn’t look at them when he starts talking. “Back before Ted came here Jamie came in with these bruises all over his chest and back one day, and he told us he’d had sex with a fucking dominatrix. And I believed him, okay? I just… I fucking believed him, even though it was weird fucking bruises for— That’s not the fucking point. But because I thought he was an arrogant fucking prick and I fucking hated his guts, I told him— “ He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. Uselessly, his cheeks are burning. Maybe his eyes are, too, if he’d let himself feel it. “I told him I’d be happy to pay to see someone give him a trashing. Give ‘em extra if they knocked a couple of his teeth out so he’d shut up for once.”

Beard doesn’t say anything, but he leans back in his chair with a look on his face that lets Roy know that, yeah, he’d fucked that one up good and proper.  

“Oh,” Nate says. “So it was his dad who— That’s— But— I mean, that’s not good, obviously, that’s awful, but it’s… It wasn’t you who hurt him, Roy. And I mean, you and Jamie have said all sorts of thing to each other. Done all sorts of things.”

And that’s true, isn’t it. And mostly Roy is happy enough to write it off as tit-for-tat, old foolishness and bygones, Jamie a prick and Roy sometimes an idiot, and they’re both better now. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Nate and Beard how knowing that Jamie looked up to him ever since he was a kid, knowing that he never took that poster down, even after that, after everything, makes his casual cruelty and failure to protect Jamie all the harder to bear, even if he hadn’t known at the time that there was anything to protect Jamie from.

“Coach—“ Beard begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door, and before Roy can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Jamie sticks his head into the office. Must have made his escape from the rest of the team, then. “Sorry, Coach, are we getting started or what? The lads— “ He catches sight of Roy’s face and his eyes widen. “Jesus, Roy, what happened? Are you all right, man?”

Under other circumstances, Roy might have found it remarkable how quickly and effortlessly Jamie makes the switch from Roy’s respectful star player to Roy’s friend, his entire demeanour changing as he moves into the room. As it is, Roy doesn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of noise or moved some sort of way, because Jamie’s face twists in alarm, and then he’s across the floor and gently but firmly pulling Roy into a hug. “There, it’s all right, man, I’ve got you, lad, it’s all right.”

Roy blames all the fucking therapy he’d been doing for the past eight months for not pushing Jamie away but instead allowing the other to hold him, and allowing himself to hesitantly wrap his arms around him in turn. Fuck Nate. Fuck Beard. Fuck the team. Fuck anyone who thinks they get to have opinions on that.

He’s got an inch on Jamie, but Jamie’s broader, solid and strong. Steady, as he puts a hand on the back of Roy’s neck, murmuring nonsense that Roy knows is supposed to be soothing, and which maybe is. Mostly, it’s reassuring to have Jamie there, whole and hale and safe.

“What’s going on? Is Phoebe all right? Did something happen to your sister? Keeley?” Jamie is starting to sound a little freaked out, and Roy realises that he can’t just stand there mutely forever and let the fears grow in Jamie’s mind, he needs to fucking say something, explain.

He’d rather never say another word.

Tough fucking luck, Kent. “Do you remember what I told you when you said you’d had sex with a dominatrix?”

The way Jamie stiffens tells him that, yeah, Jamie does. “Roy—“

Roy tightens his grip, not wanting Jamie to pull away. “Don’t fucking tell me it was fine, because you were a nightmare for the rest of that day, you were absolutely fucking horrible to everyone.” Worse than usual, lashing out—not that Roy had known it at the time, or had thought it anything more than Jamie being a fucking prick for no other reason than to be a prick.  

For a few moments, Jamie doesn’t say anything. Then he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into the embrace and pressing his face against Roy’s neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “it was all shit, mate. I mean, all of it was, it wasn’t just you— But, Roy, listen… “ And now Jamie does pull back, just enough so that he can look at Roy. His eyes are tired, but the set of his jaw determined. “You fucking hated me, right? Back then, I mean. You hated me, ‘cause I was a prick, and I hated you, ‘cause you were a bitter old cunt.”

There’s no fucking denying it, is there. Roy gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, but—“

“No, let me just— I’m not saying that makes it all right, yeah, I just— You hated me, okay. But, would you have said what you said if you’d known what really happened?”

Roy’s lips twist into snarl. “What? No! Of course I wouldn’t fucking have— “ He might have ached to put Jamie’s head through a wall several times a day, but he wouldn’t have stood by for Jamie’s piece of shit father—

“See?” The little twat has the audacity to look triumphant at that, as if he’d scored a particularly neat goal. “That’s what I’m saying, yeah? Even when you hated my guts, you wouldn’t have said that, if you’d known what was going on. But you didn’t know, ‘cause I didn’t want you to, or anyone to, and I’m an amazing actor, yeah? So, like, it’s not fine, but it’s… Don’t beat yourself up over it, man. You didn’t know.”

It’s absolution, the kind Roy doesn’t think he deserves and the Jamie is far too quick to offer. But Jamie is also right: Roy hadn’t known. Wallowing in guilt won’t do anything to change the past, or help Jamie now.

“All right,” Roy says. “But that was still a shit thing to say and I wish hadn’t done it. You never deserved any of what that arsehole did to you, and if… fuck it, when I made you feel like I thought otherwise, that was my fucking bad, and I’m sorry.”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.” And there’s a tremulousness to his faint smile that makes Roy think that for all his claims to the contrary, it had still been something Jamie needed to hear.  

It does Roy’s fucking head in that Jamie’s been up to see his dad several times since he got word that James Tartt is in rehab. But they’ve argued about that already, bitterly, and Roy has very reluctantly admitted that it’s not his call. All he can do is offer Jamie whatever support he needs, whenever he wants it.

Clearing his throat, Roy gives Jaime an awkward pat on the shoulder before carefully extricating himself fully from the hug. “We’re still on for dinner with Keeley tonight?” He’ll make Jamie’s favourite dish, he decides. Throw in some dessert.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.”

“Good.” He jerks his head to the door. “Go on then, tell the lads to get on the pitch, and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Coach.”

As the door shuts behind him, Roy turns on Beard and Nate who – wisely – don’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about this,” he tells them sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning a fucking word of it ever again.” Because maybe he’s gotten to a point where having a fucking breakdown and hugging it out with Jamie in front of them isn’t the end of the world (even if it’s a near fucking thing), but if someone tries to make him discuss it, he’ll need to start head-butting people, and he’s been trying to stay off that since he became manager, because it just isn’t a good look, is it, and he’s trying to be better about that sort of thing.

Nate and Beard glance at each other. Roy doesn’t really care for the knowing look in their eyes, but they merely offer a nod and a yeah, yeah, of course, sure in reply, and that will have to do.

In this messed up world, a lot of things would have to fucking do.

“Right,” Roy says, already moving to follow Jamie. “I’ll see you on the fucking pitch.”

---

A/N: This was supposed to be the fourth of the stand alone ficlets I call The Locker Room Conversations, but it got quite a bit darker (and less team focused) than I usually do for those, so I’m not sure. I’ll sit on it for a bit, maybe fiddle a little, and see where I put it when it goes up on AO3 eventually.

If you like the idea of the team uncovering sad truths about Jamie’s past and are into heavier angst (and more of the team taking care of Jamie), I highly recommend checking out i should be the poster kid for this shit by anotherlongstoryshort / babytarttdoodoo

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

NATALIAAAAAAAAAA

Hewwo :3

Might I make a request from my first nemesis????

I simply yearn for a Hero whumpee with a yandere Villain. Please pile on as many extra tropes as you like, and even extra, platonic yanderes if you feel like it! You can't go wrong with some good bridal carries, restraints, drugging, and spoiling poor Hero :3

Huffleeee! Girl, I am so sorry as to just how ridiculously late this is, but finally I finished it. I hope you enjoy it! Also, first snippet of 2025, happy new year < 3

My Hero

TW: Blood, injury, restraints, drugging, yandere villain, unconsciousness

Run. Because it was the only thing the hero could do. He was essentially stuck between a rock and a bad place, trying to sustain the least amount of injuries possible from the hailstorm of bullets and debris. 

Missions going awry was an occupational hazard, but this degree of utter chaos wasn't something the hero had accounted for. He usually knew how to contain any messes that could've happened.

There was blood seeping down his cheek, mixing in with dust and sweat that was enough to make his eyes burn. He wasn't even sure how far he'd made it, his muscles aching and burning with exhaustion. He'd never run from danger before, cursing himself and his luck in the process, and yet what else was there?

The roar that came next was deafening, flame erupted near the hero, an angry orange blooming around him close enough that he could feel the heat and start to cough up smoke, but not the fire licking his skin just yet. Glass from a building nearby exploded into tiny smithereens, raining onto the crimefighter and drawing sharp, painful brushstrokes of crimson all over his face and exposed skin from the tattered suit. The whole world was spinning too fast, and the ground swayed underneath his feet as he collapsed face-first into a pile of rubble and glass, his consciousness stolen by a pitch black oblivion. 

The fact that he was even awake was a miracle in itself. His shredded clothes had been switched out for a clean linen shirt and pants, and he was lying on a soft surface, the excruciating pain he was supposed to be in nowhere to be found. The only thing that was wrong with his current situation was the soft leather restraints fixing his ankles to the bed. They were loose enough that he could sit up, but not so much that he could get off the bed.

The door opened, soft footsteps padding in. A woman of about his age with wavy, light brown hair and a mask around her eyes took a seat next to the bed. The villain. 

“You’re up. That’s good,” she said with a strangely pleasant smile. “I just need you to answer a few questions for me, Hero.” 

“And if I don’t?” he challenged, raising a questioning eyebrow. 

The villain’s smile was all teeth. “Do you even know what the questions are before you get so impulsive, darling?” 

The hero didn’t say a word, locking eyes with her, a hint of defiance in his gaze. 

“Do you remember most people you save, Hero?” she questions, her tone hushed and urgent. 

His brow furrowed a little. The question was personal, but it wasn't about classified information or anything that people usually wanted from him. “Why?” 

The villain was still smiling, but it was rigid, irritated. “That doesn't answer my question, dear.” 

He knew he couldn't fight back much without getting free of his restraints, and this question, at its core, was harmless, like something he might've told a reporter on an interview once. And it was a good distraction from what he was trying to do. 

“It depends. I try to talk to them, if I have any time, so they don't feel like some object I've picked up. But I only remember bits and pieces of very short interactions.” 

“But everyone you've ever saved would definitely remember you.” 

The hero's gaze flits up from where it was, having managed to find the lock. The villain peeled the mask away, staring at him with nothing short of admiration. 

He didn't remember much about her in particular, but he knew he'd seen before, saved her from a burning building, which probably explained why during every fight they had, the villain had seemed so strangely familiar.

At least he could make sense of why he was in a bed, his wounds wrapped snugly in bandages instead of on the floor of some dirty cell, being tortured for intel. The setting seemed strangely benign 

“What was the objective of your mission, Hero?” The villain's smile sharpened, staring through him like he was transparent. 

“I'm not answering. You can't torture it out of me if you tried.” 

The villain's laugh was hollow as she pulled a strand of hair away from her face.

“What truly fascinates me is how the agency managed to earn your loyalty,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, inching closer to the hero. His shirt was mostly open, her hand managing to find a scar a little below his chest, not quite fresh and not quite old from a particularly brutal “training session”.

“They don't treat you well, do they?” And the villain presses her hand deeper into the hero's skin, and he couldn't help but shiver. He hated how vulnerable he seemed, splayed open in front of the villain like a gutted fish. 

But he wasn't anything, if not ruthlessly stubborn. He flashed her a dangerous smile, sitting up a little straighter in bed. “Scars are an occupational hazard.” 

“I've seen what they do to their heroes, no matter how picture-perfect they are. What, do you think I leave things up to chance, darling?” 

The hero's brow furrowed, his lips getting pulled into a thin, hard line. She was clearly trying to find some chip in his armour, hammering away at it until he crumbled into nothing. Did she expect him to burst into tears at being reminded of the torture masquerading as training he went through almost everyday? Bloodied scratches, being forced to exhaust himself until he threw up, repeating everything all over again if he dared to mess up. These wounds were too old, the sting too familiar. 

“Why do you care? What do you want?” He was growing impatient, his tone clipped and his eyes narrowing. 

The villain's lips curved upwards into a strangely soft smile, her eyes growing brighter. “You,” she whispered softly, leaning down, gripping the nightstand with one hand.

The hero tried for a few false starts, his eyes wide, his breath catching in his throat.

“This whole mission, you getting injured, every little detail was my doing. Didn't I tell you I hate leaving this to chance, sweetness?” 

The fingers of her free hand wrapped tightly around the collar of his shirt, and the hero felt himself shrink back in spite of himself. 

“What?” The hero's tongue had barely formed the word, his mind racing in a million different directions. But no matter, he had to get out of here now and reminisce on this later.

Except the villain laughed again, mildly amused by the hero's feeble attempts at clawing at his restraints, before producing a syringe with an unassuming transparent liquid inside and promptly stabbing it into the hero's flesh. 

And in mere seconds he was drowning in pitch black, his thoughts muddled together in his consciousness evaporating into nothing. 

Sometimes the difference between a dream and a nightmare is a moment in time; a turning point that transforms bliss into torture. But the only reassurance a nightmare offers is no matter how horrific, you are bound to wake up. 

Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @adamswrongchild @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi @those-damn-snippets @genuinelythioehat-is-whump @ghostofnorth @dragonmine-244 @detectivepetrichor @orangeduckweed @red-sigma-vampire-boss6969 @alexii117 @prophecies-bestowed-upon-ye @alphabet-egg

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[meanbossart]

Ask Compilation: Advice, influences and Misc.

Apologies for taking so long on some of these, admittedly I'm much more likely to entirely forget about asks that are about me and my interests 💃 Thank you for all the questions regardless! And thank you specially to everyone who just drops nice messages into my inbox out of kindness.

I'm brazillian and a native portuguese speaker!

I'll probably return to twitter eventually, but a) I hate that place and b) It didn't make much sense to me to turn it into a BG3 account out of the blue. I am considering making an Instagram or a new twitter just to have more places where people can follow in case they don't care for tumblr, but it's just been a very busy year so far and so that's kind of low on the list of priorities. If I ever do that I'll be sure to announce it here. Have a nice day yourself!

Sorry to hear that! I've gotten a few messages before about this issue, and the problem is that since I am myself not from the US, my options are also limited :( a lot of patreon alternatives don't work for me because they either don't go through paypal, take insane currency conversion fees, or just straight up block me from signing up.

Speak for yourself, I just assume everyone I speak to online has committed some sort of atrocious crime until proven otherwise. Except for me - of course. I have never done anything bad in my life.

I still have a lot to learn! But I will basically use whatever works for me at the moment, as well as make a sincere effort to learn about musculature and anatomy so I can understand those components and how they move, instead of only knowing what they look like when still - that's how you get better at drawing from memory. Volume mostly comes from coloring and understanding light, which is it's own beast but can very much be learned from similar reference materials and observing it IRL!

My favorite places to get reference are medical diagrams, weird pictures I take of myself, 3D software (often Virt-a-mate) and questionably phrased image google searches.

My favorite artists are Jason Shawn Alexander and Sean Murphy, but I'm not sure how much of it reflects in my art nowadays! I generally seek to pick up techniques from artists rather than to emulate style.

Honestly I love that you guys generally do the thing he would hate the most: take him very non-seriously LOL

I've been in a real Chelsea Wolfe and Amyl And The Sniffers kick lately! But usually you'll also find me listening to stuff like Boy Harsher, Swans, FWF, JK Flesh Lingua Ignota, Nick Cave, David Bowie, and so on. Music for the weird gays, basically.

I went insane and wrote a 23-chapter-long-and-still-ongoing fic in like four months. But also - I'm not that good, I'm just shamelessly pretentious LOL

Hm. That's a good question, but I'm not really sure. Sincerely not trying to be a edgier-than-thou here (in fact, this has made me a little self conscious at one time or another) but a lot of art that I don't mean to be horror-y in nature at all has been associated with the genre. So perhaps I don't know what I'm doing either, LOL.

I think just leaning on making things look slightly "wrong" or "ugly" on purpose is the way, but I also find that if you just seek to depict people as they are instead of idealized versions of themselves, you will arrive at that either way.

Thank you for reading! Honestly, I'm guilty of having not read much at all since I was in my late teens, and the style I'm employing for ANE is very different from the things I would call "influential" for me, or even that I used to enjoy reading at all before. I read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk as a youth (and, no slight to people who do like him still, but nowadays I'm not sure why I ever did. His stories don't speak to me at all anymore) as well a lot of weird experimental lit that I didn't even care to remember the name of. My last book stint from one or two years ago was composed solely of historical and medical literature, and last year I got really into Cormac Mcarthy thanks to the internet.

So, all in all, I'm absolutely all over the place LOL if you put a gun to my head and told me to list my favorite books, I'd say The Indifferent Stars Above and Blood Meridian.

(Consider the reading portion of the question to have been answered above) I really really liked Beau is Afraid and think it's a really great "horror" movie. Sue me.

[lynzishell]

The Past 💛 Atlas

Now that I’ve spoken it out loud, I can’t ignore the strangeness around Ash anymore. The nightmares, the flashes of memory that don’t belong to me, and now, what feels like someone else’s words coming out of my mouth.

I’ve decided to keep some distance until I can figure this out, even if the very idea of it has me twisted up in knots.

As usual, when I arrive at work, he’s already there, joking around with Evan and Lex. I make a point to walk back by the windows to my desk, so I won’t have to face him. I know I’ll need to talk to him eventually, but I have no idea what I’m going to say, and now doesn’t seem like the time or place to say it anyway.

So, I avoid him. I avoid the situation. I avoid myself.

I sit at my desk, put my earbuds in, and I retreat to a familiar place deep within. And I work. I work through lunch despite the protests from my stomach. I don’t stop working until six o’clock, long past when Ash usually leaves. I don’t know if he tried to say hello or goodbye. I don’t even remember the day.

When I finally look up, the office is nearly empty, and the sun has just started to sink toward the horizon.

Rather than taking my usual route home, I take a right out of the building and head toward the gym. No one else is going tonight, but that's fine. I just need to think, and I think best when I'm climbing or running.

But I only make it two blocks before I hear his footsteps behind me, moving quickly along the wet concrete as he tries to catch up. I hadn’t even realized it rained today. The sky is clear now, but the moisture has left the air feeling sticky and unseasonably warm.

My heart jumps when I feel his hand tap my shoulder even though I was expecting it. I take a breath and turn to face him.

“Hey,” his greeting is like a hand reaching into a dark well, reaching down to try and pull me up from where I’ve retreated deep inside myself. His eyes search the darkness in mine. I can’t tell if he can see me or not.

He squints slightly and I know then that he can’t. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I say automatically.

“Everything’s fine?”

“Yeah.”

He squints harder, and the corners of his mouth pull down into a frown, “Did I do something wrong?”

The confusion in his voice twists at my stomach and I have to focus on staying upright, on keeping all the muscles in my face and shoulders relaxed. It’s not easy, but I’ve had two decades of practice and I’m better at it than I’d like to admit. “No,” I say simply. Keeping my answers short to keep the emotion out of them.

Then it happens. I watch as his eyes harden like stones. This is it. This is when I fuck everything up. I can feel it, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But maybe it’s for the best. I can’t risk him getting close to me.

“Atlas, what the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Do you think I’m stupid?”

The sharpness in his tone makes me flinch, cracking my armor, and I feel my brows pull together, “No,” emotion sneaks into my voice, drawing out the word.

“Atlas, I—” he seems to struggle for a moment. I wait, desperate to reach out to him, to put my hand on his arm and reassure him, but I’m trapped. My armor has become a cage, as it so often does. Helpless, I listen as he tries again, “I like you, a lot, and we had a really great time the other night, but… you said you’d call and you didn’t, which is fine, like, people get busy, it’s whatever… but you’ve spent the entire day acting like I don’t  exist and now you’re telling me everything is fine, acting as if nothing happened, making me feel like I’m fucking delusional or something. Do you have any idea how awful that feels?”

Yes. I feel myself deflate, a wave of shame pouring over me. I don’t think I can hate myself more than I do in this moment, realizing that I am indeed my mother's son. “I’m sorry,” I try to infuse as much sincerity into the words as I can, but they still fall flat.

“Right. You wanna tell me what’s going on then?”

“I can’t do this, Ash, I’m sorry. I think we should just be friends.” I let it out in a rush, unable to look him in the eye.

“Friends?”

I nod.

“You know, a ‘friend’ would’ve had the decency to talk to me about this rather than avoiding me.”

“I know, I’m—”

“Sorry. Yeah. I got that. Can you tell me why?”

“Because…” I sigh, grabbing on to the only explanation I can think of that makes any sense, “because we work together. I just… I don’t date people I work with.” It’s not necessarily a lie. I usually don’t consider my co-workers part of the eligible dating pool. But maybe if things were different, I’d’ve made an exception.

“You don’t date people you work with?”

“That’s right.”

He scoffs, “This would’ve been good information for you to share with me a lot sooner. I really don’t appreciate being led on.”

“I know, I didn’t mean… I got caught up. I shouldn’t have. I really am sorry.”

His head drops away from me, “Yeah, me too,” he says to the ground more than me, nudging a rock with his shoe. “So, friends then? That’s what you want?”

No. “Yes.”

He nods, still looking at the ground as he takes a deep breath. “Okay.” He finally looks back up at me, his eyes shining, not with their usual playfulness and excitement, but with tears threatening to spill over. I’ve hurt him. “Okay,” he says again, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He turns around abruptly before I can respond and starts walking away.

I stand there for a moment, stunned. Everything about this feels wrong. I want to take it back. And I nearly call out to him, tell him to wait, that I didn't mean it. But then he reaches a hand up, wiping his face, and I stop myself. I've done enough damage already.

I was wrong earlier. It turns out I can hate myself more.

Prev // Next

[yuri-is-online]

Seven Plus One Happy Haunts (An 800 Followers Thank You)

"NRC is having a culture festival?" You blurt out, immediately drawing the attention of everyone in your class. Normally this interruption would be met with a swift smack, but the thought doesn't even flicker across Crewel's mind much to the envy of your classmates. Instead, something similar to a stress headache seems to work it's way across his face as he takes a brief pause to breathe.

"I take it the Headmage has neglected to inform you of this?" He says it like a question, but really it sounds more like he is begging you to prove him wrong. "He was supposed to ask your permission."

"Permission for what?!" You try not to sound too panicked but that's difficult when Crewel's normal sternness re-emerges to silence Ace and Deuce's whispers.

"Sit!" He cracks his crop and returns to the black board. "And Yuu, once classes are done for the day, meet me back here. It will be much easier for me to explain things to you and Grim than sending you on a wild crow chase." Oh you don't like the sound of that at all. ~~~~ By the time classes are over, you are drooping under the weight of an entire school's worth of whispers and surprised you remember your way back to your Homeroom.

"Where's Grim?" Crewel asks, though he doesn't sound terribly worried. So it's bad news bad news.

"He decided to ditch me for Ace and Deuce and I didn't have the energy to chase him down, sorry." Your book bag drops with just as dramatic a thunk as you do.

"Let me make you a coffee, you are going to need some." Crewel sighs. "As you might be aware, culture festivals tend to involve things like booths and side show games."

"Typically they're run by the classes or clubs, right?" You aren't really liking where this is going.

"In anime and at normal schools yes. And if this had been any other year that would be the case for us too but someone-" the same tension headache from this morning reappears, "got the bright idea to suggest that we form groups by putting the entire student body into an ai generator of some sort to encourage team work or something like that."

"Oh." No wonder Crewel can't seem to tell the difference between the containers where he keeps the instant coffee packets and the wet wipes. "Are you ok? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Very sweet of you to offer pup." He lets you take over the coffee and smiles gratefully when he sees you move to make him a tea. "But back to how this effects you, one of those groups got the bright idea to run a Haunted House, and the Headmage suggested they use Ramshackle for 'authenticity's sake' and generously offered them your assistance as well."

"Compared to some of the other things he's done I guess it could be worse?" Not that you are thrilled, your tone makes that clear. "I mean it's a haunted house, it could be fun. What is it you want me to help out with anyway?"

"That's what they've been arguing over." Crewel looks and sounds very, very tired as you finally notice the growing chatter of voices just outside the classroom door that is finally making an entrance alongside a very familiar face.

"I'm telling you, it makes the most sense for Yuu to help me!"

notes: Thank you all so much for 800 followers! Normally I'd run an event but I got a wee bit burnt out with the last one, so please accept this humble Haunted Mansion themed offering~ And feel free to guess who is who, I originally intended this to be a Halloween themed thing so I picked most of the cast members from boys people thought were getting neglected from the SSR pool (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Emphasis on most

Haunt 1- Host With the Most: Vil

Haunt 2- Manipulating the Buyers: Rollo

Haunt 3- Life Lines

Haunt 4- Tie the Knot Tango

Haunt 5- Nevermore

Haunt 6- Life Hereafter

Haunt 7- Rest in Peace

Bonus Haunt- ???

Taglist: @nothingfuninthislife