#i just really wanna kiss him

[silverselfshippingchaos]

k.abru d.ungeon m.eshi the man that you are...

[luffysprincess]

Thinking about kissing izuku and kissing izuku and then kissing izuku some more ᡣ𐭩

[theloveinc]

Togame Jo’s greeting kisses to you are always way too long.

The kind of affection that’s usually savored in private, instead displayed wherever, whenever, and every single time you see each other—he always takes two to three minutes just to kiss you hello, abandoning the task at hand (dozing off, attending to Choji, managing the Shishitoren) to mosey your way and pull your lips to his in something just a little too sloppy to be sweet, but a little too sweet to be… too distasteful.

Everyone’s used to it by now, even Sakura, knowing that when you arrive, there’s always a going to be a pause in action just for the sappy display of Togame drooping over you and announcing you to the crowd physically.

(What’s not readily exposed, however, and especially not in a room full of men, is that it’s not just a kiss Togame’s giving you, not just a hello that he hides behind his long bangs and your cheeks between his warm hands, but the kindest stare and sweetest little whisper, “missed you, baby,” as he wraps you up in his arms.)

[m1d-45]

room 11-13

summary: albedo is weird. no, not just weird- disgustingly strange.

word count: ~2.5k

-> warnings: implied stalking [him -> you] ; he is a weird creep!! brief + non described mentioned nudity (of reader, within a drawing)

-> gn reader (you/yours) in a modern au !

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

your roommate was… interesting, to say the least. not that you really had many expectations—unlike apparently everyone else, you didn’t come to university with a plethora of friends packed in your bag. you had no names to list on your housing contract, no familiar faces to look forward to when you came home, just you, a handful of cardboard boxes and a lingering sense that you’d forgotten something.

there was nothing you could pin about him. nothing in specific, no one catalyst you could point to. sure, you don’t see him often, but that isn’t inherently a bad thing. there’s nothing wrong with not going out much, there’s nothing wrong with being a quiet person when you’re living with a stranger. the common room is clean, the sink is (relatively) empty, and none of your things in the fridge have been eaten. he really, by all standards, should be a perfectly fine roommate, but…

albedo was a quiet man. you first met him when you moved in, delicately pouring exact amounts of water into a small tins over the sink without a single sound or stray droplet. he looked up, you exchanged names, and that was that. the rest of your day was spent unpacking in your room, barely hearing the click of his door closing.

you never quite asked what he was doing that first day, but you could put two and two together. he had a habit of leaving pencils or erasers or other supplies on the coffee table, and you often ran into him when he came out of his room to fetch them. you’re not quite sure how you never see him in the living room when you never told him your schedule, but… well, whatever. it didn’t take a genius to know that the guy with charcoal smears across his hands was an artist. and, if you’d somehow missed those, you sometimes ran into half-used palette in the fridge, beads of paint in a myriad of colors sealed neatly in plastic containers, changing every time you checked.

you weren’t sure why they were always there, as you’d definitely seen one when he was in the dorm, but… well, it’s not really your business, is it? maybe he’s busy, maybe he doesn’t want to paint, maybe he’s taking a nap, who cares. you grab what you need and go back to your room; there’s more important things to worry about than a stranger’s hobbies. honestly, you shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about him. you could hardly claim to know someone you never saw.

well, except when you did see him.

you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge as you came back from your chemistry lab, not minding the usual palette of paint beside it. also as usual, you heard his door open as he remembered some random item, not minding the sound of his footsteps as you receded into your own room-

“wait! ah- please…”

you forgotten what his voice sounded like. it’s mostly out of shock, not recognition, that you turn around, seeing him lingering in the entrance to his half of the dorm. his hair is loose around his shoulders, catching the light from the window and glowing gold. his apron is stained with a rainbow of paint, matching the perpetual lines across his hands, and he seems a bit too nervous to be talking with someone he’s been living with for a few months now.

“…i couldn’t make it to the lab today,” he starts, words measured and not at all like his original call, practiced instead of panicked. “could i borrow your notes?”

…you’re in the same chemistry class? you’d never noticed. then again, you’re not sure you could pick him out of a crowd—it’s not like you two were exactly close… but giving him your data was honestly a non-issue. normally you wouldn’t think twice about it, except if he was in your lab section then he should know the rules about missing them.

“you’re going to have to retake the lab anyway, aren’t you? my report won’t help you at all.”

he blinks, like he’d forgotten that fact, and you half hope that’ll be the end of it. you still have your own work to get to, after all.

“still… it would give me something to reference, so when i do it i’ll know if my results are reasonable.” his brows are drawn, genuinely worried, crystal blue carrying a surprising amount of emotion despite the careful cadence of his words. “i’d greatly appreciate your assistance on this matter… i don’t have a reliable way to contact anyone else in the class.”

it only takes you a few moments to weigh the pros and cons. at worst, your partner can back you up if he tries to steal your work. at best, nothing happens and you’ve earned a bit of goodwill.

you shrug, taking off your bag and setting it on the counter, unzipping the main pocket and digging for your lab manual. you find it and flip to today’s lab, mentally wondering what an artist would think of the irritated scribbles down the side of the page. whatever the case, you hold it out toward the hallway he was before, only to find him barely a foot away. he’s stood over your shoulder, letting your manual bump into his chest without a flinch, without an ounce of the worry from before.

without an ounce of anything at all, really. his face is flat, empty, just staring down at the words in front of him without seeming to read them at all.

“…sorry,” you start, “i didn’t hear you-”

“don’t be sorry.” with a blink, he’s back, taking the manual with a gentle smile. ���thank you for your help. i’ll return it by tonight.”

“…yeah, take your time.”

you’re not going to question what or why whatever happened did. it’s.. just easier if you don’t. you grab your bag and go to your room, focused on anything else.

you don’t find it in the common area, on the coffee table or by the sink or in any reasonable area. he doesn’t knock on your door to return it. no, instead, you trip over it the next day as you leave your room, squinting in the dark to see it laying on the carpet, a note taped to the front.

yeah, you’re not reading that. not now, at least. you’re certain albedo is a nice guy, if socially awkward, but… you can give him the benefit of the doubt later. you shove the note in a drawer and forget about it, going to class. if you just ignore it, you won’t have to deal with it.

it must not have been anything important, because he doesn’t ever bring it up again. it’s almost as if nothing happened. there’s a new pencil on the common room whenever you walk by, he ducks his head and smiles sheepishly when grabbing it, and nothing is new. you try to look for him in the lab, if only to be courteous, but never find him. it’s not a big class… but whatever, you’re not too familiar with his face anyway. after a week or two, you stop trying.

it’s wishful thinking, really.

you have to do a double take when opening the fridge one day, the paint on the palette looking, from the corner of your eye, like a human hand. it’s just skin-toned paints, delicately mixed into a color that somewhat looks like yours.. by the looks of it, he must have fussed with the tint for a while. normally there’s only small bubbles of paint, but this is excessively fine refinement.. he must just be a perfectionist.

you can’t leave your room without running into him. not just like before, with brief intersections as he grabs what he’s forgotten, but actual interactions. he sits on the couch, drawing in a small notebook, asking you about your classes like he’s not supposed to be in his own classes. sure, he could be taking some online, but it’s like he never leaves the dorm.

he asks as usual, one day, what class you’re going to. when you finally gather your courage and ask why he himself isn’t going to the lab, he startles, like he’d forgotten he was attending. there were plenty of reasons why he wasn’t going—maybe he was in a different section of the class, or he had a car and had reduced travel time, or quite literally anything other than silence. but he sat there, staring at you like you were the one who had mixed up your schedule, with the same painfully empty look as before.

you left soon after that.

if asked to describe albedo in three words or less, you’d fumble for a few moments before landing on “fine, but weird.” if asked to do so with any other level of detail, you’d probably end up saying the exact same thing.

and that’s fine. you didn’t really expect to become best friends with your roommate. but for archons�� sake, he’s just so… uncanny.

you’ve never seen any other food in the fridge but yours. you cannot remember ever seeing or hearing him leave or enter the dorm, or ever remember not seeing some sign of him being there. his door was perpetually closed, the faint sound of scratching coming from behind it, and he’d just… freeze at random. like he recedes into himself, leaving a hollow husk until he returns, eyes left as flat disks set into an unfeeling face. there’s nothing inherently wrong with not showing many expressions, but whatever he’s got going on is far more concerning than that.

so really, who could blame you for being curious? his sketchbook is just there, laying open on the table, only partially masked by the small bag of supplies next to it. the door to the bathroom is closed, you really shouldn’t be invading his privacy like this, but it’s not like he even bothered to close it.

still, it’s wrong.

still, having something solid to point to could really help if you ever need to make a complaint to an RA.

oh archons, this is such a bad idea.

before you can convince yourself not to, you walk over and sit in his usual place on the couch, picking up his sketchbook and gritting your teeth through the fact that there’s no way this is morally justified.

the current spread is plain. it’s entirely in pencil, repeated iterations of different kinds of jewelry. rings, with ornate spirals and diamonds along the sides, leading into a gem of many different cuts. some simple stud earrings, some hoops, a necklace draped around a half-drawn bust, the chain sketched to look like blooming flowers strung together. there’s some notes in another script, but other than that, it’s entirely normal. there’s nothing weird about a guy that draws bracelets in his spare time. but your mind itches to find a justification, searching for proof, and you’re already in too deep. despite your better judgement, you turn the page, doing your best not to drop it when you do.

it’s you.

you, at least six times on two pages alone. smiling, waving, fixing your hair, by the seven you feel faintly sick, fingers digging into the pages as you try to rationalize what you’re seeing.

it could just be a one off. maybe you have a particularly interesting face to draw? except the next page is the same, and so is the next, and you flip through them all with the edge of your thumb and it’s all you.

all of it. every single page that has ink on it has your face. from the very front to the very back, with only a page or two of white left, and it’s clear that the jewelry was an intentional decoy. there’s a spread dedicated to just your hands, one to various outfits he’s seen you in, one- archons, one in various stages of undress, barely granting you the dignity of keeping them from the waist up. the worst part, really, is how accurate they are, clear proof of just how much time he’s spent staring at you.

you recognize his voice now, quiet and measured as he calls your name. that could just be your heart in your ears, though.

he has that same blank expression again, standing in the doorway, looking between you and the book. you’re certain he can see the paled fingertips of your grip on the cover. “do… do you not like them?”

“…what?”

he settles back into himself, sad, shoulders slumping and eyes downturned. “they’re just practices, i promise. the actual painting looks much better…”

bile threatens the back of your throat. “the painting?”

“yes, the painting. the one i mentioned in my note…”

…the note. his note. the one you didn’t read. the one he gave you after a grand total of one significant interactions, before which you all but considered him a ghost. and he decided that making a painting of you was a normal thing to do?

“…it makes sense you forgot it. i can’t imagine i’ve ever come close to properly capturing your beauty… it doesn't matter the medium, i never seem to get it right...”

he crosses his arms, picking idly at his lips with one hand, like he’s discussing a particularly annoying problem on his homework and not the fact that he has drawings of you topless. after a few moments of mumbling, he shakes his head. “i’ll do better. i promise i will. one day i'll draw something that finds even a fraction of your perfection.”

you don’t care. all you want is to get out of here, to lock your doors and try not to call the cops while he’s in earshot. “it’s fine, albedo”

the lie is a poison that seems to sting him upon arrival, a ripple of shock crossing his impassive expression. “it's not fine, not at all. how can i call myself an artist if i fail to impress my muse? please, give me time, i promise i can do better-”

“it’s fine,” you repeat, setting the sketchbook down and realizing with another stab of disgust that he’s written your name on the front cover. you stand, hands buzzing with the echo of what you’ve witnessed, not caring for the crestfallen look on his face. “…you’re a talented artist,” you grit out.

and you’re going to be sick.

[a-stars-art-blog]

Finished the wips from yesterday

[moonstonediaz]

have we talked about how tommy says “i’d love that” when bucks says he should buy him a beer 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 he doesn’t brush him off with a noncommittal oh yeah we should do that sometime, no. he’s so earnest and genuine yes buck i would LOVE that slskslsk tomtom had it bad from 0:01

[skitskatdacat63]

Please take my low effort shitpost of our two Aston flopboys

Basically:

[i-ran-into-a-lampost]

Mebius ep 44 be like

[magicicephoenix]

ok it seems i’ve added “make a sona” to my list of things i wanna do

[tartagliove]

CHRISTMAS MARKET AND HOLIDAY LIGHTS DATE twelve days of selfshipmas ✧ day two ✧ cyno x zebra

chilly winter air, meandering from stall to stall, crisp and sweet churros, live christmas music, buying cute gifts for friends, warm and cheesy pretzels, sea of glimmering lights, a kiss to end the night.

zebra: cyno, there are too many flavors! how am i supposed to pick just one?

cyno: we're almost at the front of the line, my love. you’ll have to choose.

zebra: noooo! i'm still deciding between two of them.

cyno: which two are your favorites? we can order both to share.

zebra: really? that's perfect, thank you!

[embarasseddragon234]

when the teenager who magicked himself into your secret lair just casually drops the most traumatic sounding story you've ever heard like it's nothing

(Part of my Tired Dad Duckula Au, basically 80s!Duckula is 2015!Duckula's dad. )

I drew this like 2 years ago in my sketchbook and never posted it, so I decided to do it up digitally a little

[slightlyunconventional]

long overdue second dbhwks fic (2.8k)

SLAVED AWAY at this for days (i didnt. i could have done it in one but i procrastinated so much it’s unbelievable. but heres some food) quite happy w how it came out too if i do say so myself,, hope u enjoy!! 🫶

-

“Sorry I’m late.” Dabi. He’s picked the damn lock again. 

“Oh my god, do you seriously not know how to knock?” Hawks calls back, practically skipping into the living room. 

“Don’t wanna stand around outside your door like a creep, thanks,” deadpans the villain. Hawks rolls his eyes.

“You look like more of a creep picking the lock, but sure. Come here.”

He takes Dabi by the hand and leads him toward the couch. His fingers are warm, like usual. God, has Hawks missed that. Between hero work, villainy, and conflicting schedules they’d barely had time to see each other and, man, was it miserable. It takes everything in him not to bowl Dabi over with an absolutely suffocating embrace - it’d probably kill the man. 

Dabi raises his eyebrows. “You cleaned?” 

Hawks had expected Dabi to notice, but not point it out, so he’s a little caught off guard by the halfway-question. “Oh, yeah,” he says, a fraction sheepishly, “Is it too much?”

“Mm, no, looks good,” Dabi smirks, “Makes a nice change from all the crap you’ve usually got lying around.” Hawks hits him playfully and he laughs, clear and smooth, not at all like the peals brimming with malice he’d usually hear from Dabi.

“Uuugh, I hate you, leave me alone,” he complains. When Dabi’s eyebrows raise again, Hawks pulls a face and adds, “I’m a busy man! I don’t have time to clean!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m flattered.”

He sits Dabi down on the couch, maybe a little too eagerly, and comes down to straddle the taller man’s lap. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, before pressing his lips to Dabi’s with an urgency that only comes from being deprived of seeing one’s lover for far too long. Dabi loosens underneath Hawks and they quickly fall into a long practised pattern, all pretences dropped for this moment of touch-starved tenderness. Nothing exists outside of this room, everything is so warm, and Hawks melts even more when he feels Dabi smile against his lips.

“Seems like someone missed me,” murmurs the villain, voice sleek and low. The response is simply a hand laced through the dyed-black hair at the back of Dabi’s head, taking hold of him and pulling him closer with nothing short of absolute need. In turn, Dabi’s hands find the small of Hawks’ back, and heat begins to pool in his stomach as they slowly threaten to sneak closer to the bases of his wings. And his lips are warm, so warm, and he always seems to know exactly what to do with them to make Hawks collapse like putty in his hands. For a crazed villain who incinerates shit for fun, Dabi’s a fucking good kisser. 

…And a tease, apparently! Hawks knows that Dabi knows how badly he wants this, and how long he’s been waiting - yet he still seems to be taking his sweet time. He can feel the villain absently tracing circles into his back, with the same pace as his mouth is working against Hawks’. The little shit. He knows exactly what he’s doing; well, two can play at that game. Hawks takes it as a challenge, takes Dabi’s scarred face between his hands, and takes control. He presses closer, kissing the man with some previously unseen vigour, practically forcing him to match the increased pace. A little wave of triumph passes through Hawks as he hears Dabi’s breath catch in the back of his throat, nearly silent, but they’re close enough that nothing can really go unheard. Feeling like he’s succeeded, Hawks goes to indulge further, perhaps elicit some more reactions like that, when he feels Dabi’s hand leave his back. Before he can register it properly, the hand is upon his chest, pushing with some insistence. Hawks pulls away, panicked.

“Oh, shit, fuck, sorry, was that too much?”

The arm Dabi has outstretched towards Hawks’ chest slackens slightly, as do his facial features. He doesn’t reply, but rather his lips part and his eyes glaze over, forming an expression so laced with vulnerability that Hawks is almost taken aback - though, he can’t dwell on the display for long, as he’s quickly instead watching Dabi bring his other hand, curled tightly into a fist, up to his own face and press it most firmly to the underside of his nose. His chest rises once with an inhale not unlike before, only this time a little louder and deeper, and he ducks forward slightly with two slightly-awkwardly stifled sneezes.

“hhahh-! ..hh’nGXT! kxNTsh! Ugh, fuck.”

“Oh!” Hawks says, a little surprised, “Bless you.” A part of him wants to chide the villain for holding it in like that, but he refrains, knowing full well he himself would stifle exactly the same.

Dabi hums in lieu of a thanks, and Hawks returns his hand to his boyfriend’s face and leans back in.

“Can I go back to kissing you now?” he murmurs.

Dabi rolls his eyes but drapes his arms lazily over Hawks’ shoulders, an invitation, yes, you can go back to kissing me now. Their lips interlock once again, picking up where they left off, with Hawks feeling absolutely on top of the world from the fact that he’s doing the work here, he’s the one kissing Dabi, not the other way around. He’s never been opposed to Dabi taking control, in fact he loves being ravaged by the man, but sue him, sometimes it feels good to be the one doing the ravaging. However, his elation at this seems to be poorly concealed, or perhaps Dabi just wants to knock him down a peg, because Hawks feels teeth closing on his bottom lip. Not so hard that it hurts, but just enough to tease an audible gasp from him as he tenses up on Dabi’s lap. He’s fairly certain he’s never needed someone all over him so badly until this point. Clearly it shows, too, since Dabi insists on being such a menace and playing the long game with him. Well, Hawks decides that’s not going to fly; he presses in closer, almost entirely closing the gap between them and slides his other hand behind Dabi’s head, not-so-subtly tugging him closer and kissing him harder, once more regaining the upper hand. He takes to gently thumbing back and forth against the base of Dabi’s neck, to which the man lets out, involuntarily, a little noise of satisfaction, finally accepting submission. Hawks is almost tempted to bite Dabi back, but maybe that’d be pushing his luck. Besides, this side of Dabi - soft, pliant, accepting - is one he rarely sees, and he’s kind of into it. It’s a good look on the villain. 

Before long, however, their rhythm is broken once again. One of the arms laying around Hawks’ neck begins to move, and the hand meets his shoulder. Hawks has a sneaking feeling he knows what’s coming (for the second time), as Dabi’s hand pushes against his shoulder - slowly, though, as if he’s really trying to prolong the inevitable. It really doesn’t seem like he wants to pull away, so Hawks does it for him, gently separates their faces, strangely endeared by Dabi’s reluctance - and it seems he did so at exactly the right moment. Being so close to him, Hawks can easily see the way his face immediately crumples, eyes flickering shut and lips parting with an inhale that sounded as though it had been waiting to be drawn for… a while. In a split second, he’s tugging the sleeve of his hoodie over his hand with some urgency, and Hawks catches the flare of his nostrils right before he pinches his nose, clamping the thick black fabric over the bottom half of his face. There’s hardly six inches between the two of them, so Dabi twists awkwardly to the side with a set of cruelly stifled sneezes.

“hh’GKTtch! ‘KXXSHh! Ugh, god– h-hahH’KGXt’sh!”

They sound harsher this time around, harder to stifle, probably.

“Bless,” says Hawks, “You okay?”

“Mm… yeah, just something really… stings,” Dabi replies. He’s knuckling the side of his nose with some force.

“You’re, uh, not getting sick are you?” Hawks asks, unable to conceal the tinge of nervousness that seeps into his tone. As much as he loves the man, he’s got some long days on patrol coming up soon, and a cold from Dabi would severely compromise him.

Dabi raises an eyebrow. “I’m not that much of an asshole, Kei.”

“Right-! Yeah, no, of course not. Sorry, I didn’t really think there.” Hawks grimaces internally at himself, and Dabi shakes his head.

“Ugh, Jesus, hold on–” He turns away again, breath wavering, “hehh’nGXKt!” A shaky exhale escapes from him as he releases his nose.

“So, what’s got you all worked up, then?” asks Hawks, teasing.

Dabi half-sighs, half-groans, and replies, “Don’t know, but I wish it would fucking stop.” As if for emphasis, the sentence is punctuated with an irritated-sounding sniffle.

“Well, it probably would if you stopped stifling like that,” Hawks says pointedly. That earns him a hazy blue-eyed glare… that doesn’t last long, since Dabi’s squinting again, and his mouth curls up into the beginnings of something akin to a snarl. Hawks smirks as he ducks into the crook of his sweater-clad elbow to muffle yet another sneeze.

“hehH’DSHHh’uh! What the fuck?”

At least he didn’t stifle it.

Hawks hums. “Bless you.” He sends a feather to retrieve a box of tissues, then decides the villain probably also needs some space, so he manoeuvres himself gracelessly off Dabi’s lap to sit beside him on the couch. 

“Very elegant,” Dabi remarks.

“Ugh, shut up,” he replies, elbowing Dabi in the ribs. The laugh this elicits almost straight away rises into a staggered gasp, that itself turns into a pair of hastily covered sneezes.

“hhahH’KXXTshuh! hh’huuhh’DZSHHhue!”

“Jeez, bless you.”

Dabi sniffles thickly. “Yeah.”

Hawks’ feather zips back into the room and drops a box of tissues into Dabi’s lap - the thicker, softer ones that the hero always insists on buying despite them being double the price of regular ones. 

“Sounds like they’re getting stronger,” Hawks observes, a note of concern in his tone, but then adds, more teasingly, “Not allergic to me, are you?”

Dabi scoffs and tugs a couple of tissues from the box. “I wish,” he says, scrubbing at his nose. “Then I’d actually have an excuse to avoid your annoying ass.”

“Wow, okay, that was so uncalled for. Just say you hate me at that point.”

It’s Dabi’s turn to elbow Hawks back. He probably deserves it. 

 “Ow, bitch,” he says in mock offence. 

“You’re the bitch,” comes the reply, from behind a handful of tissues (which are then promptly screwed up and tossed, flying in a neat arc, straight into the trash on the other side of the room). 

“Whatever, bitch. Are you done sneezing yet? This couch isn’t as comfy as your thighs-”

“Ugh, shut up, you are so weird,” Dabi interjects in fond disgust. 

“Oh my god, what if you’re allergic to my apartment being clean? Then I never have to clean ever again, hah!”

Dabi gives him a look. “You say that as a joke, but honestly, you migh-might be right…hh.. hehH’KXNTtsh’uh!”

Dabi’s expression falls midway through his sentence, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing as he gives into another sneeze, hastily half-stifled against the back of his hand.

“Seriously,” Hawks deadpans, eyebrows raised. That’s new, he thinks.

“Well, unless you’ve suddenly acquired a pet cat - which I doubt - then yeah, seriously,” says the villain flatly, though with a note of congestion starting to creep into his voice. “Last I checked, your place didn’t reek of fuckin’ –all of spring and then some.” 

Hawks suddenly remembers the air freshener he’d used–the only one he had, some floral one found right at the back of a cupboard, unused for entirely too long. He hadn’t had a clue what clean apartments were supposed to smell of, so he’d sort of just… went ham with it. Definitely a mistake.

“Don’t slander my choice in scents,” he teases, “Are you sure it’s… that?”

“Nothing else changed ‘round here, has it?” Dabi pauses to give his nose a brief rub. “I’m here practically every week and I’ve been fine, so, you tell me.”

Hawks will never not poke the bear when he’s got the opportunity, so he says, “So this does mean I never have to clean the place ever again, right?”

Dabi’s mouth falls open as he feigns offence. He says, dramatically, “Wow. That’s all you have to say? When I could literally die right now in front of you? I’m.. hah- I’m-”

Hawks snickers. “Bless you,” he sing-songs prematurely, utterly pleased with himself. It’s almost cute, the attempted glare Dabi gives him through his glazed over expression. Nobody can look menacing in the slightest when they’re trying not to sneeze (and that’s a fact!).

“Sh-shut uhhhp..” replies Dabi, his voice quavering. He lifts a hand slowly, bringing it to hover weakly before his face. His breathing is unsteady and his eyes half-lidded, and the crease between his dark brows deepens.

“Okay, point proven, idiot,” Hawks says with a laugh, “Just sneeze, this is torture even for me.”

The hazy glare returns, and Hawks clocks it. 

“Oh!” he laughs, giving Dabi a slightly bewildered smile. “Oh my god, I jinxed it. You deserve that ‘cause you’re mean to me.”

“I hahh-hate you-” Dabi responds breathily. He rubs at the side of his nose with two knuckles, pressing decently harder than is probably necessary. The bridge crinkles in irritation when the rubbing clearly has no effect. “Jesus, it won’t go away.”

“Mm, what a shame.”

There goes a third bleary glare from the villain. “I’d like to remind you wh-whose fault thhihhs.. was in the first place,” he says. Any malice intended to be behind his utterance is immediately negated by his breath catching and wavering through the words. Though, at a point, Hawks begins to feel a little… voyeuristic just watching Dabi struggle. Sure, he’s his boyfriend and all, and yeah, he’s definitely seen worse, but it’s easy to tell Dabi’s getting a little self-conscious about this… spectacle. He’s never been a fan of having things out of his control, especially not displays of vulnerability like this, and Hawks knows this, so why prolong it?

“Well, I guess there’s only one thing for it,” he says, taking matters into his own hands. 

“Fuck off- what–” Dabi gets out, as Hawks takes his face between his hands and begins to press kisses softly down the bridge of his nose. Hawks doesn’t let him twist away from it, trying not to laugh to himself about how dumb this probably looks. At least one of them is having fun. He considers pulling away with a “Gonna sneeze yet?”, but refrains - he’d probably end up on fire. He does, however, pause for a moment when he reaches Dabi’s trio of silver nose studs, hovering. There’ve been feathery, wavering breaths coming from his boyfriend consistently but, nothing has come to fruition, so Hawks decides–those piercings have always been sensitive, a fact he’d discovered about Dabi rather early on (and maybe, possibly sometimes used to be a menace). He plants a final, delicate kiss right upon where the three studs lie, and finally lets Dabi pull away.

“Oh, oh, fuck– s-screw you–hh’ehH’IIDTSSHh’uh! ‘kXXTS’SHhue! …Christ, you’re such an ass.” The pair of sneezes that result are harsh to say the very least. And even after all that, he still tries stifling the second– unsurprising, but at that point is it even worth it?

 “Sorry! I had to!” Hawks says, really trying to look like he isn’t laughing. It doesn’t work.

“You absolutely did not have to,” corrects Dabi. 

“Okaaay, okay, sorry. It was funny though.”

“Yeah, for you, maybe,” Dabi mutters, shaking his head, “Oh, fuck’s sake, hold on–”

“I’ll wait till you’re done to say bless you, this time,” says Hawks with a fond snicker. 

“Good plah-an–! hhuh’hHDSHH’SHuh! …Ugh, fuck.”

“Bless,” Hawks replies. He averts his eyes, a little sheepishly. Dabi pulls a face.

He asks, “What the fuck’s with the guilty face?” to which Hawks throws his head back with a groan and slides his hands across his face.

“I just wanted to do something nice,” he says, “You know, clean the place up a bit. Since it’s always kind of a massive mess.”

“Jesus, Kei, I don’t care about that,” says Dabi, breathing a laugh. “It’s you I’m here for, not your fuckin’ apartment. I can kiss you whether or not there’s crap on every surface.”

Hawks isn’t used to Dabi outright saying nice things, so his cheeks flush slightly hearing this. He’s unsure what to say. Thankfully, Dabi speaks again.

“Okay. Where didn’t you spray that shit?”

Hawks scoffs. “I sort of went crazy with it, uh… my bedroom? If that works?”

“Very forward,” Dabi replies, raising his eyebrows. “Almost like you wanted me in there.”

Hawks jabs him in the ribs but still smirks. “Yeah, maybe I did.”

[crispycreambacon]

H. Hi everyone. Uh. You know what I don’t need to explain myself. Who needs to watermark your art when you can just draw your sona thristing over the art amirite-

The last two people featured next to me are @madamegemknight (bless her poor soul she had no idea what introducing me to Fraggle Rock would do to me) and @couchpotato1206 (aka my bULLYYYYY /lh)

Bonus images below. Fair warning: Extremely self-indulgent. Coughs.

Note: while I’m a minor as of making this post, my sona here is an adult. Please don’t be weird about this thank you!!!

[plush-rabbit]

Next Time

Part 4 to A Bad Date and A Late Night Drive

Word Count: 7.5K

A/N: It's a night out for them!!

-

Despite Johnathan claiming that it was no trouble to him to pick you up from your apartment, you declined the offer. You needed a moment- several if you were being honest- to compose yourself before your date. 

If it can even be called that.

You aren’t entirely sure if that’s what it is. You want it to be, but you also don’t want to get ahead of yourself and expect something.

For now, you get yourself ready, donning the best of your attire and making sure your shoes have no scuff marks on them. You grab at a bag, making sure your keys, wallet, and anything else you consider important is thrown inside. While he mentioned that he would pay, you still need to pay a ride fee and you weren’t going to feel entirely comfortable without at least offering to pay half.

Spritzing yourself in perfume and letting it float in the air, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. You smooth out any wrinkles and clear your throat. There’s a nervous bubbling in your stomach, and acid creeps in your throat, and you worry about whether he’ll think you’ll look nice.

You hope he tells you that you look nice. 

Your phone buzzes against your desk, a loud noise that makes your bones rattle and nerves worsen. You reach for it, half-hoping that the date was canceled, and the other half, hoping that he’s near the restaurant. 

It’s the latter.

Your grin stretches, and you tap your heels against the floor, energy burning in you. The phone buzzes again and you check it eagerly, your spirit dampened slightly when it’s the ride share application letting you know that your driver is already here. Gasping, you look into your purse, doing one quick lookover. Your hands slam against the wall, turning off the light switches as you rush out of your home, racing down and wrinkling your outfit all over again.

The window of a car lowers and you ask the driver for their name, and with a smile, you nod to yourself, slipping into the backseat. It doesn’t take long until a conversation is formed about the status of whether this is a date or not.

“It sounds like a date,” they tell you, their jewelry shining under the passing streetlights. 

“Well he didn’t call it that,” you add, playing with the zipper on your bag. 

“He invited you out to dinner and if offering to pay,” their smile is heard through their words. “It kind of hits most of the bases for a date.” Their eyes flicker against the rearview mirror, and you smile nervously. “Is this your first time out with him?”

You open your bag and pull out your wallet. “I went on a tour at his work once- he uh, works in a lab-” you hurriedly explain, not wanting to be labeled as a stalker by a stranger- “and afterwards he gave me a lift to a coffee shop and we went for dinner after.” The driver hums and makes a turn. “And before he asked me on-” you meet their gaze in the mirror and you clear your throat- “you know, I had a bad date and he picked me up and took me to a drive-in.” Your finger traces along the spine of the wallet. 

“So it’s your third date with him,” they say with certainty. 

“No, no,” you laugh awkwardly. “I don’t think it is. I mean, I would like for it to be, but I don’t- I don’t know. What if I think it is and I treat it like it is a date, but it isn’t one for him, you know? I think I’d never speak to him again.”

“You like him.”

While why state it like a fact, you still answer. “Yes,” you sigh. “I tried not to- hence the date that I went on- but, it didn’t do anything. I think it only furthered my attraction to him. “He’s nerdy and cute. And when he talks about his work, there’s like this energy in him.”

“How tall is he?”

You don’t hold back your smile. “Tall. Like real tall.”

They nod to themselves. “And you can’t ask if it’s a date?”

You shake your head. “I know I should, but what if I am misreading everything and he just wants a friend. What if I’m supposed to be that friend and I just make it uncomfortable.”

“Do you want there to be miscommunication between the two of you?” You shake your head, and voice your answer when you remember that their attention is directed to the road. “Then ask the man.”

“I need a way to ask that isn’t so… obvious. I can’t just outright ask if it's a date or not.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I know,” you whine, “but I don’t wanna. I can’t handle rejection, you know.” You tap your wallet against your knee. 

“Okay, well you have about five minutes before we arrive, so start brainstorming.” You peek over and see the icon of the car approaching closer to the destination. 

“Right,” you breathe out. Clearing your throat, you nod to yourself. “So, Johnathan-”

They make a wrong buzzing sound that bounces in the confines of the car. “Too nervous and stiff. Relax, you know the guy.”

You roll your eyes. “Johnathan!”

“Too eager.” They throw a hand in the air. “You’re being difficult on purpose. And time is running out.” You put your wallet back into the bag.

“Hey Johnathan, I was hoping I could ask you something.” You pause and when no critics are said, you continue. “I just wanted to-” you elongate the vowel, shifting your eyes around- “I wanted to make sure that we’re on the same level. Are we, you know, on a date?” You stop and there’s no words offered. “I feel like that’s still too forward.”

“It’s the best you’re going to get.” The car slows and you see the restaurant outside, and you see Johnathan standing outside in a striped blazer, and he plays with his hands, searching around the establishment. “We’re here.”

You nod. “I think he likes me,” you say out loud.

“I think so too,” the driver replies.

“Payment,” you mumble. “I gotta pay you.” You pull open your app and add a generous tip. You grab at the door handle and turn to the driver. “Thanks for hearing me out,” you tell them.

“It’s part of the job,” they say nonchalantly. “Have fun on your date.”

Your mouth is dry, and you can’t stop looking at Johnathan. You nod eagerly, whispering out a breathless word of agreement, before stepping outside.

Jonathan spots you almost immediately, his hand going up in a wave and you smile, chest swelling with delight. You rush over, holding tightly onto the strap of your bag. You stand in front of him, and he smiles down at you, hands fisting as they fall to his side.

“Hi Johnathan,” you smile. 

“Hello,” he says your name so sweetly, and you can only tighten your hands around the strap of your bag. It feels like you’re some lovesick teenager again. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for long.” You kick at the ground, and take a look towards the street. “New York and its traffic,” you joke.

“Oh no, I wasn’t waiting for very long.” He shakes his head. His eyes dance down your view, and when he meets your gaze again, he has this soft look in his eyes. “You look very nice.”

“You think so?” You ask, your heart fluttering inside of your chest. He hums in response, nodding his head. “Thanks! I’m um, I’m glad that you think so. You look nice too. I like your blazer. It suits you.” Your hand reaches forward, grabbing at the lapel and smoothing it out. Your fingers pinch over a piece of white fuzz. It snows down on the ground and is lost on the concrete, and when you look up at him, his hand clasps around your wrist. “Ah, sorry,” you mumble. “It- I thought it would’ve-”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, saving you from a poor excuse. “I didn’t mind.” His hand lets go of your wrists, and it falls back to his side, and with it, he takes a step back. “We should go in. Our reservation was for seven o’clock and it’s-” he lifts his wrist to look at his watch- “seven past five. I uh- I don’t want you to eat somewhere else when you look so nice.”

“Lead the way,” you tell him, stepping away from him. 

He holds the door open for you, and he hollows you in, walking forward where the host makes eye contact with him and then you. Their smile is practiced and wide as they greet you. You smile in return and take your place beside Johnathan. 

“I have a reservation under Ohnn. Johnathan Ohnn,” he says with a steady voice. You wonder if he practiced the line before arriving. 

You’re too distracted by the atmosphere of the restaurant to hold any attention to the conversation happening near you. The lights are warm, a soft yellow, candles are lit at the tables. You can hear snippets of conversations, but it all turns muddled, mixed into noise that you can’t bother to decipher. When he starts to walk, you take hold of his hand, and he returns the gesture, leading you along. Glass clinks together in a sound that is backed by the sound of metal against porcelain, a soft tune that is muted under the noise of people and their joy. 

The two are you are sat at a table with a view to the outside. You can see the faint press of fingertips along the glass. Utensils are placed down at the table and menus are given, and you hold it in your hand, skimming over the bolded fonts and your eyes settle on the prices of the meals and appetizers. The candle on the tables fillers, the white wax a milky puddle that stains the glass. 

You sit at your table, letting your bag strap across your chair, and pull the menu open. If you were to be honest with him, you had already taken a peek of what was served here in an effort to prepare yourself and not be caught off guard. However, you were not prepared for the cocktail section that was adorned with pictures of what the drinks would look like.

Trying to stifle a gasp, your feet tap against the floor. “Would you think less of me if I wanted to order drinks based on the glass that they come in?” You take a glance over the menu to find him smiling.

He laughs. “Of course not. I had no idea you were one for presentations.”

You shrug. “Not necessarily. But when it comes in glasses as cute as these, I can’t help but be tempted, you know? Oh! Like look-” you turn your menu over to him- “this one is shaped like a little bird! And it has little flowers as its tail! And- And, look there’s a little bathtub with a duck! Oh Johnathan-” you turn the menu back to yourself- “they’re so cute.”

“Feel free to get what you’d like.” You look back down at the menu, and worry at your lip. “Don’t worry about the price tag, I invited you after all.”

Swallowing nervously, you look at the other page of the menu. “I can always pay for my half,” you offer. “I don’t want to take advantage or anything.”

“Really, it’s fine.” He fixes at the sleeve of his blazer, but when he lets go, it falls back into place. You’re here and I was the one to invite you and I’m fine- more than fine with paying for both of our meals. And drinks,” he quickly adds.

Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips. “What are you planning on getting?”

“I was thinking of getting- Oh, I see the waiter!” He says in a startled voice. “Do you know what you want? We can still have some more time, I just-”

“I know what I want, Johnathan,” you reassure, giving a quick scan at the menu and nodding to yourself. “I think I will get the drink.”

“Good. You should. I want you to enjoy your time here.”

“With you?”

He nods. “With me.” The flame flickers, and you hope that you get to see more of him.

As he said, the waiter stops at your table. “Hi everyone! I’ll be your waiter for tonight. So what can I get you started with?” Their tone is cheery and you nod towards Johnathan’s direction, allowing him to go first. With a roll of his eyes directed towards you, he tells the waiter what he’d like to drink. “And for you?” The attention is now towards you, and you nervously tell the waiter what drink you’d like, pointing at the picture where the decorative glass has only enticed you further. “Great choice, that’s my favorite,” they tell you with a smile. Feeling validated at the words, you nod, holding the menu together. “And are you all ready to order or do you need a few more minutes?” Johnathan nods at your direction and you stick your tongue out at him. 

“We’re ready,” you tell the waiter, pointing at your order as you tell them what you would like. You nod towards the other end of the small table and Johnathan adjusts his glasses before saying his own order.

“Great!” The waiter writes down the order and clicks the pen. “I’ll go put these in for you and I’ll be right back.”

Left alone with Jonathan and a flickering flame, you tap at the table. “So,” you wince at the fiddly tone, “how did you hear about this place?”

“One of my coworkers said that they brought their husband here. They mentioned how nice the food was.” You perk up at the word “husband” with nerves coursing through your body and running a chill up your spine.

Maybe it is a date, you think to yourself. 

“I thought that it would be nice to eat here and I-” he clears his throat and toys with the edge of the napkin that covers the utensils- “I thought that you might also enjoy it here.”

“Thanks for thinking of me,” you say, grabbing your own covered utensils and tracing along the bottom edge of the handle to one of the utensils. “Do you usually eat out at these fancy places?” You try to resist the urge to scratch at your neck. 

“No, not usually. I’m a much more reserved type of individual. I only really go to these types of places because of my coworkers or those company dinners.”

“I didn’t know that Alechmax had company dinners.”

“They’re not uncommon,” he explains. Pulling away at the paper that holds the cloth napkin together. “I don’t really like to go, but there’s free food.” He ends the sentence with a shrug.

“I don’t really get company dinners. Some of us go out for drinks, but I think I’d prefer a meal.”

Pulling at the end of his hair, he opens his mouth, only to get cut off by the waiter returning. They move the platter, and set the drinks down first. You pull the drink near the edge, leaving room for the plate. “There you go,” they say, their gaze focused on the food that sits on the platter. “For you, sir,” they say cautiously, placing the plate down in front of Johnathan. “And for you,” they continue, placing your plate in front of you. “Enjoy your dinner and let me know if you need anything else.”

“You know,” you start, tapping your finger against the glass of your drink, “I severely underestimated how much drink I was actually going to get.” The drink is now no more than a few tentative sips from disappearing. Alongside the glass remains a few drops of where the drink stains.

“Oh? Did you think it was going to be bottomless?” He asks, a sharp smile pulling on his features.

You scoff and take much more than a tentative sip that now only lets a small puddle pool at the belly of the bird. “I was distracted by the craftsmanship of the glass,” you snip at him, your voice light and twisted with dally. “I saw a cute design and decided that I needed to have the glass.”

With a fork of food near his mouth, he reminds you of an important fact. “You do know that you don’t get to keep the glass, right?”

Your smile falls and strains into a thin line. “I honestly hate that you told me that,” you whine to him, tapping your index against the stem. 

“I apologize for crushing your dreams,” he says without genuinity. 

“You know,” you muse, licking at your lips, the drink still heavy on your tongue, “I don’t think you actually mean that.”

He hums, and takes a sip of his still half-full drink. “And what can I do to make it up to you?”

With a hand resting over your heavy heart, you shake your head. “I’m afraid the damage has already been done,” you sigh. He tries to muffle a laugh behind the palm of his hand, but you still catch at it and gasp in mock-offense. “You’re laughing over my pain? That’s awful.” You can’t stop the smile that stretches across your own face, and you shake your head as you take another bite of your food. 

“I’ll get you another drink if you’d like. Maybe you can try a different one this time?” He offers, stabbing at his food with the fork. Your napkin dabs at the corner of your mouth, and you can still taste the faint traces of your drink on your tongue. “Would that make it up for you?”

Your head tilts, and you shake your head. “Mm, no.” When you meet his eyes, his own are wide and his shoulders are raised. “You’re gonna have to do more than that,” you tell him. As if on cue, the waiter stops at your table asking if everything is okay, and you can feel Johnathan’s eyes on you. “I’d uh, I’d like a glass of water, please.” You say, your voice lifting towards the end as you feel uncomfortable about asking for more. 

“Of course, and anything else?” The waiter turns to Johnathan and with a shake of his head, the waiter nods. “Okay, I’ll be right back with your glass of water.”

With the waiter of sight, Johnathan bites at his food. You look at the thinning drink in your sculpted glass, the flowers dried at the table. “You could have gotten another drink,” he tells you, and you look back at him, warmth in the shell of your ears. “You could have tried the other drink.”

You smile at him, and you hand pinches over a stem. “I’m okay.” You lift the flower and a petal falls to the table. “I like water anyways.” You tap your foot against the floor and smile at him with an impish grin. “Plus, I wouldn’t want you to think that that would make it up after all your snark.” 

“No, of course not,” he says kindly. 

A glass taps at your table, and you turn. “Your water,” the waiter tells you with a smile. You return it. “Anything else I can get for the two of you?”

“I’m okay,” you say out loud, pulling the glass towards you.

“I’m okay,” Johnathan parrots back.. 

With a clap of their hands, the waiter tells you to call if either of you need anything else, and walks away to another section. Left alone, you take a sip of your water, the ice spinning around the glass as you stir with the straw. You sit with him, and poke around at your food, taking small bites as he does the same. Silence has fallen between the two of you and you don’t think you’ll get another chance like this to confirm your worries.

“Johnathan?” You ask, setting the fork down. It clinks sweetly against the plate, and his own fork stops halfway as he looks at you. “Can I- I wanna ask you something.” His mouth covers over the fork, and you cross your ankles over the other. “It’s kinda important.” He nods his head, chewing slowly. “You invited me out and offered to pay, and I just- I wanted to know why.”

The napkin dabs against his mouth, and he takes a sip of his drink. You take a bite of your food. In a crumpled state, the napkin sits on the table and he grabs at the fork, pinching the metal between his fingers. “I wanted to spend more time with you,” he says quietly. The food goes down heavy.

Your stomach twists. That isn’t enough for you. Not now. You want him to say that this is a date, but you also realize that you have to ask for it. You chew on your lip, the mint chapstick faint on your tongue. “I want to make sure that we’re on the same page-” your fingers tap against the table- “so I have to ask, and I want you to be honest. Okay?” He nods rapidly. “Is this-” you point to both you and him- “a date?”

“Would you like it to be a date?”

You nod. “I do,” you say in a tense whisper. “Do you want it to be a date?”

“I was hoping it was. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it clear enough.”

Shaking your head, you cross your ankle over the other. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“I-” he turns his head, and looks out the window, and you follow his gaze- “I’ve dated before, but it gets harder to date and most people aren’t necessarily into scientists.” You look at him through the reflection, and you find that he’s already looking at you. “It’s nice having you as company, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable and ruin that.” 

“What made you think I wouldn’t have been interested?”

He turns his head and looks at his nearly finished plate. The fork is pinched between his fingers. “You’re pretty. And interesting to talk to. I- The most I can offer is an informative conversation about quantum mechanics and multidimensional traveling- in theories,” he adds. “I would have assumed you were searching for something more than just me.”

“I have to admit that I didn’t think you’d be my type. You got the tall, dark, and handsome all figured out, but, I dunno know. You always struck me as the type to sneer and be less than sweet. But talking to you, like actually talking to you, is nice. You’re nice. And I like that you give me rides, and I like that you’re smart.” You stare at your drink, the ice bobbing lightly. 

“I like that you listen.” You smile, and look at him. “I like you. And I would have wanted the two other times that we met to be a date, but I also like the idea of this being our first date.”

Your nail runs over the side of your finger. “I have to remind you that I’m writing an article that goes against your company and could put you in a negative light.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m here with you right now because of that.”

“You’re here because you like me?”

You nod. “I’m here because I like you,” you confirm. “But I also want you to remember that. That if we date, I’m- I might still write the article.”

He stays silent. “I can’t change your mind on that?”

“I don’t know Johnathan. I want to have strong convictions, but I also want to-” you falter. You want him to be happy with you. You don’t want him to regret taking this chance on you. “I want you to still like me even if I continue to write the article.”

“I’d still like you.”

You shake your head. “You can’t be sure of that.”

He takes your hand. “I can be.”

“Would you be disappointed in me if I still wrote it? You wouldn’t regret taking a chance on me?” You lean to him, your nails dragging against his skin. “You’d still like me as much as you’d like me right now?”

“I don’t think I would ever stop feeling the way I feel for you.”

“You can’t promise that.” You run your thumb over his knuckles. “There has to be a line drawn somewhere. I shouldn’t get such a pass from you.”

“Do you- Is there something that would stop you from liking me as much as you like me right now? If I did something bad would you still be interested in me?”

“Mm, if you were actively destroying the environment, then I think that would be a red flag,” you reason. “I kinda like Earth, despite you know-” you wave a hand in the air- “everything. So I guess if you were like polluting the ocean or something, I’d consider that a point against you.”

His smile falters and takes a look around the restaurant, eyes restless and unable to look back at you. “Any- Anything else?”

“Oh goodness, you’re polluting the ocean,” you say with a breathless laugh. You dip your head down, and he coughs awkwardly. “Okay,” you breathe out, holding his hand just a bit tighter, “it’s a red flag if you…” you falter, looking around for an answer intertwined with the flowers outside. You perk up, looking back at him. “It’s a red flag if you throw bottles out of your window when you’re driving.”

“Who on Earth would do that?”

“I’ve seen it. Multiple times.” Warmth bubbles in your chest, flaming your skin, and knots twist themselves into pretty bows. “So is that something you’re doing? Or will do?”

“Never,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Okay then.” You nod to yourself, and then to him, relief escaping in a breath. “You don’t throw bottles out of your car. So, what about me? I gave you a thing, you gotta return it.”

“I’d at least want you to talk to me before you write something about Alchemax.” You lift your hand from his, standing the tips of your fingers against his wrist, tapping along his veins. “I don’t want to police your work, I just- I know how important it is for you but I need to know.”

“Can I ask why?” You can feel the bone when you circle over the wrist. 

He swallows. “I want to be prepared for it.” You look at him, a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. “I don’t want to be caught by surprise if my name is mentioned,” he says weakly. 

“Lucky for you,” you trace along a vein until you can’t reach any further down his arm, “I never intended to write your name. It was always supposed to be about Alchemax and all the weird things that have been popping up. Never about a single person.” You pull a face. “Except maybe Fisk, considering it all.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

“I liked drinking coffee with you.”

“Really?” He questions with wonder.

You nod. “Surprisingly, yes,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I-” you pause- “Being with you is nice.”

“Being with you is nice,” he quotes back. “I- It’s difficult to date when so much of your free time is spent in a lab or reading through notes.”

“It’s difficult to date when you’re busy chasing a story or locked in a room.” There’s a cluster of freckles around the back of his hands, fading down his arm in soft hues of brown that get lost in the tufts of hair on his arm. “I get lost trying to find the perfect words for only a few clicks.”

“I click,” he adds. You nod without saying a word. “Do you want to go home? I can take you home already?”

You turn his arm over, letting his veins be lit by the lighting. You can feel his pulse quietly beating under his touch. You settle your gaze against him, the reflection of his glasses stare at you. “You won’t even get me dessert?” You say with a hurt tone.

He stiffens, and you can feel his pulse quicken, thumping against your fingertip. “Oh! What would you like?” He turns his head looking at the table- for a menu perhaps- until realizing that the answers aren’t there. Jonathan lifts his gaze towards you again. “I can get the waiter.” He starts to lift his hand, and you snort a laugh. His hand is paused mid-lift.

“You can get me dessert next time,” you tell him, your canines pull at your lip, trying to quell the anxiety that you feel.

“Next time?” He asks in a surprised voice. “I get to have a next time?” 

You nod. “Only if you’d like there to be next time.”

“I want there to be a next time.”

A jolt runs through your body and you tighten your hold over the fork. It drops against the plate in sharp notes, and the water cools you as it rushes down your throat. Nodding, you can only speak in a breathless, that he doesn’t comment on. “Good. That’s good.” Looking at your nearly finished plate, you decide to yourself that you’re full, that eating anymore would only cause the twisting in your stomach to reveal itself.

“Would you mind if I paid already?” He asks, his own food only being pushed around.

“No, no. Go ahead,” you tell him.

He scans around the room, his hand partially raised, until he finds who he was looking for. Nodding, he lowers his hand and looks at yours and his plate. “You’re full, right?” You nod with your cheeks warm. “You can get it to go if you’d like.”

“No, I’m good. I’m- This was good,” you say, twisting your napkin at the corners. 

The waiter stops at your table, and as you sip on your water, condensation creating a ring around the table, you choose to ignore the words that are said, focusing on the pedestrians outside who pay you no mind. 

“The uh- the tip?” You say weakly, and you have his attention. Your fingertips flutter over the clasp of your bag, and you pull out your wallet, grabbing at cash.

He smiles and his eyes are warm. “I already added it to the bill. Don’t worry about it.” Your heart aches and squeezes upon itself as you nod. You want to hold his hand again.

The waiter returns, a clasped book in their hand as they hand Johnathan back their card. “Thank you guys, and have a great evening,” they say with poise and practiced lines. They are thanked, and as they walk away, 

Johnathan rises, his card returning to his wallet and settling it back into his pocket. He waits for you to stand, and stands beside you as you grab at your bag, clutching it in your hands, the strap bunched and pierced by your nails. Johnathan walks in front of you, and you hold onto the bag, hoping that the feeling of wanting to hold his hand goes away.

It doesn’t.

Doors are opened for you, and when you sit nestled inside of his car, the seatbelt taught across your chest, you watch him when he enters the car. Music plays quietly, words whispered out against the speakers, and the soft drumming of the instruments are only quiet vibrations.

You watch him for a few more moments, his jaw tight and teeth worrying at his lip. His hands are stiff around the steering wheel, and you cross and uncross your ankle over the other. You wonder what it is that he has to say to you. You hope that it’s something good. You hope that he tells you he wants to hold your hand just as badly as you want to. 

“You can talk to me, you know,” you say quietly, rivaling the music that can be heard. “We’re still on our date.”

“Am I that obvious?” You nod. “I thought I was hiding it well.” When you don’t offer any sort of answer, he clears his throat. “It’s about your job. Is that okay?”

Not what you expected, and with partial disappointment, you fist your hand. “Go ahead,” you tell him.

“Why are you so focused on Alchemax?” You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound so upset and bothered. 

“You know better than me that something is going on,” you reply hesitantly. “I know that it’s dumb of me to focus on a company under Fisk, but-” you groan and lower your head, raising it back up with a breath. "I just know that something bad is going on, and it shouldn’t be going on. I mean, come on- none of what he’s doing can be legal.”

“Just leave it alone.” he sounds so defeated, and you don’t answer. “Fisk isn’t someone to mess with. He has connections to bad people. He’ll hurt you.”

“Aw,” you say in a lilt, “ you do care about me.” You tease, but when he doesn’t answer, you lean forward, catching a glimpse of how his face flushes in a dark hue at your words. Your eyes widen and you pull back. “Oh.”

His face scrunches up and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “It’s not- I don't- I mean, I do-” he groans and bites at his bottom lip. You watch him, waiting for him to figure out his words, your attention completely on him, never wavering to the streets, and the people. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to someone I know,” he states.

“What,” you hesitate, trying to find the proper words, “what do you think will happen?”

He sucks in his bottom lip. The air in the car has changed, and you're gripping your bag, scratching your nails along the canvas. “Something that shouldn’t,” he says. “You’re a good person. I don’t- You should let someone else take over the story.”

“So that they can get hurt?” You aren’t sure how to feel about that. You’re sure you’re supposed to feel disgusted, but a part of you feels warm at the thought that he cares for you.

He raises his shoulders, shrinking in on himself. He doesn’t speak again.

The car slows at a yellow light, and a hue of red washes over the two of you. You scratch at your bicep, and keep your gaze on him. “I like spending time with you, Jonathan,” you admit. He whips his head towards you and you avoid his gaze, focused on the handle of the glove compartment. “You’re smart and eloquent with your words. You have this dry sense of humor that gives you a certain charm. You’re dorky in a cute way and I know that we’ve only started to figure out whatever we are right now, but-” you shrug your shoulders and look back at him- “I don’t know. I like you.” He stares at you, and you aren’t entirely sure that he’s processed what you just said. “But you can’t tell me what I can or cannot write. Especially if we aren’t anything exclusive. I mean, I still would take offense if we were exclusive but that’s another conversation.” You wave a hand in the air. “I want to be taken seriously. I don’t want to do another fluff piece. I want to write something hard hitting and something that the public needs to hear even if only one person reads it.”

Green washes over the two of you, and the sound of a car honking has him looking away from you.

“Why?” His fists tighten over the steering wheel. 

You shrug. “I dunno,” you murmur. “Dignity, I guess?” You say a bit louder. “I like my job and fluff pieces are easy and whatever; but for at least once in my life, I want to write something great. I want someone to read my article and think to themselves, “‘Wow, this is a great reporter-’” you wave your hands in the air and lower them down shyly- “or something like that.” 

“I think you’re a great reporter.” You look at him, and part your mouth open. He continues before you have a chance to speak. “I read some of your older pieces. I thought they were well written.” He glances at you before returning his attention to the road. “I would read it and think to myself that you cared about what you wrote.”

“You read my work?” You ask softly, a ray of warmth flooding to your cheeks.

Jonathan nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” The car turns, and you stay silent. “Fisk isn’t a good man. I need you to understand that. He’s- What I’m working on is important to him. If you expose what he’s trying to do, he won’t hesitate to put a stop to your actions.” The car slows to a roll at a stop sign. He looks both ways before continuing. “I don’t know why you’ve attached myself to me- if you think that maybe I was easy to sway or weak-minded-”

“No, Jonathan, of course not!” You turn your body and reach out a hand, before pulling it back. “I never thought that. I- I knew you were a top scientist. I was- I thought that if anyone was important in the project, it was you. It is you,” you correct yourself. “I thought- I think highly of you, I swear.”

He gives a curt nod. The car drives slowly, and his eyes scan the road. The GPS signals that he has arrived at his destination. He slows the car even more so, and pulls into an empty space conveniently located in front of your apartment complex.

Parking the car, he turns to you. “I am asking you to stop. Write about corrupt politicians or homelessness. Write about Spider-man and his adventures. Anything, but this. Please.”

You straighten your back and cross a leg underneath you. “I know why I attached myself to you,” you start, pulling at the strap from your bag, “but why did you attach yourself to me.”

A small smile pulls at his lips. He stays silent, and the music from his playlist plays softly, filling the air. You reach over and grab at his forearm, and he stretches it towards you, his gaze moving away to watch as your hand slides down his arm and down to hold his hand. You call his name and he looks back up at you. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I wish I had an answer to give you, but I don’t know.” With his free hand, he scratches at the back of his head. “You found my work interesting. You listened to me talk about multidimensional travel without treating it as some joke. You were intrigued. Not many people usually are.” His hand squeezes at yours. “You’re kind. Pretty.” You smile at the compliment. “I find it cute that you pout when you’re jealous.”

You purse your lips. “I do not pout. I have never been jealous when I’m around you.” An obvious lie, but you want to preserve your dignity. 

He smiles. “If I told you that Dr. Owens asked me out to dinner, how would you react?”

Thinning your lips to prevent a pout, you turn your head to watch a streetlamp. You can feel a pout begin to happen and rather than give him the satisfaction of being right, you cover your mouth with your hand. Shrugging, you click your tongue. “I’d say that-” your words falter, and you refuse to look at him- “you should go for it. They seem nice.”

"You're forcing yourself not to pout. Does that mean I'm right?" You can hear the smugness in his voice and it only makes you retreat further into yourself.

“You’re like the worst, you know that?” You tighten your grip on his hand.

"Would you really be okay if I went out with them?" You stay silent. "If you say no, I'll deny them. But you have to tell me that."

"Honestly? I think they'd be a better match for you." A bitter smile twists your lips, and you regret saying the words.

He deflates. “No, they wouldn't,” he disagrees. “I don't like them.”

“You should. At least they'd be able to keep up with you in conversations.” You tap at the rubber mats on the floor of the car. “I can't do that.”

“I don't need someone to keep up with me. I want someone to be with me.” He squeezes your hand, and you hold onto it, hoping that he won’t pull away despite you trying to push him. “I don’t want you near Alchemax. I want you to stay far away from it. I need you to understand that. I can’t- I wish I could tell you about it, but I can’t.”

“My work is important to me,” you say in a whisper.

“I know.” He takes in a deep breath, and you watch people walk past the car. You follow a stranger in the rearview mirror, and you look back at Jonathan once the stranger has turned a corner.

“Are you going to go have dinner with Dr. Owens?”

Shifting in his seat, he runs a finger along the edge of the pocket of his blazer. “They aren’t my type.”

You wet your lips. “Am- Am I your type?”

Nodding, he holds your hand tighter. “Unfortunately, yes.” You don’t attempt to hide the grin that brightens your face. He smiles in return, and inches closer to you in his seat. “Is it safe to assume that I’m your type?”

“Sadly, you are,” you whisper out.

“I respect your work-” he pulls your hand closer to him, and you lean yourself closer to him- “aren’t I enough?”

"That isn't a fair question."

"None of this fair."

"None of it?"

He shakes his head. "No. I should have met you before I became a scientist. Or maybe you shouldn't have been such a persistent reporter.” Turning away, he looks out at the street, yellow and white illuminating him.

“I think you'd have made a great postman,” you smile. “I think you’d look good in blue.” He smiles sadly. “I’ll give it some thought, okay?” You rub at the tip of your nose. “You know what’s going on then, right? Like what’s being on?”

His hand slips out of yours. Your fingers stretch out,and curl into a fist, settling over the middle console of the car. “Something that you don’t have to worry about. Please,” he says in a distressed tone. “Just let someone else take the article. Anyone but you. I’ll tell you about other projects that we have planned, anything,” he emphasizes with a plea, turning back to you with sad eyes, “but the one that you’re researching on.”

The seatbelt unclicks, and you see his chest swell, and stay still as he holds his breath. When you reach over with your arm wrapping around him, do you feel him slake in your hold. His arms wrap around you, and you hide yourself in the small of his neck, his hair tickling at your nose. His hands fist over the cloth on your back, and you can feel him shift, bringing you closer to him. 

When you pull away, you stay only a few inches away from his face, with your hands still clinging to him. Under the spotty lighting of the speeding cars and the streetlamps that barely illuminate where the two of you sit, you start to count at his freckles. Your hand lifts, your thumb arching over his cheek. His beard pricks under your print, and he leans into your touch.

“You have a lot of spots,” you mumble, “Johnny.”

“Please,” he murmurs, eyes glancing down momentarily before lifting back to meet yours, “anyone else.”

You swallow. “Can I think about it?” His lips pull into a thin line. “I wanna end our date on a good note.” His shoulders fall. “Wanna walk me to the door?”

“Okay.” You pull away, and you can still feel the coarse hair and the soft skin. The car dings as he opens the door, and the lights still shine on the dashboard. You watch as he walks around, and opens your door. The car sings with a rhythmic note as it’s left on. He holds his hand in front of you, and you take it, finding comfort in the way that his hand wraps around yours.

Hand in hand, you walk a few feet to the front door. You stand there, with his car still on and your hands still holding onto each other. “Next time you’ll get me dessert?” You ask in a small voice, not ready to go inside yet.

“I’ll get you whatever you want next time.” he stills, and with a shaky breath exhaled, he leans down. A hand cups over the side of your face, and you're tilted up, and his lips press against the corner of your mouth. You look at him, and he smiles. “Next time.”

You nod. “Next time.”

[riiviir]

I needed to draw this man in honor of the horrible sunburn I got a couple weeks ago (and also because I love him and think he's silly)

(this character and the webtoon he's from belong to @wulvert btw)

[dreamweaved]

MR MOON !!!! ,,, omg guys i finished something...