#i mean its true and i’m good at my job and i care

[girlgrandpa]

my manager told me today that i am doing a really good job and that i have exceeded quite literally all expectations and that all of the other managers are a bit wowee :o esp given i’ve only been in the role approx 4 months which was quite nice to hear really

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Dummfucks of the Grid

word count: 760

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: After a disappointing P6 finish at the São Paulo Grand Prix, Lando Norris finds comfort in his girlfriend Y/n's fierce support as she playfully criticizes the other drivers and team principals

______________________________________________________________

As the door to Lando’s driver’s room closed, the noise of the paddock celebrations faded into the background. Lando sat on the couch, his head in his hands, feeling the weight of finishing P6 after a race that had promised so much more. The disappointment was palpable, especially with Max winning again.

Y/n moved swiftly to sit beside him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “Hey, Lando, P6 isn’t the end of the world. You gave it your all out there.”

He sighed, his frustration evident. “Yeah, but I wanted to do better. With Max winning again, it feels like I keep falling short.”

“Falling short?” she echoed, shaking her head. “You didn’t just fall short; you navigated a field of absolute clowns out there! Let’s talk about it. You know I’m here for you.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

“Okay, first off, Max. He drives like he’s playing Mario Kart and thinks he can just take everyone out with a blue shell! I mean, does he not understand that sharing the track is part of the job? It’s like he thinks he’s invincible! It’s ridiculous!”

He chuckled, a small smile breaking through. “That’s a good way to put it.”

“And then there’s George Russell, who finished P4 today. Honestly, he acts like he’s the golden child of the grid. ‘Look at me, I’m so talented, watch me throw my weight around!’ It’s like he forgets he has to race, not just pose for the cameras. Every time he gets near you, it’s like he’s trying to play bumper cars!”

“True,” Lando said, laughing harder now. “I can feel the ego swelling every time I see him.”

“And don’t even get me started on Leclerc! He’s out there racing like he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Most Likely to Crash Into a Wall.’ It’s like he has a special talent for making the race more dramatic than it needs to be. How does he always manage to be on the brink of disaster and still finish? Is it a gift or a curse?”

Lando nodded, now thoroughly entertained. “He does have that knack for drama, doesn’t he?”

“Absolutely! And then we have Carlos Sainz. I mean, bless him, but he’s trying so hard to keep up with Leclerc that it’s like watching a puppy chase its tail. Poor guy looks so lost sometimes, you just want to give him a treat and a pat on the head! But he gets a pass because he’s your friend.”

“Right? Carlos is actually a good guy,” Lando said, shaking his head, amused.

“And then there’s the team principals!” Y/n continued, her passion bubbling over. “Christian Horner thinks he runs a royal court every time Max crosses the finish line. ‘Look at my king!’ as if it’s not a team effort. And Toto—he’s not innocent either. He struts around like he’s the head of a fashion show! Honestly, if I had a dime for every time I’ve seen him making dramatic hand gestures in the pits, I could fund a whole new racing team!”

“Okay, that one’s a good point!” Lando laughed, feeling the tension ease with every word.

“Seriously, I would fight every one of them for you if it came down to it. Size doesn’t matter when you’re this passionate!” she declared boldly. “I’d take on Max, George, and anyone else who thinks they can just push you around out there!”

“Y/n, you do realize you’re only 5’6, right?” Lando replied, grinning. “How are you going to take on all of them?”

“I may be small, but I’ve got a big heart and a bigger mouth!” she shot back, her eyes sparkling with defiance. “Just imagine me storming the paddock like, ‘Back off, or I’ll unleash my fury on you!’”

“Please don’t start any fights in the paddock,” he said, his tone light but earnest. “I love your spirit, but I’d rather not deal with the fallout. I need you here, not banned.”

“Why not? It would be entertaining!” she countered, smirking. “I’d tell them all off! ‘Listen up, dummfucks of the grid, stop getting in my boyfriend’s way!’”

Lando laughed, the sound genuine now. “You really are something else. Knowing you’ve got my back means everything.”

“Absolutely! If they try to block you from winning, I won’t hesitate to step in,” she said, snuggling closer.

“Just promise me you won’t do anything too crazy,” he replied, a grin spreading across his face. “I love your fierceness and protective side, but let’s keep you in the paddock, okay?”

[communistkenobi]

I’m watching FD Signifier’s new video about edgelord white guy movies. He spends a decent amount of time talking about how creators have responded to their edgelord fanbases, using The Joker and The Boys as two examples, where these creators feel uncomfortable with how their art has been received and taken up by “angry white men,” and that in response to this, they have followed up these artistic products with sequels or new seasons of television that are incredibly blunt and obvious about how you shouldn’t think of Homelander as a based chad or Arthur Fleck as a motivational figure in your life. And like he ends the video saying this is insufficient because these audiences won’t care about the messages in these follow-ups (largely bc these are downstream of larger social issues), but his framing of it in terms of “the death of media literacy” is still really frustrating and annoying because it’s buying into the idea that the main problem with people “not getting” art is literacy/education. And its not just his video, this framing is a popular memetic phrase across social media, and he does a better job than most people in talking about it

But like I just straight up do not accept that the audience of these edgelord movies “didn’t get” that they are portraying bad people, that audiences of mass media are “taking the wrong message” of “very obvious” pieces of art. Not because I think they do secretly get what these films are ‘actually saying,’ I don’t care about what’s in their hearts, but because this concern with people ‘not getting it’ feels wildly off-topic. I think it has been demonstrated over and over again that mass media is not an educational tool where people go to “learn lessons” or “take away a particular message.” I think the very fact that we have a consumptive marketised relationship to these artistic products structures and produces a specific set of responses, which is, above all else, “getting my money’s worth.” Who gives a shit what the movie is ‘really’ trying to say! That’s unimportant when faced with the question of did I get what I paid for? And I don’t mean this in an annoying lib “consumerism is making us all stupider” way I mean the economic structure of artistic production is the primary determinant of how commodities on a market are received. The idea that, under these conditions, we can purchase a piece of art that will “teach us” something about the world is laughable, that art-by-itself contains the authority to impart political knowledge. The idea that we can purchase our way into good values, good politics, that we can buy a movie ticket and see the error of our ways is buying into this same exact consumptive framing.

“The death of media literacy” implies a point in recent history where this economic relationship to art was unimportant, that we used to be able to participate in mass standardised artistic production and be unaffected by this arrangement. I think about Adorno & Horkheimer’s argument in The Culture Industry, that the profit motive is itself an object of consumption under capitalism, that advertisements are themselves products & as a result, all mass standardised artistic products are advertisements for their own capitalist production processes and logics. 

I think when people “don’t get” that Starship Troopers is depicting a fascist society, when people “don’t get” that Travis Bickle is a bad, un-admirable person, they aren’t stricken by a sudden deficit of education or literacy, they are responding to the conditions under which these things get made. Being able to get art’s “true message,” no matter how supposedly clear or compellingly-articulated, is to argue that ‘message’ and ‘meaning’ can be made independent of the conditions under which those things are created and presented to people. The industrial capitalist machinery outputting standardised artistic products is itself an authority telling you how to interpret its own products, much the same way a cathedral is presented as evidence of god. There is a material & physical authority in their presence and social arrangement that are themselves arguments. Adorno talks about this with the radio - that this vast industrial infrastructure of radio towers, broadcast stations, systems of wires and cables, and the production of standardised radio receivers (available for purchase, of course) is utterly incomprehensible to most people and amounts to hearing the voice of god when you turn on the radio. The arrangement of artistic production & presentation is itself the structure through which you experience art, and that structure is an authority you can neither comprehend nor alter. And again as A&H say in The Culture Industry, the techniques, narratives, and genres of the culture industry become standardised themselves, cookie-cutters on a production line, and therefore dictate meaning above and beyond any particular semantic meaning injected into an individual film or story. “Romcoms” are a cultural authority above and beyond the sum total of every romcom film ever made, and it is these genres and techniques that transmit the justification for their own continued reproduction. Under this arrangement, the meaning of this film or that television show are rendered marginal - not unnoticeable or irrelevant, certainly, but secondary to the cookie-cutters they were produced from 

Now does this lead to a widespread ignorant, impoverished, reactionary view of art? Of course, but that is not because the guy who likes wearing V for Vendetta masks is illiterate. To place the blame on individual education, discipline, or literacy is to take Hollywood for granted as a natural eternal entity, to take it as just another church. It’s a goofy fucking argument! 

[the-lying-heavens]

kaz brekker x reader where reader is hurt and kaz helps tend to her wound and then he tells her how much he loves her and it’s soft and super fluffy

"Comfort in Chaos"

[Kaz Brekker x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: After a reckless adventure leaves you injured, Kaz Brekker takes a moment to care for you.

Warnings: injury, fluff, not proofread

Word Count: 580 words

A/N: hi!!! so the reason this took so long was because I was trying to figure out how to write it and still stay true to Kaz's character. I tried my best, so enjoy?

You shifted and winced as the wound pulled. Kaz sat across from you, a concentrated look on his face as he gathered supplies from a small box.

"Stay still," he instructed, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress a wince as he carefully cleaned the injury.

"Why do you always get into trouble?" he murmured, more to himself than to you.

"Maybe I like the thrill," you teased, trying to lighten the mood despite the discomfort.

His eyes remained serious. "The thrill doesn’t feel as great when you’re bleeding," he replied, applying the ointment. His touch was surprisingly gentle, as he wrapped the bandage around your arm.

As he worked, silence settled between you. The way he looked at you made your heart race.

"Kaz…" you started, but he hesitated seeing a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. First time for everything.

"I dislike seeing you hurt. You mean more to me than I can say," he said, his voice softening.

You smiled. "I care about you too," you confessed.

Kaz finished wrapping the bandage, his fingers lingering on your skin for a moment longer than necessary.

Maybe I should start taking care of myself better," you suggested, "I wouldn’t want to keep you from your… important plans."

He scoffed. "Plans can wait. You’re more important than any job I have." his tone was dismissive, but his words were sincere.

"What if I got better at dodging trouble? Would that impress you?"

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "You’d have to do better than that. You’re too reckless for your own good."

"Kaz, I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t put myself in danger if I didn’t think I could handle it."

"Right. And yet, here we are," he replied, "Just promise me you’ll try to be more cautious. You are an investment that is difficult to replace."

You snort. "Gee, thanks."

"You’re infuriating, you know that?," he sighed, "But you’re also brave. You challenge me in ways I didn’t think were possible."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Good. You should," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because it’s the closest I’ll get to admitting I’m fond of you."

You laughed, the sound light and joyful, as Kaz tried to hide his smirk.

"Then I guess we’ll both have to work on being less infuriating," you teased.

"Or we’ll continue to drive each other mad," he said

"Either way, I’m glad you’re here." You leaned closer, the warmth radiating between you almost palpable.

Kaz’s gaze held yours. "You really mean that, don’t you?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

"Absolutely," you replied, "You make everything—"

"Dangerous?" he interrupted.

"Exciting," you corrected, "Every moment with you feels alive."

He tilted his head, studying you intently. "Alive is one way to put it. Other people might call it reckless."

"Recklessness has its charm," you countered, "Besides, you thrive in chaos. I think you secretly enjoy it."

"Do I?"

"You love it. And me," you said, grinning.

"Love is a strong word."

"Is it?" you shot back.

Kaz raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I just tolerate you because you're entertaining."

"Entertaining, huh? I’ll take it," you replied.

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You’re incorrigible."

"And you’re impossible," you shot back, "But that’s what makes us work."

"Just promise me you’ll be careful," he said, his tone suddenly serious.

"Only if you promise to keep looking out for me."

"Deal," he replied.

You both shared a moment of silence, the air thick with unspoken words. Finally, you broke it, teasing, "So, when are we getting into trouble next?"

"With you? I can’t imagine it’ll be long."

[female-malice]

AMELIA STRICKLER: Trans TikTok star Dylan Mulvaney's offensive parody makes a total mockery of female athletes like me 

It Is so offensive, it reminds me of a routine by a chauvinist male comedian from the 1970s. Dylan Mulvaney, a TikTok influencer and performer, leaps around wearing Nike leggings and a sports bra. Their exaggerated movements seem to me to parody a woman’s exercise routine.

Mulvaney, a biological male who first openly identified as ‘transgender’ in March last year, has been signed by the world’s biggest sports company to promote women’s clothing. I am a GB shot putter who has won the British title twice and competed in the Commonwealth Games. I am a European finalist and world championship finalist.

I know how many years of training it takes, often at great personal cost, to reach the top levels of sport.

And I know what it is to be a woman.

In the video advert, Mulvaney frankly appears to be laughing in the face of female athletes like me – and any other woman or girl who wants to better themselves physically.

I’ve been a shot putter since I was ten. Life in professional athletics requires grit and determination. It doesn’t involve dancing around, grinning inanely.

It means getting up at the crack of dawn to train, keeping going when every muscle in your body is screaming at you to stop, forgoing time with friends and family and being utterly single-minded. And because so few female athletes attract sponsorship from giants like Nike, we often have to fit training and competing around other paid work.

For many years, I had two jobs to support my shot putting career. Recently I found a private sponsor through my athletics club Thames Valley Harriers, which enables me to keep competing.

But most female athletes don’t have that advantage. Women get 1 per cent of all sports sponsorship money – and yet to see Nike willing to shell out however many thousands it is to Mulvaney – who, remember, has not fully ‘transitioned’ to female – is utterly demoralising.

Nike likes to harp on about how it champions women: last year it announced an ‘Athletes Think Tank’ to help ‘serve today’s women athletes���, while a 2021 campaign praised mums for being ‘the toughest athletes’.

All well and good – but contrast these warm words with Nike’s actions towards the female athletes it actually sponsored. Women such as Olympic runner Alysia Montano were subject to ‘performance-based reductions’ – amounting to a 70 per cent pay cut – when they were unable to race due to being pregnant or having just given birth. In other words, penalised for being a woman.

Following a public outcry, Nike amended its policy to allow women 18 months off around pregnancy, but this latest publicity stunt reveals just how little the company really cares about women in sport.

It would be better to invest some of the money given to attention-seeking influencers such as Mulvaney to develop better sportswear for biological women.

In nearly a decade of competing at the top level, I have yet to find a decent sports bra: I have to wear two at once.

Modelling a bra on someone who has a male torso is an insult to those of us with female bodies.

At the track yesterday, many fellow female athletes were deeply upset by Nike’s apparent contempt for our sport. As one said – and I agree – ‘I’m glad Nike isn’t my sponsor.’

Women are still fighting for true equality in sport – we’ve made progress, but there’s a long way to go. We don’t need a big brand such as Nike to bring it down with crass campaigns. I agree with Sharron Davies – women should boycott Nike. If they refuse to support women in sport, then why should we support them?

[mynameisjag]

Quick Prompt: Wanting What Someone Else Has.

Scott finds out about the new Logan, Wade doesn't care about Scott's problems. Logan isn't even aware.

Wade stared at Scott.

Scott stared at Wade.

At least the mercenary assumed he was, kind of hard to tell, you know…with the glasses…

He’d give him a point for managing to get the drop on him though, showed up late enough not to be any help, early enough were they hadn’t left the mark's disgustingly beige mansion.

It looked better with the splashes of red everywhere.

Even the boring ass, uncomfortable lounges that they were sitting on, looked better with the splatter.

Cyclops was sitting on the less messy one, so maybe he didn’t agree or he just choose that one because then they could just sit and stare at each other face to face.

“Where’s Logan?”

“Better question, how are you alive? This better not be some multiverse MCU bullshit.”

Logan was probably eating his fill in the kitchen, the owners pervert party was catered and why leave and get underwhelming fast food when there was free rich fucks food that was going to go to waste anyway.

Lo had talked about his…hunting trips…sometimes, always on the move, always going from target to target, that at one point it was just sensible to eat what was there, rest, take what was need and move on. Considering how most of the fucks he went after were people of high importance, government jobs or just rich assholes, their was always alcohol, fancy foods, and wallets that no one noticed was gone till it was too late.

So this current hit was just another day for the feral.

Scott’s Logan was more man then his, could easily be mistaken for just another human without powers.

Wade’s though, his had lost himself to the calling of his inner animal and became it as he hunted those that had hurt his family. Body changing to its new needs, becoming the human predator he needed to be.

Logan hated it, hated what his body became, his behavior, his instincts, everything that changed, he hated it all. He spent so long trying to fit the profile others had tried to shove him into that losing himself to what was himself was a failure in his eyes. A shameful failure.

It wasn’t true of course and they were working on that, both supporting each other because they both were so fucked up but at least they were fucked up together.

Wade talked to the air and the millions of eyes that watched them, Logan would snarl and make more animal sounds then use his voice at times.

The merc highly doubted the X-men, at least this version, were going to be able to handle his Wolverine.

“There’s no dog for you to collar here, laser pointer, so why don’t you make your way back to whoever else has found the well of life in that mansion and fuck off.”

Seemed like he might have hit a nerve as that frown somehow got deeper, “I’m here for my friend.”

“You’re a good couple of states away from your Wolverine’s grave, can get you an Uber there if your that directionally challenged.”

“We know he is here, with you-“

“-Nope! Again, you have eye issues not hearing, your-hear that strain on that-your Logan is dead.” Deadpool reached forward to grab a drink he had set on the end table earlier before getting interrupted, “speaking of dead, you still haven’t answered how you’re still kicking around.”

“Your life isn’t the only one that involves time travels.”

“Oh, good, just the normal X-men bullshit then, should we be expecting the other Logan then?”

“No…he is still…gone…his body, or what we can find of it, is now resting back at the mansion…not all of us are back.”

“Oooh, I probably should have put that puzzle back together before jumping…everyone is still on the fence on whether or not old Wolves would have gotten a kick out of me playing Ninja Warrior with his tibias?”

“And what does that mean?”

“Ignore it and my little chats with the “gremlins” as Honey Bunny puts it, now, I’m going to guess you thought if you couldn’t have one, you figured you could take mine? Did Daddy Professor not drill in manners in all of that training, it’s rude to take other people’s stuff.”

“He isn’t your ‘stuff’, you don’t know how to handle him.”

At that precise moment, Logan ran past in the background, on all fours and a chunk of meat in his mouth, the merc was glad that Cyclops couldn’t follow his line of sight because of the mask. Cause all the red head had to do was slightly turn his head and he would see the man he was searching for bounding upstairs like an overly excited puppy with a new toy.

Either the man found fresh grade A steak or he had decided that some one smelled delicious and took a chuck. 50 50 chance on either option really and at least the blood was everywhere here instead of back in the apartment.

Al was less likely to complain when she didn’t slip and slide through puddles of blood.

“Handle him? Scottie too Hottie!”, at this point he lifts his mask enough to sip at the drink in his hand, grimacing at the flavor, how did they make fruit soda taste bad, “ugh, high society tastes are awful,” he wiggles the can at the other man, “want it?”

“No.”

“Don’t blame you, I can how ever blame you for thinking that for some shit reason that Lobunny, wait fuck that’s a Pokémon, Lo Bun Bun, is unable to think for himself and that I somehow can stop him from going wherever he wants to go.”

“He hasn’t came home, yet, if he was able to go-“

“That place isn’t his home, you are not his X-men, he is not a replacement, well, he is an anchor being replacement but not a ‘pick up where the last Logan left off’ replacement. So what ever regrets or amends you wanted to have, they should be aimed at the grave and not the man you wished was the one you lost,” Deadpool threw the can over the others head, before flipping over the couch he was on, landing on his feet and giving double finger guns at the X-man before the can could hit the wall, “well, good chat, but we gotta go!”

Scott was standing up now, face serious and ready to counter argue when flashing lights from outside reflected in the windows, sirens coming closer, “is that the police?”

“Yeah!,” now the mercenary was opening a window, hanging halfway out of it as he made grabby hands at something above him, “hope you got a ride,” blue colored gloves grabbed his red ones and he was yanked out and upward, “tootles!”

Scott took a deep breath, calming himself down before turning and heading toward his own escape.

He’ll try another day.

[prouddogboi]

Stray dog (Part 1)

To find the most recent chapters, please go to @doggoboigaugau 's masterlist

Pairings: Ghost x Soap x Male Reader

Summary: Male Reader is traumatized and forcefully refuses affection from Ghost and Soap even in his sleep.

Word count: 1852

Warnings: It's my first time posting my writing on Tumblr. There are so few CODxM!Reader fics I just want to contribute lmao TToTT. The warning is it can be shit because I'm new.

It was a successful mission. A tough one, yes, many soldiers got serious injuries and had to spend days in the hospital, but still, the mission was accomplished with minimal loss. The people at the base decided to throw a party at a well-known bar in the area. As usual, you stayed close to your team, until they left you all alone again for whatever they were up to: Ghost and Soap went into the dark corridor doing ‘secret’ business except for the fact that everyone knew what that business was; Price meeting up with the Captains of other teams, talking about the ‘kids’ in their care like the good ol’ tired dads and moms they all were; Gaz hitting up on some pretty guy or girl; and Roach just immersing himself in the music on the dance floor. 

“The usual shot?” The bartender smiled at you. He was an ordinary-looking guy, not too tall, not too short, but he was always nice to you.

“Yeah.” You replied, eyes looking down at the empty glass in your scarred hand. Your usual shot was one of the heaviest types served at this bar, you found its bitter, stinging taste and the dizziness it brought about worked wonders for you, helping to repress the strong emotions that always came up to the surface to trouble you whenever you were off the field, whenever you were not having to fight between life and death. Free time and a mind that was offered the opportunity to relax were not something you felt grateful for. Instead, you loved being constantly stimulated when being in battles, since it left your mind no time to overthink unnecessary things other than trying to keep yourselves and your teammates alive.

“A successful mission, huh? Everyone is enjoying themselves a lot tonight.” The bartender said, clearly trying to keep talking to you as he was preparing your drink.

“It was.”

“Did you get injured?” 

“Just some scratches, nothing serious.”

“You seem to do your job very well.”

You did. You were a good soldier. An excellent one even. You were showered with praise from the Captain, the teammates, the higher-ups… just anyone after almost every mission. Even Ghost himself had to admit that you were a good one. However, you didn’t know for sure what made you excel while most others didn’t. Maybe it was because every mission you paid no mind as to whether you would be alive or not. It was true that everyone in this line of work had to come to terms with the notion of death upon themselves, no one could be sure how many days they got left on this planet doing this kind of job, but you were still different. You weren’t actively trying to get yourselves in situations that would get you killed, because it often meant a great threat to your teammates too, but you were not one that would hold on to life that much. You were always ready to sacrifice.

“I notice that you’re always alone. Well, the others do join you, but after a while, they leave and you’re still here.” The bartender passed you the shot.

“They have things to do.”

“Why don’t you? Getting out there and having some fun.”

Fun? It did not sound fitting to who you were. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I prefer it this way.”

“By the way, can I ask for a guy’s number? The one with the mohawk.”

“You mean Soap?” You left out a soft chuckle, “Give up, mate. He already has a partner. A scary one.” 

“Who?”

“The fuckin’ huge one with the skull mask. I’m sure you know well who he is and how scary he is.”

“What? That guy? I’ve always thought he’s into you though.”

This time you laughed out loud. The thought of someone interested in you was just so ridiculous, it felt surreal and impossible, “Ain’t no way, why would you think that?”

“He always looks at you with those piercing eyes, as if he will eat you up in no time.”

“Probably it’s because the Soap guy is always leaning over me. He’s so mad that I dare to get that near to his precious partner that he just wants to end my life right here.” You drank up the whole glass in one breath, then smashed the now empty glass on the bar, resulting in a huge ‘thump’ sound, mainly due to the fact that it was your fist that came into contact with the wooden material. It sent a burning feeling to your skin and fresh, but it was nothing compared to the physical pain you had to endure in battles or the mental one off field, when your mind was free to drift away. 

“Could be. But I still think he is into you.” The bartender shrugged, knowing you so well that he went ahead to prepare another shot for you. Nights like this often led to you drinking non-stop until you were so drunk that you’d pass out, and that masked guy was the one who carried you back. That was another reason besides the intense glare that made him convinced that the guy was attracted to you. Well, the hot man with the mohawk was always there too, but he usually waited in distance and smiled at how the masked guy having trouble carrying you as you thrashed around in his arms, clearly too drunk to know that he was just helping you. But the bartender only thought that the mohawk and the masked guy were close friends. Now that you mentioned it, it was indeed possible that they were in love with each other. 

Wouldn’t that make a love triangle though? The bartender threw a glance at you, studying you with amusement. Everyone loved some drama in their mundane lives. You were a handsome boy with sharp facial features, those damn bright eyes that lit up the whole place when you genuinely smiled, and all those strong muscles. He would’ve asked for your number instead if that scary big masked man wasn’t into you that much.

A few hours passed and the party came to its near end. All those smiling and laughing soldiers slowly hopped on the vehicles, making their way back to the base, clearly not wanting to wake up a mess the day after. They still had training as usual after all. One didn’t seem to care though. You collapsed on the bar, your handsome face grew red with how drunk you were and how much alcohol your body had absorbed. Ghost and Soap assured Price that they would bring you back safe before the tired dad of your Task Force got in the car with Gaz and Roach. They didn’t usually drink too much when they were off base, but you were quite the opposite. The team had no idea why you would pour so much alcohol into your mouth and stomach on these occasions, it was like you were grieving over something rather than celebrating the good news of a successful mission. Everyone in this line of work had their own past and troubles, but there was indeed something different in your troubles as they never felt that you were comfortable to open up. Soap even joked a lot about how much harder it was to get closer to you than Ghost. It was true that you were always smiling, chatting, and gossiping with him and Gaz and Roach over stupid things, but there was this invisible wall that you had built around your heart, unwilling to let anyone in. 

Ghost and Soap got to the bar where you were lying. 

“Come to get him?” The bartender was cleaning all the glasses that you and some other regulars used.

Ghost looked at you as your eyes were tightly shut, clearly not happy with your current condition, “Maybe next time don’t let him drink too much.”

The bartender raised his hands, “C’mon, I’m just serving my customers. He appears to need those shots to handle whatever emotions he’s having.”

Ghost and Soap turned their head to look at each other for a few seconds before Ghost stepped up and got you off the bar. You were too drunk to know anything, but surprisingly tonight you were very silent and cooperated well with your Lieutenant. 

“Let’s take you back to your room, huh?” Ghost was content with this sudden change and Soap just casually used his strong hand to rub your neatly cut hair. 

As Soap parked the car in the base's park, Ghost threw one of your arms over his shoulder and carried you off the vehicle. However, your tightly shut eyes suddenly opened, they widened as you turned your head left and right to make sense of your surroundings. 

“You’re up early.” Soap said jokingly.

“He’s too drunk to understand your stupid sarcasm, Soap.” Ghost scoffed. 

However, it took both men aback when they heard you sobbing. Soap was quick to cup your face with his palms, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, sobbing almost uncontrollably, trying to get your face out of his grip. One of Ghost’s arms went to your waist in an attempt to hold you in place and calm you down, but you started to act the usual way when you were drunk: thrashing around hysterically, as if you were striving so hard to escape from something inescapable. 

“Let go of me!” You screamed.

“Y/n, calm down, calm down! It’s us! Ghost and Soap!” Soap tried to talk some sense into the heavily drunk you.

“Stay away from me!” You didn’t seem to listen. Feeling Ghost’s grip was still firm around your body, you got more and more violent. Screaming and kicking, you definitely hurt him in the process as you finally succeeded in getting away. You stumbled a few steps on the cold cement ground before you collapsed on it due to the perfect dizziness that you hoped the shots at the bar would gift you. You curled into a ball, trembling violently yet not from how cold the ground was. Shuddering sobs still escaped your lips, and your eyes were tightly shut again. Price and Gaz hurriedly ran to where you three were, their eyes filled with worry given how loud and heartfelt your screams were (Roach didn’t come with them because he also drank too much). The two men saw Ghost and Soap standing beside you, their arms were hanging in the air as if they were holding on to something, while you were there, laying on the ground sobbing and mumbling unintelligible words. 

Luckily you quickly fell asleep again, still sobbing but unconscious enough for the men to carry you back to your room. They tucked you nicely into your bed, watching over your now peaceful sleeping face. Soap wiped the tears left on your cheeks with his hand, his mind questioning the reasons why you reacted so fiercely to them taking care of you earlier. When you finally stopped sobbing, they carefully left your room. There were things to be discussed, but they could wait.

to be continued bc I have class tmr and I need to sleep :D

[withonly-sweetheart]

Shades of Gray

Stylists and photographer; both such burdens but nothing can prepare you for the way Leon's arrival tips over your "shades of gray".

a/n: @chesue00 ... YOU LOVELY LITTLE MANIACAL GENUIS. I LOVE YOU SO SO MUCH I CANT EVEN DESCRIBE IT HOPE YOU LIKE THIS ONE 😍😍😍

i was literally walking just walking you know i see that i have a notification from tumblr (if my slowass had checked the name i wouldve braced myself) but the post pops up

when i tell you i nearly hopped skipped and jumped like my friend gave me the weirdest look ever... like i cant tell you how much that art piece means to me its literally so hot im dying ahahhhhahhahhhh and i cant write smut for SHIT so future me revamp this when you learn the true smut writing ways....

tw: non explicit smut but just to be safe mdni!! also can u guess where the titles from.. heh

wc: 3.4k

“They might fire you with that attitude,” Ada muses quietly, humming to herself as she dusts off the camera lens, wiping it with such precision and care, something you couldn’t manage to do yourself.

You glare up at your superior from where you crouch at the legs of the tripod, scowling. “They can’t do that. I’m single handedly carrying this studio. How broke do you have to be to be both the one of the editors and the photographer?”

“Pretty broke,” she agrees with a small shrug.

“And it’s not even like the models are hot or anything,” you continue, exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of your nose in an attempt to shut your mouth before you say something you might regret. “I better get a promotion after this new guy.”

“Who knows?” Ada laughs, a soft, tinkling sound that seems to ease some of your tension. Between your job(s), there hasn’t been much time to relax, but the fact you storm around the studio with set shoulders, lips twisted in a frown never seems to bother her.

You suppose you should be grateful you have such a good friend. You just wish there was something worth her time here, because you sure aren’t.

<><><><>

“Room 3,” you read from the list, craning your neck to read the words scratched into the paper that’s plastered onto the wall. “Is that where she is?”

“He,” Ada corrects. “A guy, again. Isn’t that exciting?”

She means to sound eager, but you can hear how dry her tone is, and you can’t blame her. Most of the guys that show up are only here to have a quick session, earn some cash, try to get with one of the girls working on set, before rushing away, never to be seen again.

You place a tentative hand on her shoulder, rubbing the muscle there. “I’ll deal with it. You get some rest before the shoot, ‘kay?”

Her weary eyes find you, but they light up somewhat at your suggestion. Without another word, she nods and dips her head before walking off to the lounge. Ada’s overworked, you know that. The least you can do for her is this, right?

Ignoring the fact you’ve never actually done this before, you wipe your trembling, sweaty hands on your pants before sliding the door open.

The man sitting in the chair, eyes slicing to you from the mirror, face softening into a smile as you gawk in the doorway, unable to do much more than offer fragments of a sentence.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I thought you were the director.”

“Uhm. No.” You recognize him, a man you’ve only seen in stretched out movie posters that are plastered everywhere on your apartment block, a man only seen in the vivid ink on paper, on the pixels that cross your screen.

Now he’s really sitting here, in front of you, feet carrying you to stand right behind him. What the hell were you thinking? You meet his eyes in the mirror, too abashed to look directly.

"What are you doing here?" you blurt out in surprise. "You’re an actor! This isn't exactly your scene."

"Is that how you greet a guest?" With an arched brow, he gestures to the cluttered room. "And I could say the same for you. It seems like I'm not the only one who's a little lost."

"You have no idea," you mutter.

"Ah, there it is." Leon leans back, tilting his head to stare up at you, regarding you curiously. "So what’s happening? This your therapy session?"

You glance down and flash a tentative grin. Reaching around him, you quickly wet your hands, then card them through Leon's bronzed hair, working out the tangles and smoothing it into place.

His shoulders tense when your fingertips make contact with the back of his neck, eyes narrowing down at the ground.

"Your hands..." he murmurs unexpectedly. "They're so soft."

You pause, fingers stilling to look down, only to find his eyes closed, a faint smirk playing at his lips. You smile to yourself, feeling a flutter of pride in your work. It had been a long time since you’d done this for a friend, since Ada often recoils at your touch. "Well, you know, this is kinda my thing. Taking care of models, seeing they're relaxed."

“You’re pretty good at it,” he muses.

You feel heat sear your neck and gulp, reaching for some of the confidence that abandons you quickly. "Alright pretty boy, time to get you camera-ready." Spritzing some product, you sculpt his hair into what the director had requested - “tousled but not too tousled, sexy without trying too hard.”

Whatever the hell that meant.

Your hands move fast, eager with a purpose. Under your touch, Leon seems further away, lost in thoughts. When you’re close to finishing, he lifts his head again to meet your gaze.

“I’ll assume you already know my name,” he remarks. “You’ve watched my work?”

“Kinda hard not to.” You don’t mean for it to sound so condescending, but he just squints back up at you as you massage some kind of lotion into his scalp.

“You wouldn’t, by chance, know Ada, would you?” he asks quietly.

“‘Course,” you say with a soft chuckle. “She’s the only reason I have this job.”

Leon nods understandingly. "Sounds just like her. She’s got a way of reeling people in." A wry smile plays on his lips. "So what's next - you joining in on the shoot?"

"Over my dead body," you reply hastily. Leon tilts his head, the silent question molding into acceptance as you continue, "No, I'm just playing assistant for the day, making sure Ada and the girls have what they need. Shouldn't be too hard, right?"

Somehow, looking at Leon's amused expression, you have a feeling you’ll be in for a lot more than that. But that must be the week-old guacamole you bought from Chipotle and ate for lunch today.

<><><><>

The shoot seems to be running smoothly, at least on the outside, when you’re finally done fussing over the minor details, checking off a mental list and trying really hard not to let your gaze dip a little lower than it should.

He doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. He’s at least twenty years older than you. It only worked one way, didn’t it? Always did.

Next to the camera, you’ve taped reference pictures of other models artfully draped across ornate furniture, all courtesy of your work. You don’t exactly know what Leon’s advertising, but you caught a hint of the lavender rosemary liquid Helena was working on last week, so you assume it must be a fragrance shoot.

You spot Ada immediately, lounging on a chaise with one leg extended gracefully. Her emerald gaze flickers over as you approach.

"Well it's about time," she calls out, clapping her hands as she stands. "Hair and makeup, ten minutes ago."

Leon cracks a bemused smile. "We're here now, aren't we? Lead the way, assistant."

“How do you even know her?” you ask, slightly curious about their past, as you usher him into the couch.

“Acquaintances from our old job,” he mutters. And you quickly notice that something’s wrong. Leon looks too tense against the soft, relaxed background, too stressed as he frowns up at you, hands clasped between his spread legs.

So you do what you do best. You kneel in front of him, resting a hand on the ball of his knee. Once again, he steels at your touch, then relaxes, and you look up at him to see his jaw working, as if swallowing his words.

"What do you think you’re doing? Leon whispers, catching your wandering eyes.

“Just trying to help,” you say casually, with a shrug. It was safe to say you know what you’re doing, and even better, you can see it’s working. The corner of his mouth bunches up into a shit-eating grin, just the look you need.

<><><><>

Thirty minutes later, and not a single photo has pleased the director. He sits there like a goddamn statue, flickers of emotion passing his face only when spares a glimpse to the photos Ada calmly hands to him.

Her eyes are seething but her tone is level as she tells you in a low whisper, “I need some coffee or I will choke him.”

You know what that means. So, as if you’re programmed to do it, you swing by the cafe and pick up her coffee, two pumps of almond milk and light ice; the amount of times she’s sent you to fetch her drink is so absurd you’ve memorized it without meaning to.

You’re imagining the way her face will light up at the caffeinated drink chilling your hand, switching it to ease the strain on your fingers, when you turn the corner just as someone else does.

This someone else becomes only apparent to you after you’re done scolding them for not watching where they’re going, staring down at their faintly recognizable, designer brand, worn out shoes that currently have cappuccino dripping onto the material.

You drag your eyes up, ready to glare them down, when those blazing blue eyes meet yours and immediately you realize it’s all your fault, why weren’t you paying better attention to your surroundings?

Leon seems to be frozen, unable to move, as he stares down at his dripping shirt, and due to your perfect luck, the director also rounds the corner. He pushes Leon to the side, exposing the brown easily staining the white linen.

He presses a foot down on one of the stray ice cubes, crushing it and wiping his foot back. You grimace, paling at the idea of his wrath. Is this how you lose your job?

But Leon sighs patiently before he can say anything, inspecting the damage carefully. "Well, we had a good run. Not everything can go our way, hm?"

Your boss doesn’t seem to agree. He taps his foot rapidly on the tiles, a marching tempo, voice like sharpened steel. "You have exactly one minute before I find someone to replace you. Fix this, now."

Without another condition to his threat, he storms away to fume at the rest of the crew. They’ll be singing your praises for days, that's for sure. You wrinkle your nose and stick your tongue out after him, sparking a rumbling chuckle from Leon. You roll your eyes and turn to him, jabbing him in the chest with your pointer finger.

“Why the hell does your shirt even matter when all you’re doing is smelling good?”

<><><><>

You quickly realize that the point of the shoot isn’t to showcase any scent. No, not at all.

The shoot starts like any other - adjusting lighting, discussing shots with the crew. But Ada's knowing smirk and the array of silky fabrics draped nearby piques your suspicion.

"Ada, tell me those aren't...?" you gesture weakly at the snug boxer briefs Leon now models, the only thing on his bare skin, miles of smooth, dewey skin, dimpled with years.

She laughs softly. "Don't pretend you're not enjoying the view. I can see it in your eyes.”

“But for the first shoot?” you whine.

“I don’t make the rules, hun. Now go powder his nose or something equally distracting."

You set to work on Leon's hair and makeup, desperately avoiding eye contact with his barely dressed form. But then he shifts, and the movement draws your gaze as his facade slips away, revealing a broad, scarred back, painted with the stories of his younger days, of memories lost to time.

Leon meets your hesitant eyes in the mirror, one brow cocked knowingly. "See something you like?"

You cough in response, flustered. "Just, uh, admiring my handiwork. You clean up well for a god, Ken- I meant, uh, an amateur model. Yeah. That’s what I said."

He chuckles, low and rich, echoing through your hollow eyes. "Whatever you say, assistant. Now, I believe we have some shots to take?"

He leaves you standing there, in a daze as you watch him saunter off, eyes fixed on a lower point of his back. It was going to be a long week keeping your eyes (and thoughts) professional.

The play of light and shadow dappling his skin, dipping into every crevice of his well-nurtured body and curving around his muscle is something you can’t keep your eyes off of.

He knows. You realize this with a sudden jolt as someone sighs nearby. He knows that everyone’s ogling, and he loves it. The arrogance only fuels his ego, you think, as a collective hush falls over you all.

And just like that, the cocky grin on his face is gone. You can at least admire how well Leon slides, almost effortlessly, into professional mode, shrugging at the director’s instructions to face the camera, to reveal sculpted plains of muscle and dusted chest hair.

Call someone to bring a water bucket, because watching him through the camera, your eyes to the world, the raw truth laid bare for you to witness, sparks flares of heat within you. You have a gut feeling that not even water can put it out.

You seek to capture the subtle shifts in expression on his face, the way his lips curve into a smile or his gaze lingers with a hint of longing. These small details, when frozen in time through the lens of your camera, seem to speak long tales of not only misery, but admiration.

And you catch exactly who they’re directed to.

Ada.

<><><><>

“What do you mean, nothing?” Leon scoffs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re pissy and this is the seventeenth time you’ve nearly pulled out my hair!”

“It’s not like there’s much left, anyways,” you snap back, equally as irritated as you yank at the strands, forcing them to separate, trying to clean the product. Against everything, you still feel the tiniest bit guilty when Leon winces.

“He’s not that old,” Ada calls out, swaying over to the cafe.

“Exactly,” Leon says, but he’s chuckling now, and he waves in greeting to her.

You can’t help but force a smile, trying to make your reaction seem genuine, your silent hatred unnoticeable. This isn’t healthy.

A man? Coming between you and your only friend in this wretched place? What are you, a teenager? But you can’t deny the disgusting, poison green envy that unspools in your stomach, catching onto the flames and turning them into toxic vapor everytime you notice his lingering eyes, her thoughtful smile, the small touches they think no one notices.

It’s hard for you not to, especially when you know he’s been teasing you all week, the bastard. You suppose you should be glad today is the second to last day of this collaboration, and that you’ll never see him after this. Pray that his movies never feature at the local theater again.

But why does he have to be so beautiful? You want to strangle the sculptor, the majestic mind that saw him in the block of hard set marble and brought him to life, all chiseled, lean body, marked with stories, the body you have to stare at with a stony expression as you click the camera. Yet the softest, most gentle touches you’ve ever felt come from him.

Soft like his fingers around your wrist as he glances up at you, evident concern in his azure gaze. "Hey, is everything okay? You seem down."

You shake your head dismissively. "It's fine. Just tired of playing assistant, I guess."

A frown twists his lips. "You know that's not all it was." His thumb rubbed gentle strokes on your skin, setting your nerves alight. "I didn't mean to lead you on if... Well, you seem so young, I didn't want to assume or make you uncomfortable."

Your breath hitches as he stares at you, awaiting your reply. Fortune favors the bold, right? In a rush of courage, you lean down to brush your lips against his stubbled cheek, just the faintest touch.

"Why don’t you come over tonight and try me?"

<><><><>

Leon’s always been depicted in shades of gray, through your camera, the filters of monochrome, white, gray and black sweeping him into dramatic stories. However many shades you have seen in him, more than fifty, you think absently.

When you met him, the glacier tilt of his glistening eyes.

When you shot him, iron gray, the set of his jaw in pondering poses.

The fog his breath on your bare skin, as exposed to him as he was once to you, ash in the scratch of his stubble that sets fire to every part of you it brushes, anchor to the peace bringing doves taking off against your shoulder where his eyelashes flutter, peppering your collarbone with cautious, restrained kisses.

He’s holding back. Right now, he’s the soft gray that washes over the hills in the early mornings, the gray of your tea as you stare out at the horizon.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper, brushing wisps of hair that stick to his face away. Leon glances down at you, eyes contorted in pain.

“I-I can’t,” he chokes out. You’ve never seen him cry, but pearls well up in his icy, stormy eyes, clouds of emotion raining down his cheeks.

So you kiss the hurt away. You push him into the linen bed sheets, muse something about the coffee incident, which sparks a broken chuckle from his glorious, glorious mouth.

Eventually all sorts of things are sprouting from between those lips. You think most of them are profanities, but you’d prefer that over sobbing.

You realize that you never want to see him cry.

Never see the smoky pallor of his face.

<><><><>

You wake to the sounds of metal creaking and strange gushing sounds that you can’t identify. Slightly concerned, you pull on the blinds, letting the dawn sun wash over your tired expression as you peer down at the hotel parking lot.

“Is he…” You squint, rubbing your eyes and blinking before looking back.

Yeah, you were right the first time.

“Why are you- when did you- what?”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The corner of his mouth crinkles into a sappy smile, barely visible from under the gleaming, spotless body of a motorcycle. “You aren’t the only one that can multitask.”

“You know you have a shoot today, right?" You rub your eyes, further taking the scene in. He’s definitely been working on the bike for some time, if the spread of tools was any sign.

He waves off your complaint with a huff. “That’s irrelevant. Besides, she matters more to me.”

“She?” You scoff.

"I know, I know." Leon wipes his hands, sliding out from beneath the vehicle with a half-sheepish, half-proud grin. "This old girl needed a tune-up, and I couldn't help myself. You know how it is."

You crouch to his level, sighing and wanting to be annoyed with his spontaneity but finding it hard in the glow of his expression, with the passion that sparkles in his eyes. "Just try not to get too grimy before call time, Leon. Ada will have both our heads."

Leon chuckles, unconcerned as always. "No worries. A quick shower and I'll be shining for the camera again." He waves off your complaint with a huff. “Besides, she matters more to me.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. "She who?"

Leon grins, running a loving hand along the motorcycle's frame. "Why, my precious Matilda, of course."

“Isn’t that your cat's name?”

“Yes… and?”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a fond smile. Only Leon would think of naming his vehicle. "Ah, now it all makes sense. I should've known no flesh and blood woman could ever compare to your one true love, your Ducati."

Leon meets your gaze with utmost sincerity, face twinged with amusement as he presses a fleeting kiss to your forehead, curling his fingers around the back of your head.

And his eyes are missing those rolling fogs.

Clear skies.

“Well, some things a man just has to do with his hands, you know?"

[kaidan-z]

”How many times do i gotta tell you,”

42 Miles x Male Reader

warnings: cursing??

w/c: 461

Request:

This is my first official writing, so…it’s not that good. tell me if i did alright 😭🙏🏽.

Where was he? You thought to yourself with an aggravated sigh, brows furrowed as you checked his location on your phone.

Right…he stopped sharing it.

Just as you were about to call him, the familiar creaking of the front door alerted of entry, and by the footsteps it was easily told who it was. Miles.

“Miles? I’ve been waiting all fucking night, jesus.” You grumbled, getting up from the couch and making your way to the door, pausing at a glimpse of a tear in his outfit.

…which was rare for him.

”Miles.” You repeated, taking a look at him up and down, drawing a deep breath in preparation for the long scolding you were soon to give him. Taking his wrist, you took him to the living room, grabbing the first aid kit on the way there. The two of you sat on the couch in an uncomfortable silence as you began to treat him.

“How many times do I gotta tell you, how many? Cause I’m real tired of it. You said you’d be more careful on the job, I said, ‘Okay. You know what, I can trust him, because he always stays true to his word’. Right? Well, I shouldn’t have. I know i don’t know what you do when you’re out, but you gotta be more fucking careful than this, man. Invest in better gear, upgrade the suit, cause whatever you’re doing isn’t working.” You went on and on, complaining while you tenderly cared for his injuries, not caring for any of his small remarks.

And Miles just sat and took it, knowing deep down he was deserving of the talk. I mean, yeah, he was saving the entire city. But he knew he had someone to love and take care of him at the end of the day, who he gave the same treatment to.

“Yea…I know.” Miles murmured, running his tongue over his teeth idly, avoiding your gaze even though he knew you weren’t looking. “‘m sorry. Things got messy, and I did what i had to do.” Miles spoke again, quietly, leaning back into the soft cushions.

It wasn’t usual for him to comply with you, but he felt bad and he was tired. So, according to him, that was his only option.

After you had him all patched up and scolded, you got up and put away the first aid kit, groaning softly and rubbing your eyes.

“And I made empanadas. Go eat.” You spoke flatly with a caring undertone, feeling a smile make its way onto your face as Miles wrapped you in a warm hug, mask retracted off of his face.

“Thank you.” He murmured, placing a small kiss on your cheek as he let go and headed to the kitchen.

[princessbrunette]

Stepbro!Rafe is too hot to handle, idk out of all characters the trope suits him so well 🥵 I love your stepbro!Rafe headcanons because you just know he’d be so possessive and never let another man touch his step sis. Him with a sweet naive step sis would be so hot!! Like he makes it his business to make sure every man in Kildare is afraid of him so they never even dare approach his step sis. That leaves her never having gone on a date or even having been kissed so she innocently and naively pours her heart out to Rafe on night all vulnerable and lonely and sad thinking there’s something wrong and off putting about her because no boy has ever asked her out when all her friends are gossiping about their active dating lives and sharing intimate details of their sex lives whilst she’s feeling left out because she’s never had close to any of that. Little does she know Rafe threatens every man he sees even talking to her. So she innocently asks him stuff like “I wonder what I feels like to get eaten out” and he coaxes her into letting him do that to her because he’s just being a “helpful step brother”. And another night she’s curious about how to give a guy a blow job because she wants to be prepare for when she gets a boyfriend (foolishly thinking Rafe would let any man but himself touch her in that way) so he’s more than happy to teach her how to. And begins frequent night where she innocently wonders into room asking him to each her how to do things she hears her friends doing with their boyfriend like “Rafe, what does doggystyle mean 🥺?”, “Rafe did you know people have anal sex 😯?! Where men put their penises in inside the woman’s butt! I wonder what that would feel like???” Hmmmff step bro Rafe is a fave trope 🥵!!!

i love this a lot because there’d be so much manipulation involved and… idk when it’s rafe its hot 🙏🏼

“girls really… do this kind of thing? i don’t know rafe, it seems a little gross to m—”

“look, i just don’t want you to embarrass yourself, a’ight? you’re my little step sister… wouldn’t wanna have to beat some guys ass because he got mad you don’t know how to suck him off properly… right? y’know i’m just tryna take care of you.”

also, bonus points if reader starts to catch on. i mean you’re not an idiot, after the first few ‘lessons’, seeing how much rafes enjoying himself you start to realise it’s mostly for selfish gain. but… you turns a blind eye to it because as much as you know it’s wrong, you like it too. he makes you feel good.

you’ll come slinking into his room with your most innocent face on, pawing at him, so helpless and sweet, talking about “apparently… you can grind on a guys thigh and it feels really good… heard the girls talkin’ about it and i felt left out ‘cos i’ve never done it before…” your hand playing with the north face fleece he wore. he stares down at you knowingly, fighting away the urge to smirk.

“y’think i’m dumb or something?” he rasps after a minute and your eyes widen.

“huh?”

“you come in here… actin’ all sweet cos’ you wanna get felt up by your big bro again, ain’t that right?” the way he words it makes you recoil, shoulders practically at your ears as you rapidly shake your head. “yeah… yeah you want a freebie. i know your game.” he begins to back you against the wall, and you could cry from the humiliation.

“s’not true rafe, i just wanna learn!”

“bullshit. what happened to you, hm? i think… i think i’ve turned you into a slut.” he mocks concern, tilting his head with wide worried eyes. your bottom lip juts out just like he thought it would, shaking your head still in denial.

“no…” it comes out small.

“uh-huh. and you know what happens to sluts?” he closes in. “gotta be punished. i can’t have you turnin’ out like that… running around town trying to get yours. i gotta nip it in the bud, yeah? m’a proactive person, you know that— a good big brother, i gotta teach you a lesson.” he’s dragging you over to the bed, manhandling you to bend over his lap.

you must’ve caught him on the wrong night.

[zeltqz]

imagine armin taking the rice purity test lol

“Hey Armin...” 

He looks up from his book at you, sitting pretty next to him.

The way you said his name has him on his guard, on the edge of his seat. Your voice is so crisp and steady, yet the playful look in your eye tells him you’re up to no good.

“Yeah?”

“You like taking tests, right?”

“...yeah?”

You hand your phone out to him, nodding your head towards it as he looks at you skeptically. 

You sigh. “It’s not a bomb, Armin. Take my phone and do the test.”

“What test?”

“Do it and you’ll see.” You slip off the couch, stretching your arms out in the air and yawn, body feeling light as you let out all the tension from your muscles. “Call me when you’re done.”

You don’t offer much more of an explanation when you trod off to the kitchen, humming a tune under your breath. Armin looks down at the phone screen. It’s a simple looking quiz, the words Rice Purity Test in red letters at the top has him a little confused. 

Why does he need to take a test on rice? And what is so pure about rice?

Most importantly, why did you look so cheeky when handing the phone to him when it’s a test about…rice?

He tosses his book to the side, careful to keep the bookmark from slipping out. Slowly he begins to tick off the boxes. Held hands romantically? He’s never been in a relationship, nor had he ever had the courage to talk to his crush before so no.

Been on a date? Nope. Danced without leaving room for Jesus? What? 

It takes him a little moment before he gets it, the lightbulb inside his brain flickers on, flashing as bright and yellow as his hair.

 A small gasp leaving his throat has you snickering from the kitchen, already having a feeling he’s finally understood the true intentions behind this test. 

He slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, fingers hesitating to scroll down further. He doesn’t consider himself a dirty person, nor someone that has sexual thoughts very often, but hanging out with Connie and Jean has its perks (he hates sitting next to Connie in class because he makes it his personal job to draw little balls on the corners of Armin’s notebook), He’s able to deduce their dirty jokes in record time before they laugh at him for being as innocent as the pure driven snow. 

He may not be dirty minded, but he isn’t clueless. 

“Armin, is everything ok?” you call out, hiding a laugh when he doesn’t verbally respond, only nodding his head, his fluffy sandy hair moving with the movement. “Tell me when you’re done.”

He’s tuned you out at this point, now forgetting scrolling through the test in chronological order, skipping half the questions to read the rest. It only gets worse. The questions are more obscene, explicit, X-rated, questions ranging from sexual activity, to drugs, to—oh my god, is that beasitality..?— law breaking criminal activity, and just the mere thought of him completing these has his cheeks flushing hot from embarrassment.

You’re able to sneak up behind him, crossed arms resting on the back of the couch. “I scored 70.”

He visibly jumps when your silky voice is so close beside his ear, and he can smell the strawberry flavoured milkshake you’d been drinking on your breath. “70?” he asks, and you nod your head, taking another sip. “Is that good?”

“It means I’m not a whore, a junkie, or a weirdo if that’s what you’re asking—”

“I wasn’t asking that—”

“—but if you think mine is bad, you should see Eren and Jean. Holy fuck, we did it after class and Jean scored 66, Eren scored 64. Connie definitely lied because he said he’d scored 40 but we all know that’s straight up bullshit. Mikasa refused to take it and Sasha scored 90.”

Armin blinks at you, stunned for a moment. He didn’t realise this test was sucha  big deal and that everyone  took it. Now he’s a little embarrassed because he knows he will score lower than his male counterparts. It’s not that he’s a virgin…ok, he’s a virgin, but by choice. 

He gets attention at school, girls show their attraction to him, but he always declines politely, mainly because they’re probably using him to boost their own ego, wanting to go after the more quiet one for whatever reasons they have in their mind. 

“Go on, continue. Don’t let me stop you.” You take another sip of the milkshake, and maybe there’s something in the air, maybe the test had gotten to his head because he focuses on the way your lips wrap around the bottle, the few drops of the milkshake dribbling down your chin has him taking a shaky breath, his mind already replacing that image with something else. 

“Uh…ok, okay yeah,” he stutters out, ripping his gaze from your face back down to your phone. 

His nerves are racing ten times faster with the feel of your eyes watching every movement of his fingers, each box he ticks off. It’s a good thing he can’t see your face, he doesn’t wanna know what kind of face you’re making when you watch him skip past almost every single box, fingers hesitating before ticking off the Masturbated to a picture or video? box. 

“You what?” You shriek out by accident, making him visibly jump once more from the sudden raise of your voice. “I would never have guessed that, holy shit.”

“It’s—”

“Relax, Armin,” you giggle helplessly, “you look like you’re 'bout to faint. It’s not a bad thing to masturbate. I just never expected that from you. So…” you tilt your head to the side, corner of your lips curling up in a wry smirk, “ who did you jerk off to?”

“I—I, well, I didn’t—”

“Was it porn?”

“No—”

“Someone we know?”

“I—”

“Was it Annie?”

“No—” His face is beet-red at this point and you swear he’s sweating profusely. 

“Are you going to tell me even if I get it right?”

“No…”

You sigh , long, exasperated, shifting to sit next to him on the couch, knee knocking against his from how close you sat. “Alright that’s fair, I guess.”

He blinks at you with those intoxicatingly innocent eyes of his. “I don’t think I’m going to score that high on this.”

“I know that. This is probably the first test you’ll ever fail.” At that he frowns, and you reach out to pinch his cheeks, “don’t be sad, failing this test ain’t a bad thing. It’s kinda good. Means that you’re still…uh, how do I say this politely? Uh—innocent? I dunno, just know it ain’t anything bad, so don’t get upset.”

“Yeah?”

You nod your head. “If anything, the lower score you get on this, the more I don’t trust you. ‘Cause whaddya mean you snorted coke and ran from the police?”

He lets out a genuine breathless laugh, feeling a surge of confidence course its way through his veins. “Ok, I’ll finish the test.”

A couple moments later, he hands you back the phone, a bright red 96 as the final score. Your eyebrows lift when you see it, taking a quick peek over at him. He’s red as a tomato at this point, purposefully trying to avoid your gaze, eyes darting everywhere but your face. 

“You’ve never even kissed someone before?” His cheeks tint impossibly redder as he avoids your question, and you bite at your lip. “Want me to teach you?”

He finally looks at you, eyes wide in shock. “Huh?”

“I asked if you want me to teach you.”

“Teach me how to k—kiss?”

You shrug your shoulders, like what you’re proposing isn’t a big deal at all. It’s really not. To someone like you, kissing isn’t even that deep. It’s just a kiss. But to Armin? He feels like he can’t even get a proper sentence out. 

“If you don’t wanna it’s okay, I won’t be offended.”

“It’s not that—I just…won’t it be weird?”

“Hm?” You shift a little closer to him on the couch, till his back is against the armrest and you’re hovering over him, arms by the side of his face. “It’ll be weird if you make it weird.”

You feel a rush of adrenaline flush down your body when he looks up at you, his mouth agape, breathless as his eyes drop down to your lips. You lean closer for the benefit of it, ensuring your mere presence is enough to make his heart stutter in his chest. 

“Is that a yes, Armin?” 

His throat bobs when he swallows, eyes fluttering as he takes in the sight of you, gazing down at him suggestivly. The deep, prolonged, eye contact has his cheeks burning red. He gathers the saliva in his mouth to moisten it up, worried his voice would come out hoarse otherwise. “Yes.”

“Okay—” You’re leaning in closer. His world goes in slow motion. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“O—okay.” 

His eyes remain open for the first few seconds your lips press against his. It’s slow, slow enough for him to learn the proper movements, tilting his head to the side to properly angle his mouth into yours. The kiss isn’t a full on make out yet, and he freezes up when he feels the tip of your tongue slide against his bottom lip. You suck his lip into your mouth, pulling away to look him in the eye, soak in the sight of him falling apart under you before letting go. 

“How was that?”

“It was good…yeah, yeah good.” 

“Alright, now—” you sink backwards to grab your phone, unlock it, then hand it back to him. “—now you can tick that off the list.”

[restwellsoon]

Nothing in Particular | 3 - What's in a Name?

Pairing: Omota Uramichi x F!Reader

Summary: A series of unexpected encounters and misunderstandings causes you to fill a large and gaping hole in Uramichi’s life.

Minors and blank blogs DNI! You will be blocked!

Warning: Uramichi jerkin' it <3

Your to-go containers sat innocently on Uramichi’s counter as he passed them each day. You hadn’t seen each other in weeks despite the promise to do so more often. Usahara mentioned something called ghosting, where things seemed like they were going very well, then the other person would disappear without a trace. Was that happening to him?

He shook his head. No, it couldn’t be because you texted several times a week. Were you actually talking though?

Hi, when are you free? Sorry, overtime again.  How was your day? Ugh, busy. Good morning! Good night!

Leaning against the counter, he analyzed your conversation until unexpectedly your photo ID popped up on his screen, making him jump. He waited a few seconds before answering it. You hadn’t called him before.

Bumping the call volume to its max setting, his ears still strained to hear you. All he could tell was that you were talking to a man, though he couldn’t hear the words clearly. His stomach sank. He should have known that things were too good to be true. Rather than letting the masochistic side of him win and continue to listen, his finger hovered over the ‘end call’ button.

“Huh? Ura…?” You said, voice suddenly clear. “Excuse me, Sakumoto, there’s something I need to take care of. I expect an email with more details by the end of tomorrow.”

Had he been listening this entire time, or was this a long voicemail? “Uramichi…?”

He said your name. “Hello?” 

Fiddling with the pen on your desk, you smiled when you heard him speak. “Sorry for the random call! I’m still at work right now, trying to tie up loose ends for that team dinner on Friday.”

Ah, so it wasn’t what he thought it was. That sick feeling in his stomach disappeared as he hummed, scrolling back a few days to see that you did mention having to plan something nice for your team.

Putting away your things and slinging your bag around your shoulder, you pulled out your earbuds to keep your hands free. “You’re quiet,” you noted. “Guess I must have disturbed ya, huh?” 

He shook his head even though you couldn’t see him. “No, I’m just a little tired. I just got back from the gym.” A part of him was waiting for a comment about being a gorilla or that he was a meathead.

Pushing past the front door, you didn’t bother to give your workplace another glance. You were too busy thinking of a sweaty Uramichi lifting weights and breathing heavily. His face probably flushed easily and his sweat made his hair stick to his forehead. You thought of the way his Adam's apple moved as he gulped down water. Good thing you were done for the day–and good lord, was it already night?--because your thoughts were definitely NSFW.

“Ooh, look at you. Good job,” you said. “I’ll let you get your rest then.”

He gripped the edge of the counter, somehow not expecting that answer. Was it only him that wanted to talk longer? Ah, but you said you were just leaving work. He looked at the clock. It read a god awful 8:30 PM. 

“Oh, and Michi? It was so nice to hear your voice.” He could hear your smile. Did you actually mean that? He found himself smiling back at your words. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

---

Smokes in hand, Uramichi stiffened when he felt an unknown presence stalking behind him. It couldn’t have been Amon. He was out on vacation. Besides, this person’s aura felt far too menacing compared to the creative producer.

“Oh, Uramichi oniisan~” Utano sang from behind. When he didn’t stop, her voice dropped. “Hey, we need to talk.”

He was a few paces from the smoke room, and slowly he turned to see if he could make a run for it. Utano was somehow behind him, but at the very least she was pushing him towards where he wanted to go.

“I heard you and my friend had a lovely chat a while ago,” she said. At least she let him light up his cigarette before their break was over.

Uramichi took a quick puff, letting the smoke dissipate slowly upwards. “How’d you know?”

Giving him a look before rolling her eyes, she should have known that this was an Uramichi–and an Usahara and Iketeru too–type question. The lack of experience with women was obvious.

“Duh, we’re friends . We tell each other everything.” 

He smoked a bit more without saying anything. He considered him and Nekota friends but certainly didn’t share all the details of his life with him. Kumatani, Iketeru, and Usahara were in the same boat too. There were things about each other that they didn’t know and didn’t care to know either. What was the point in knowing everything about someone’s life?

“So is everything good?” She asked, annoyed with his silence. 

“Uhh, yes?”

Utano assessed his facial expression and body language. Uramichi’s arms weren’t crossed, letting his hand that held the cigarette dangle at his side. His ankles weren’t crossed either, meaning he wasn’t hiding anything or acting defensive. He spoke and looked at her with a confused expression. Even though he wasn’t as much of a liar as Kumatani or Usahara, she still couldn’t trust him. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like Iketeru and lacked their kouhai’s brutal honesty too.

“Good,” she smiled.

She’s weird when she’s cryptic, Uramichi thought. “Why do you ask?”

Continuing her assessment, she noted that his mood has been more stable these days too. Naturally, she attributed it to your good work.

In her grating cheerful work voice, she spoke, “Things are better when we get along.”

“Huh?”

Deciding that she was done with him, Utano offered a few last words to a bewildered Uramichi. “Make sure you treat my friend well… or else! ☆”

“Chicks are pretty scary,” he mumbled to himself as he ashed the end of his cigarette onto the tray. What was the point of their conversation?

---

Uramichi just needed to get through the work week. His final obstacle before he could enjoy his weekend was a dreaded dinner that the station decided to throw in his honor. Apparently, he was in the running to win a Galaxy Award for outstanding television host, which was a surprise since he didn’t consider himself one. Regardless, his win would give MHK and their show more fame, which equaled more views and more revenue. He hoped that it also meant a bigger paycheck. 

He doubted it though as he followed the directions to an upscale restaurant in Roppongi. The station would rather splurge on luxuries like these instead of paying their workers what they were worth. 

Tugging at his tie, he loosened it a bit before stepping inside. The only time he ever dressed up was when he had to give official interviews as a gymnast and at the year-end work party. He couldn’t wait to dress down into something more comfortable.

The bathroom mirror’s bright lights showed every pore and wrinkle you had as you did one last once over on your appearance. Sticking to your rule to be overdressed instead of under, you smoothed over your clothes, making sure you looked neat. Your dress fit tighter than you’d like, an oversight you made by changing your outfit last minute. At the very least, your hair and makeup looked good.

Your assistant, Sakumoto, had done well with his assignment. Your goal was to make the teams that you managed feel appreciated. After all, you had asked a lot out of them in the past quarter, and their quiet grumbles and complaints weren’t completely lost on you. 

It was a shame that he couldn’t rent out the entire place. Sure, your boss wouldn’t have liked how much you spent, but you’d been in your position long enough to know how to write off certain expenses. It’d be worth it too, you could argue, to have happy employees.

Leaving the bathroom and entering the dining room, you were confused to see Sakumoto and two other supervisors, Hasegawa and Iwamoto, crowding around what was obviously the other party that had the other half of the restaurant. Other staff joined their crowd, and quickly you rushed to assess the situation.

“Uramichi oniisan! Love your work, buddy. If it weren’t for you, my wife and I would be going insane. Jotaru uses up all of his energy doing those ABC calisthenics!”

You turned at the sound of your name. “Utano?”

Giving you a hug, she pulled you aside, giving the crowd a glance. “Hey girly! I didn’t know you were doing your team dinner here. Oh my gosh, we should totally merge parties.” You both looked at the intermingled groups. “I didn’t know that a lot of people on your team were huge fans!”

Sakumoto was chatting with the director while Hasegawa and Iwamoto talked to Iketeru. The other staff continued to surround Uramichi and two other actors that Utano said were the mascots. You hummed, “Yeah, I didn’t know either.”

While Usahara and Kumatani bickered and the other people made their way to Iketeru and the Derekida, Uramichi tried to find a viable escape route from this exhausting social situation. Instead, his eyes spotted you and Utano talking.

He called out your name, making you turn from your conversation. You weren’t sure why you were expecting him to be in exercise gear, especially when Utano herself was dressed up, but you were pleasantly surprised to see how well he cleaned up. This look gave him the aura of a true TV star.

“No way,” you heard Akane, a new hire that you already had to keep an eye on, whisper loudly. “How does our boss know such a hottie?”

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen you in a while, but Uramichi couldn’t help but blurt out that you looked nice. Utano watched the exchange with the pleased look of a successful matchmaker before giving you space (and so she could watch from afar).

“I could say the same about yourself,” you said, giving him one last look for good measure. It’d be the only casual comment you’d give him. You had to remind yourself that you were at a work event and needed to be professional.

You could already see your staff gathering around you both. Good. You didn’t have to herd them to the correct side.

“I see some of you have already met the stars of Together with Maman, like my dear friend Ms. Tadano as well as Mr. Omota and Mr. Daga along with other members of their production team. It seems like they’re here for their own celebration, so let’s be respectful of that and give them some space.”

Utano waved after her introduction as did Iketeru. Unfortunately, Uramichi was different.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” he told them, then turned to you, “and please, call me Uramichi.”

“We love you, Uramichi!! I can get laid in the morning because of ya’ll!”

Shooting a glare at Daiki, you mouthed that you’d talk to him later. Daiki paled.

Clapping your hands, you hoped that the team would finally get the cue that you wanted them to leave the Together with Maman team the fuck alone. You hated having to repeat yourself. You also didn’t want to look bad in front of Uramichi.

“Thanks so much for being so welcoming, Mr. Omota. Now let’s get ready for dinner and drinks, team!”

Why were you calling him Omota again? Didn’t you both agree to call each other by your names? “No need to be so formal,” he reminded you. “I don’t care what they call me, but you should call me by my requested name.”

Utano snickered behind her drink as you stared at Uramichi blankly. After knowing Uramichi for years, she knew exactly what he was doing. He really wanted to feel close to you. In a way, she felt sorry for questioning his sincerity and motives towards you earlier. This man was unknowingly dealing with an adult crush, and he was so fucking cringe.

Surprisingly, it was Usahara who had come to your rescue, pulling Uramichi away while Kumatani followed behind them. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for you. “Quit bullying her, bro. That’s not how you get chicks.”

Bullying? Uramichi only wanted to be less formal with you. 

To prove his point, Usahara turned back at you and winked, earning a very bewildered look out of you. Quickly, you returned to your team.

Despite the unexpected introduction and mingling, the team dinner had gone without a hitch. Your team was happy, full, and drunk, which you hoped meant that they would continue to keep up the good work. You hoped that you could pay them off with good food and booze until the end of the year, or at least until your own annual review.

Unfortunately, being the host meant that you were the last to leave. Paying the bill, you sighed. Exhaustion made the alcohol hit your system quicker. At least you wouldn’t look like a fool in front of your co-workers.

It was a shame though. You wanted to hang out with Utano more, but your friend had left about an hour prior with her boyfriend. You wouldn’t want to be a third wheel with them anyway.

With no one left from your company, you left the restaurant, pausing when you saw a familiar person smoking outside.

“I thought you left a while ago,” you told Uramichi. 

He couldn’t say that he was stalling just to see you. “Yeah,” he exhaled, “they threw this party because of me, so it’d be rude if I was the first to leave.”

You nodded. “Utano told me about your nomination. Congrats!”

Trying to downplay his achievement, he shrugged out a thanks and tossed his cig in the trash. “Anyway, let’s head to the station. We might miss the last train.”

Following in his step, you teased him, “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me that you’re gonna walk me home after.”

He gave you a look. “Strong, independent women in their 30s still need to be protected late at night, especially when they’ve had a bit to drink.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

---

Ugh, the ride back home would take a half-hour. Clutching your purse in your lap, you leaned forward in your seat while Uramichi stood in front of you. The alcohol was really hitting and had you wondering if you really had overdone it. You closed your eyes as you tried to stop the spins from getting to you. 

The train car grew emptier with each stop, and soon its movement lulled you to sleep. 

Your head rested on something more comfortable than your hands, and you nuzzled your face into whatever it was. 

Uramichi mumbled your name in a strangled voice, “Hey, um, could you uh, could you move?”

Why would you need to do that? Opening your eyes, you saw his zipper, then looked more and saw a bulge. Oh.

Jolting up, you sat back into your seat, relieved that no one was around to see you. Somehow, the fact that you were alone was worse. The subway air felt thick each time the door opened. Uramichi’s cheeks were flushed. Your new position didn’t change the fact that you were eye-level with his boner.

Sliding into the seat beside you, he pointed towards his arm. “You can rest still if you want. We have about twenty more minutes until we reach our stop.” His blush spread to his ears and down his neck. “I think this way will be more comfortable for both of us.”

Wrapping your arms around his, you took him up on that offer.

“How ‘bout one more drink before the night ends?” You asked, getting a second wind from your power nap as well as newfound sobriety. You stretched your arms overhead, a bit stiff from sleeping while sitting up.

Although Uramichi said that leaning on his shoulder would be more comfortable, it was a lie. Asleep, your arms fell limp. One hand covered his own while the other laid precariously on his lap. Your knees bumped into his thigh, and your breasts pressed into his arm. 

Honestly, all he wanted was some relief from this unintentional torture you put him through, but it was difficult to refuse you.

Trying to think of what was open, the two of you had limited options. The konbini, Cat Kick… Oh. That place might work, if you were willing.

“My place is right there,” he said sheepishly while pointing out his building. “I have a few bottles if you don’t mind something a bit stronger than beer.”

“Ah, the really nice apartments,” you noted. Uramichi lived in the high-rise that had its own doorsman.

Uramichi tried to find other reasons why you should go to his place instead of a bar; any reason would do to make him seem less creepy. “Oh! And I still have your containers from last time.”

“Right. I was really missing those actually,” you winked, “so I guess I might as well stop by and get them.”

There was a skip in your step as you followed him home.

---

Taking a good look at his apartment, you tried to memorize everything you could, in case you’d never see this place again. Despite all of his accolades and trophies, his walls and shelves were surprisingly devoid of any of that. The only hint that Uramichi might even be into any sport at all were the dumbbells and hand grips he had in a corner and some workout magazines on the table.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” you said as you made yourself comfortable at the table. 

Uramichi looked up from what he was doing. He was already pouring himself a large glass of whiskey on the rocks.

You looked at him, then the cup while Uramichi grew conscious about just how much he drank. You regretted saying what you did as he continued to pour. He only stopped just a hair before it would overflow. 

And because of social etiquette, he slowly pushed the glass towards you, not spilling a drop despite your hopes. With a tight smile, you accepted it.

“You really don’t have to finish that,” he said, pouring himself an identical glass.

“Oh, it’s fine!” You smiled. “You poured it for me, and I asked for it. It’d be rude not to drink it all.”

Life left your eyes as you swallowed hard to get through the burn.

Coughing, you asked him, “So how was the rest of your night? Sorry about my co-workers. I didn’t know that they were fans.”

He shrugged, “I’ve had worse conversations from parents. But yeah, the rest of the night was fine.” He was hoping that the two parties would merge, but you seemed hellbent on keeping your team in line.

Taking a smaller sip, you said, “I didn’t realize how popular you are. Now I’m kind of worried that there might be more competition than I realized.”

“With the kids program?” He asked.

Before you could say that no , you were not talking about the kids program, respectfully fuck the program, and that you were trying your hardest to flirt with him, Uramichi continued to speak.

“I mean, there are a few other educational programs out there, but a lot of ‘em nowadays are more focused on entertainment. Honestly, I think it’s a bit overstimulating for the targeted age group.”

You finished the rest of your drink in two large gulps, wiping away the tears in your eyes and mumbling about the burn. “Is that so?” You coughed. “Well, that makes you even more amazing.”

How had he finished his drink before you? He made zero indication that he even drank at all–no coughing, no wincing, nothing.

“Actually, I think what you do is more amazing instead. One of your kouhais was telling me that you’re one of the youngest regional managers at the company.”

“It’s not that impressive,” you admitted. “I just… do the bare minimum, which is apparently still too much compared to others–that’s how I fast-tracked it to my current position. And what did it get me other than a slightly larger salary and a significantly larger amount of work?” You shook your head. “I should have spent my 20s at the club or going on gokons.”

“Oh… is that what you’re into?”

“Not really,” you swirled the ice around in your cup. “I guess I feel like I missed out on a lot of things because of work?” 

As a child, you were sold the lie that girls could have it all–a career, a family, and a fulfilling social life–and it was only in adulthood that you realized how difficult it was to balance all three. You never dated because you were too busy getting promotions. Your friend group slowly dropped off as each of you submitted to social expectations and life’s demands. All you had was this shitty job that you needed in order to live.

Uramichi felt the same way with his gymnastics career. The fame and glory meant nothing when it felt like he was falling behind and failing at life.

You rambled on, “I mean, we didn’t even get to have dinner together or see each other until now.”

Somehow your honesty embarrassed him, just like when you spoke on the phone. You made him feel important.

“I’m happy that we’re able to be together now though,” he said, “ alone too.”

Were your feelings finally getting across to him? Maybe he was an honest drunk.

“Is that so, Michi?” Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much around him.

His mouth twisted into a pout. “Aw, don’t play cute by calling me that when it’s just us.”

“I knew that was what you wanted me to call you at the restaurant! Why ?”

There was an innocent look in Uramichi’s eyes. They sparkled with hope and misunderstanding.  “Didn’t we agree to call each other by our first names? It felt like you were going back on your promise.”

That little devil!

“Well, uh, yeah,” you trailed off, recalling that embarrassing incident at the market, “but not while I’m at work! People will be suspicious!”

“Suspicious of what?” He asked, all charm gone from his features and voice. He was serious, as if he didn’t know what you were talking about.

Now that you thought about it, what would that imply? It seemed like a lot of people were on a first-name basis with Uramichi, and people called out to him like that because of his work. It was something that you could easily get away with. Was there anything to be suspicious about between you and Uramichi? Maybe you were just friends or had known each other for a long time. No one knew your history together. How did he see you anyway?

Your dark thoughts only grew darker because of the alcohol, and you fell into an all-consuming spiral. You looked up from your glass, laughing. “You’re right. I guess I’m overthinking things!”

Standing up, you thought it’d be best to leave before you did something embarrassing. “Anyways, I think I should go now.”

The clock read that it was nearly two in the morning. “No way,” Uramichi said firmly, holding you by the wrist. “It’s late, and you’re drunk.”

The problem with alcohol was that it was hard to notice how hard it hit you until you started moving. Everything was spinning, and your body felt heavy and slow. “It's fine!” You tried to argue and pull away. “‘‘m fine!”

---

And as life would have it, things were not fine as you woke up to the sun peeking in through the curtains, strategically blinding you. Groaning, your head pounded from the hangover. You were hoping that all you’d feel today was some photosensitivity and a headache instead of wasting your day by the toilet.

Turning from the sun, your leg wrapped around something that was firm yet soft. You felt the mattress. It definitely wasn’t yours. The sheets didn’t smell like your sheets either. They smelled like…You buried your head into the pillow. A man?!

You employed all the techniques that your company equipped you with for stress management: breathe deeply, express gratitude, ground yourself in the present… Ugh, that was all a load of shit in this situation!

You recalled everything you could from last night: team dinner, train, Uramichi’s place, you hurt your own feelings after drinking too much, then left. You left… right? All you could remember were your intentions to leave and spilling water on your clothes, then changing out of them right after.

Which meant that this bed and these sheets were Uramichi’s.

And the person that you were cuddling was…

“What the fuck?!”

You were met with the blank stare of some disgusting human-bird chimera. Trying to avoid its judgemental gaze, you weren’t sure if you should look at its beak or lips, eventually settling on its bright blue buttoned top. Why the hell was it human-sized too?

“You’re not Uramichi!”

In your fright, you threw the creature with all your strength. It landed a foot away from the bed with a thud.

A shirt that wasn’t yours pooled at the tops of your thighs as you sat, tickling your bare legs. You grabbed your boobs. No bra on either. Shifting, you were grateful that at least your panties were still on. Could you and Uramichi really have…?

Hearing your movement from the bed, Uramichi laid still while contemplating what to do next after last night. He didn’t fully understand why you were upset but couldn’t let you leave in that condition. The water he offered you spilled on your clothes. His plan to walk you home after an hour of sobering up failed.

“Could I borrow a shirt?” You asked before stripping off your wet dress. 

Did you not see him as a man? He wondered as he quickly gathered the dress you threw, nearly getting hit by your bra. He threw your clothes in the dryer as he fought his body’s urge to turn around.

He would have suggested that you laid down, but you already claimed his bed as yours, patting the open spot in front of you.

“Michi?” You asked him, lying on your side with your head resting on your hand. “Aren’t you gonna come?”

The whiskey drunk was slow when it wanted to be but could hit the drinker like a truck just as easily.

“Only if you’ll let me,” he stammered out. 

God, he could hear himself and he prayed for death. He sounded like a virgin, not that it was anything to be ashamed of, but that was something that he wasn’t. He didn’t want you to think that he was a completely inexperienced and inept fool. Maybe he’d just blame all of this on the alcohol.

How could he not be tempted and feel the things that men felt when you were in his bed like that? His shirt clung to parts of your body that it shouldn’t: hanging onto the contour of your hard nipples, bunching up at your waist. Your panties were dark and lacy.

“Well?”

This could be his only chance, he thought, as he did his best to get rid of his clothes. Nearly choking himself out with his tie, his shirt was next. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle.

Stepping out of his pants, he was met with disappointment. You were already asleep. Fate was cruel. How could anyone fall asleep that fast?

Disappointment brought back his senses, and he resigned to getting the guest futon. When he came back, to add even more insult to injury, he saw that disgustingly large stuffie of Kotori-san snuggled against your body, upside down so its face was buried between your thighs. That could have been him! It should have been him! He glared at that abomination as he laid out the bedding on the floor..

Leaning over the edge of the bed, Uramichi’s back was turned towards you. He slept shirtless, and you wondered if that was normal or because of the heat. He wasn’t even flexing, but you could see the definition of his back. You told yourself that you were reaching out to him to see if he was awake, not because you were some kind of perv.

“Uramichi?” You tentatively asked, giving his shoulder a soft prod. 

That was his cue to turn over. Using his best just-woke-up-but-not-really voice, he mumbled a low ‘good morning’ while stretching out on his back.

“Morning! Would–” His blanket dropped lower, revealing chiseled abs and a tease of his boxer’s waistband. It also revealed a very noticeable tent where his cock was. You caught yourself. “Would you happen to know where my clothes are?”

The sexual frustration and tension from last hit you two harder than your hangovers as you both stared at each other for a moment. Everything you felt last night was bubbling up, and in some weak attempt at protection, you grabbed his sheet to cover up.

“They’re in the dryer,” he said, scrambling to get up. You saw the rest of his perfect body. “I’ll grab ‘em.”

Pointing out the bathroom, he handed off your dress, and you scurried there while he headed to the balcony to smoke.

In the bathroom, you went over last night’s events again. You and Uramichi seemed to have done nothing explicit at all, but he had to have some interest in you, right? There was no way he’d let any woman that he was merely acquainted with sleep in his bed. He was kind though, so maybe he was just being polite?

Coming out of the bathroom with his shirt folded, you thanked him for taking care of you and apologized for any trouble that you might have caused. He stared at you with his cigarette hanging off his lips, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’ll be heading out now,” you told him, not giving him a chance to even see you off. You hoped that you could quickly walk off your embarrassment.

Putting out the cig, he trailed behind you. There were so many things he wanted to say. 

“Wait!” He tried to call out. It only made you walk faster. “I wanted to,”–The front door slammed as he stood in the hallway–“at least kiss you goodbye.”

---

“‘Scuse me!” You called out in a hurry, pushing past two guys to make sure you caught the elevator down. Your walk of shame started now, and the fact that you didn’t even fuck made it even worse.

“Man,” Usahara commented, glancing back to make sure you weren’t waiting by the lift, “hope she’s not late for work. It’s past noon.”

“Probably is,” Kumatani shrugged, trying to think of why you looked so familiar. Nothing came to mind. “Oh well. Think Uramichi will let us in? He hasn’t answered any of our calls or texts, so I hope he didn’t forget about today.”

Swinging the bag of alcohol he brought, Usahara laughed. “That dude? No way! I bet this is the only thing he’s got goin’ on for the weekend. Well, this, and hitting up the gym.” 

The door opened to reveal an exhausted Uramichi, now dressed in athleisure as he quickly tidied up his apartment. Thankfully, his phone’s ringer was on, and he saw the texts in their group chat.

“Yo dude, you look like death,” Usahara said first, pushing his way past the disgruntled man to throw some drinks in the fridge.

There was something off about their senpai and his place, but he couldn’t place what. Kumatani felt it too.

“Yeah, more so than usual. You sure you’re still up to watch this movie?”

Uramichi sighed, closing the door. “Well, you’ve already made yourselves at home, haven’t you? Even if I said no, I don’t think you would leave.”

Settling into his spot at the table, Uramichi thought about how last night you were across from him sharing a drink. Now you were replaced by his meddlesome kouhais who were making a mess of all the snacks and drinks they laid out on the table. His eye twitched.

Naturally, Usahara was the first to dig into Uramichi’s odder than ordinary behavior. Usually he was annoyed, but today he seemed standoffish and annoyed. “So what gives, man? You stayed up late partying? Someone took too long on your fave machine at the gym?”

Oddly, Utano’s voice cheerfully saying that friends tell each other everything popped into his head. Perhaps now was the perfect opportunity to get closer to the guys he spent nearly a decade hanging around.

“Nah, was up late drinking with a friend,” he admitted while looking off at the TV screen.

His two juniors exchanged looks. They left before he did, deciding to hang out with Nekota at Cat Kick, so Uramichi couldn’t have been talking about them.

“Oh, I didn’t know that you and Kikaku were close like that,” Kumatani said.

Huh? Kikaku? Why would they bring up his name? Uramichi imagined the offense that Kikaku would have at their misunderstanding.

“No, I didn’t drink with Kikaku.”

“Uebu then?”

An even more outlandish suggestion.

“No…”

Neither cared to take anymore guesses as the opening credits for Mozphoon played. Kumatani swore to them that this B-grade horror movie would become a cult classic. After all, had anyone seen a movie that involved mutant mosquitoes terrorizing the city via a typhoon before?

As they were about to leave, Usahara finally realized the cause of the odd vibe he felt at Uramichi’s. 

“Dude, did you finally put away your weights?”

Yeah, for the first time in forever, he hadn’t stubbed his toe or tripped over the damn thing. That had to be why things felt different today.

---

With his friends gone, Uramichi sighed. Normally he cleared his head by smoking, but right now, he surprisingly wasn’t in the mood. Perhaps it was because today drained him. He stripped down to his boxers and laid in bed, closing his eyes. His thoughts wandered back to you.

Your tits, your lips, the way that you laughed. He imagined the way your panties would feel against his palms while he grabbed your ass. His ears burned red whenever you said his name.

His raging hard on provided an obvious solution to help him gather his thoughts.

Palming himself, he wasn’t sure why he was so hesitant. Was it because it was you ? His sex drive was low–a deadly combo of stress, depression, drinking, smoking, and the inevitable drop of T that came with aging–and when he actually was in the mood, he usually browsed for sites. It felt wrong to do this without your permission, but this also wasn’t necessarily something he could ask permission for.

“Michi? Aren’t you gonna come?” You asked, giving him that soft, buzzing smile. 

When his hand laid still against his cock, you tilted your head and spoke in an impatient inflection, “Well?”

God, he was pathetic. You didn’t even mean it like that, and here he was, harder than he’d ever been in recent memory, cockhead dripping pre when he finally pulled it out. 

It wasn’t even your looks that were driving him crazy. It was the way you made him feel. His heart pounded in his ears when you called his name. He grew giddy when he’d see your texts. And when it was just you and him–

Smearing the pre down his shaft, he let his mind wander, no longer caring how desperate and needy he got. It was already obvious that he neglected his needs as a man for too long. Every stroke felt like heaven, and his balls ached, ready for release.

Adjusting his grip to the way he liked, he tugged, wishing you were the one touching him instead. Uramichi thought of you greeting him good morning and good night, calling to tell him that you missed him during the day. He thought of you getting ready for work and welcoming him home after he was done at his. 

Carefully reaching down to grab his shirt from the floor, he used it to wipe up the mess he made. After, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for that post-nut clarity to go into effect. And when it didn’t, he sighed, his hand wandering downwards. Guess he’d have to try again.

A/N: Not sure what's gotten into me. I never update this quickly lol. Maybe it's because I've been binging the men's gymnastics portion of the Olympics? But thanks for reading, ya'll. I've been having a lot of fun with this fic.

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the Main Masterlist

Nothing in Particular | fic cover

Life Lessons Masterlist

AO3

[explosionkatsu]

“Age doesn’t matter” 3

Dad!Bakugou x F!Babysitter!Teacher!Reader

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

“Ah? Good morning, little Kazui.” Ms. Y/n smiled as she waved at him.

To Katsuki, it seems like Kazui and his teacher is a lot closer. Well, after what he heard from his son, he has no doubt that they were indeed close.

“Hi, Ms. Y/n!” Kazui ungrasped Katsuki’s hand and immediately ran towards Ms. Y/n with an open arms.

Ms. Y/n on the other hand knelt at Kazui’s size and captures the enthusiastic child in her arms, embracing him. “How are you, my dear?” She asked as she let go and ruffle Kazui’s hair.

“I’m good, Ms. Y/n! Look! Papa drop me off today!” Kazui excitedly pulled Ms. Y/n towards his papa who was still watching them interact.

Now that she saw Kazui's dad. He does look like the number 2 Pro Hero Dynamight. Why she doesn't realize it sooner? Y/n thought to herself. She must be blind.

Once they got closer to Katsuki, Ms. Y/n bowed to Katsuki who was caught off guard. "Thank you for keeping us safe, Mr. Dynamight." She said and straightened her posture, giving Katsuki a smile.

"Papa, this is Ms. Y/n, the one I'm talking about!" Kazui gleamed at Katsuki.

Katsuki had to keep his cool when Ms. Y/n smiled at him. “It’s my job.” He said tching and looking away as redness slowly crept its way to his cheeks. “Thank you for taking care of Kazui.” He added, mumbling.

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Dynamight!” Ms. Y/n clasped her hands together smiling softly at Katsuki. “Kazui is such a sweetheart. I don’t mind taking care of him, honestly.”

“Hear that? I’ve been good!”

Both adult looked at the almost forgotten Kazui.

“I know, brat. Now go inside.” Katsuki said.

Kazui gave his papa a hug before running inside, laughing with his friends who approached him.

“Is it true that you’ve been taking care of him?” Katsuki is now serious. This is a serious subject especially now that he found out his parents are occupied as well. That means anytime now, they won't be able to help him.

“Mr. Dyna-

“Bakugou.”

“Ahem. Mr. Bakugou, I’m quite sure that Kazui has mentioned you what I have been doing while your parents wasn’t able to pick him up on time.” Ms. Y/n said with a serious face as well.

“I did. I thought everything’s fine. Old hag didn’t mention this to me at all.” Katsuki scowled staring into the distance. “I was too busy with my job as well. I didn't even noticed this..”

“I understand your job, Mr. Bakugou. And I also hope you didn't mind. Kazui mentioned that he doesn't have a mother.” Hearing her say this, Katsuki’s scowl deepened.

“Blabbermouth brat.” He mumbled.

Ms. Y/n was able to catch what Katsuki said and just sweat drop with an awkward smile. “Anywho, if it's a sensitive topic, we can just drop it.” Ms. Y/n said as her smile turn into a genuine one.

“It's fine. It's not like anyone doesn't know. The media fucking tells everything.” Katsuki turned away putting his other hand in his pocket.

Usually, when it comes to this topic, Katsuki would turn them down or won't even say a word. But right now? It seems like Kazui’s teacher is someone he can trust. Of course, the media doesn't know the details about Kazui’s mother or how she left. But as of today, he felt like she needs to know seeing that she appears to be a kind and gentle type of person. But Katsuki knew that giving your trust easily could lead to something dangerous. So just like what he usually does, he stayed quiet.

“Indeed.” Ms. Y/n chuckled.

Fuck, why was it like music to his ears.

“It's nice talking to you, Mr. Bakugou.” She said. “I wouldn't mind taking care of Kazui more knowing that you are busy. As well as his grandparents.” Before heading inside the school, Ms. Y/n fishes something out of her pocket and hands it to Katsuki. “If anything happens about Kazui. I’ll let you know. This here is my personal number.” She smiled. “I used to be a babysitter as well, all because of my quirk. If you decided and look for one, I’m available.”

Katsuki stared at the calling card handed to him. He took it, shoving it inside his pocket and walked away without saying a word.

“Have a great day, Dynamight.” Ms. Y/n called waving at him and entering the premises.

Katsuki went into his car and sat there for a good minute before starting the engine and driving off. Along the way, he took the card with his other hand while the other held the steering wheel. He inspects it for a moment before reading the name.

Name: Ms. (Your Name) (Last Name)

Age: 23

Quirk: Healing

And the back of the card shows her old job which she brought up being a babysitter.

Katsuki put the calling card back inside his pocket and focuses on driving. It seems like a good idea for him, at least.

When he reached his office, he immediately got into his Hero suit and headed out for his patroling. There he met up with Kirishima who was busy talking to a fan.

“Oi.” Katsuki called out.

Eijirou looked at him and grinned. “Ey! Bro! Didn't expect we have the same shift!” Eijirou bid his fan goodbye before he made his way to Katsuki who was standing still.

“How’s the kid going?” Eirijou initiated as they both started walking and looking around.

“Fine,” Katsuki grumble. “Fucking brat is a blabbermouth.” He added.

“Eh?” Eijirou questioned. “What do you mean?”

“Tch. Brat blabber about not having a mother to his teacher.” Katsuki said as he watches his surrounding.

“I’m sure the teacher was also aware since the media kinda put it on news. Everyone knows that at this point.” Eijirou said looking at Katsuki.

Eijirou received quietness in response. He keeps his gaze on Katsuki who looks like was in deep thought.

“Did you even tell Kazui what happened?” Eijirou looks worried now.

“He’s too fucking young to know his mom left us without anything.” Katsuki lashed out at Eijirou.

Eirijou knew what Katsuki meant. He was simply protecting his child from the pain of what his ex-wife did. At first, the thought of Katsuki being a father doesn’t suit him at all. But when he witnessed how devoting father Katsuki, it took him by surprised on how someone can change.

He saw how Katsuki got home tired but still willing to spend time with Kazui.

Believe it or not. He did once had to babysit Kazui due to Katsuki going on a mission, and his parents wasn’t in the country at that time. Kazui was 5 years old that time, and him, being good with kids. He handled him with ease. At a young age, Eijirou saw Kazui getting worried about his father’s well-being. He saw Kazui crying whenever he misses his papa. He even saw him getting quiet because Katsuki wasn’t around. He had to ensure him Katsuki is a great hero. Which he is! And when Katsuki got home, he saw how Katsuki embrace his child.

As his best friend, Eijirou hates seeing Katsuki helpless, even though he's aware he won't admit it. What Katsuki didn't know was Eijirou looking for his ex-wife, secretly.

[lilwnet]

Spencer Dating a True Crime Fan: Headcanons

Summary: a true crime junkie and an FBI agent, the Universe must be laughing its lungs out. Some vague-ish headcanons on what it’s like to be in such a relationship. In general, the sweetest, most supportive boyfriend Spencer Reid, and caring, brilliant you.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Warnings: don’t think I went to extremes or described anything graphic, however, I’d recommend giving it a pass if you aren’t comfortable with anything true crime. Besides, it’s kinda long and isn’t proofread.

A/N: I’m not a native English speaker, and it’s frustratingly hard for me to speak — and write — good, authentic English, especially grammar- and punctuation-vise as my first language interferes heavily. Hence, beware because there are mistakes!

When you say it to Spencer or he sees you getting interested in a book dedicated to a prolific murderer, he’s perplexed. Being exposed to so much evil in his life, he couldn’t wrap his head around the reason for you to be so invested in true crime.

Yet, when you explain it to him, he wonders if he’s a true crime fan, too.

For you, it’s always been quite fascinating why people resort to such a brutal, inhumane and cruel way of dealing with daily struggles; then, you say about “stranger danger”, your parents’ precautions and warnings that made you curious from the very young age why they are so focused — or overly focused — on safety. Finally, you want to understand why some people get high off killing others, meaning, you’d like to get a hang of their brain’s system, of their choices, life, history, psychological evaluation. In general, that coincides with what he does for a living.

I believe you wouldn’t know about his occupation at that point of your relationship. It’s pretty early on, quite possibly the first date when Spencer rather nervously asks you to tell more about yourself that you just blurt it out. The thing is, you’ve grown quite used to the fact that some people find you weird for taking a liking in such a dark topic. You thought, the earlier you say, the lesser it’d hurt if you were to go your separate ways.

However, Spencer surprises you. After your explanation, he seems to get it and then laughs genuinely as he realises how comical the situation is. If you meet through one of your mutual friends, Reid will question their sense of humor. If you meet randomly, he doesn’t know what to question, yet will get pumped up by fate’s unpredictable, always on-point turns.

You, a true crime junkie, is now dating an FBI agent, an SSA with BAU.

When he finally stops laughing and sees your bemused reaction, he proceeds to reveal his job, and you join the new wave of laughter.

After that, you talk about some cases he deals with, although you try your best to read, profile the agent to avoid pressuring him into reliving said crimes. Later on, the mutual agreement would be to only talk about it when both want to.

Surprisingly, Spencer feels like talking about it a lot, still he doesn’t resolve to graphical descriptions. He finds it soothing to share the story and push it right to the back of his head.

You, in turn, are a remarkably good, careful listener who doesn’t hide their emotions. You shed tears if it hits you hard, you comment when you believe a killer to be an absolute idiot, you make a face when you’re disgusted or annoyed.

Reid finds it refreshing; his colleagues, he himself, have built up façades as nonchalant, unfazed, gathered, their walls too high and thick for anyone to question the authority and experience.

Maybe it isn’t just the sharing part that helps him go through the hardest aspects of his job, but you, your mannerism and your presence.

What he likes most is how compassionate you are. You both believe the rationale for it is the amount of information you know about true crime.

When you discuss something — his case or something one of you has read — and you ask Reid about a victim’s family or focus on a victim’s background rather than a killer’s, he can’t help but hug you tight.

As an FBI agent, Spencer has gone to a couple of crime-related events, orchestrated by FBI or scrutinisingly arranged by ex-BAU agents, and he knows how little attention people pay to those who suffer the most. So, seeing you doing the exact opposite of what he encounters daily melts his heart.

Now, if you’re just a listener and/or a reader, he will ask you about your favourite podcasts or Youtube channels to buy a ticket — or tickets — to their shows or find you books about some perpetrators he believes you might find fascinating to study.

BUT if you’re doing a podcast or a Youtube show, or both, it’s a whole different story.

The minute you say it, Spencer is hooked on and ties himself in knots to find out more. You don’t show him an episode as you find it rather embarrassing, hence, Dr. Reid resolves to the only option he can think of.

Spencer asks Penelope to show him how to use Youtube or a podcast app. Garcia is surprised and eager to help, albeit upset when she realises Reid won’t say a word to explain his sudden interest in technology.

When he picks up the interface and the general idea of a website, he buys a new phone to have a chance to listen to your voice and to see you in both a Youtube box and a FaceTime box when he’s away on never-ending cases.

If you have a concept of doing something simultaneously while talking true crime — think of Bailey Sarian or MissMangoButt — he’d be so impressed. True crime is hard enough as there are many subtle, intricate details to elaborate on, and you do it almost effortlessly while focusing on something else at the same time!

(If you’re knitting, Spencer’ll ask you to knit something for him to see you do it while elaborating on a story, and he feels so soft inside, he can’t really explain why).

If you’re just telling a story, he’s as equally impressed. Spencer has a stage fear, a fear of public speaking, he’s camera shy. And you’re there talking, providing photos, your reaction is as real as when the two of you talk. You seem so natural at it.

Dr. Reid’s well-aware of every case you discuss or at least he has heard of them. He still listens or watches amid a) your style of telling a story; b) your humour and your mannerism; c) it’s you… how he can not listen to you or watch you? Apart from that, you’re doing something to spread awareness on never-decreasing crime rates.

Besides, he’s awestruck at the way you tell a story like some novelists do. An intriguing beginning, either slowly painting the surroundings for listeners or almost shoving them right into the midst of a case, then a build-up that leads to a climax and an end, letting your listeners know that some weirdos are held accountable or concluding that criminals never stop.

At first, the genuis listens to it when he’s home alone or in hotel/motel rooms after his own cases. Then, Spencer plucks up the courage to say he’s so proud of you and your work and provides you with a number of episodes he has watched or listened so far.

“I feel like I might become a true crime junkie because of you,” he’d joke. “Seriously, I would love to listen to all of them, but I don’t want to look, uh,” Reid stumbles over his words not to sound rude. “I don’t really want strangers or my colleagues to listen to what I’m listening to.”

Next thing Spencer knows you gift him two different pairs of wired headphones; the first goes with his phone, the second quickly reminds him of the headphones he once described as the only technology he has seen that he’d like to have.

Yeah, he’s a true crime junkie now, too, but he is your true crime junkie. Spencer watches all the episodes until he runs out of them and then waits patiently for the uploading day.

He grows so comfortable with your soothing voice, it helps him sleep. When you joke about something, Reid chuckles and, strangely, has no shame for it, even when five pairs of eyes stare at him, puzzled, while he sits comfortably with his eyes shut and his headphones in.

When he sees you doing some research or writing a script for another story, he won’t intervene unless you ask him to. He won’t be offended if you’re working things on your own — because why would he be? — but he’s so happy to give you a hand. To him, it means you value his ideas and opinion.

Spencer helps you find the information you need by just stating a fact or a detail you’ve spent an hour looking for, or scanning through your script if it seems shabby to you. In most cases, he says that you’re an overthinker, and everything is great, yet he does provide the critique to enhance your work.

If you have a concept similar to Payton Moreland’s “Binged” when she examines two cases on a common theme, he might suggest you cases to look at.

Sorry, but he’ll never join an episode, and you shouldn’t push him to.

Now, topics are heavy, still Spencer knows his limits and takes breaks when needed to avoid overstimulating his mind or getting increasingly anxious on daily basis.

Furthermore, he lets you accept that you need to have a rest, too, for the exact same reasons.

True crime aside, you still have so much to talk about, from gossips to carpet history.

Bonus: with Spencer slowly opening up to technology, you two exchange breakthroughs in cold cases.

For example, when the Golden State Killer was caught, you two spent the majority of the day connecting the dots and discussing the case, and the court hearing made you two shook.

He didn’t actually work that day, and neither did you, but who cares?

Hotch does, so you better keep low-profile.

[chris-continues]

Unconventional, Unusual, and Unapologetically Yours

Inspired by this text post I made!

In which you enter a relationship with an unfamiliar creature.. yet he’s the sweetest person you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

TAGS: @beanibon @vashfantasy @h4venpha @lune010

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

Available on ao3!

NOTES: I cranked this out in like less than an hour I think. Uncanny Vash makes my fingers type like the fucking wind LMAO- ALSO I MIGHT DO PT2 <33 ^^lmk if you don’t want to be tagged! Some people asked and I know others like uncanny Vash a lot, so I thought you’d enjoy. I tried to add a bit of creature Vash as well, please feel free to comment/reblog if you enjoyed! And lmk any ideas you have :D

Your boyfriend deviated from what one would call the standard partner. 

Well, not that such a thing was negative. He was by far one of the most beautiful people you’d ever seen, that much you noted from your first encounter. An abandoned warehouse, where you’d been forced to do an odd job when tight for cash. “Get a photo of the infamous Humanoid Typhoon!”, they said, giving you directions out of town. The warehouse then had appeared nothing short of shady, with its shabby walls, unfamiliar state, and a slight mildewy smell you weren’t too fond of. 

That would soon change, becoming your safe haven, as you recalled how you’d met. 

Your tentative steps inside, phone flashlight beaming as you explored for a good few minutes before- “Ah!” You jolted, the wide smile of a tall man, startling you. He apologetically waved his hands before you, attempting to reassure you, “Aw god, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to scare you!” 

“It’s uh, fine, yeah.” You cleared your throat, turning your flashlight down slightly, “Who are you?” “Vash.” He chirped, quite literally. “And you?”, he offered his hand, ever so charming. If you recalled correctly, his pupils dilated a bit too much at the touch of your hand against his.

Humanoid. Not human.

It took you an embarrassingly long time to connect the dots, your attempt to search for the man of the hour futile (or successful, depending on how you viewed it). Searching for any extending corridors, or perhaps a hidden room. His company was originally slightly unsettling, as he was a stranger just tagging along for the ride, but he had no ill intent and with each sweet remark you found your night to not be a complete failure, swearing you’d return next weekend, same time to find the Humanoid Typhoon together. 

It turned into a game of stalling. 

Searching the same wall as last week, fingers tapping at the eroding wood of the building. His fingertips had brushed yours a handful of times as he blamed it on the darkness, a slight squeak leaving him each time, and maybe it was your fatigue riddled mind but you almost swore a slight glow emanated from him each time. 

After the 3rd week of searching you really didn’t care about finding this Typhoon guy anymore, figuring he was just some urban legend. Why did you keep going? For Vash, of course. He was a great listener, funny, and seemed to enjoy your company, and you really enjoyed his, and by god were you absolutely horrendous when it came to romance. So continued your pining of poking and prodding at an abandoned warehouse at the late hours of night. Too nervous to ask for his number (you found out later he didn’t have a phone), too shy to initiate anything further. 

Aha, until one night. 

Your searching had become less investigative of the building and moreso of each other, legs crossed and sitting in the middle of the warehouse with music playing from your phone on occasion. Discussions ranging from god knows what, each interesting in their own right. What confused you was that something as mundane as you telling a story in which you got your neighbors mail left him at the edge of his seat, but you simply chalked it up as him being a good listener and eager to engage in conversation, (that being partially true). Exhaustion creeped at you one night though, your horrendous sleeping habits having caught up with you as you rested your head against the derelict floorboards and gazed up at the ceilings. 

Vash had a habit of humming to fill in silences, and much like the rest of him you found yourself inexplicably drawn to it.. So sue you for being soothed to sleep by such a thing.

He didn’t tell you until much later, but that night he’d let his hand graze the back of yours, feathers peeking from beneath his jacket with the slight bumps ever so comforting against your skin. You let out the cutest hums, rolling just a bit closer to him.

His breath caught in his throat, as he let himself touch your hand just a bit more. His long, inhuman tongue laved over his several rows of sharp, unnatural teeth in a fidgeting motion. His pupils expanded, admiring you. You always appeared a bit nervous or tense around him- of course that diminished over time, he noted, but why were you so nervous? God, he hated being like this sometimes. To be.. A normal human companion of yours was something he found he craved. Every week, waiting for you in this dingy, subpar hiding place..

You were the highlight of his week. 

He had to hold himself back from instinctively curling into your side, wrapping his lanky limbs around you and allowing his vertebrae to extend to his full height.. Several feet taller than you. He wants to engulf you whole, keep you forever close and cherish you with chirps you couldn’t possibly understand. 

When you awake, he lays beside you. His body is as stiff as the wooden planks lining the warehouse floors, glancing at you as you finally make a move.

You scoot an inch closer.

His breath hitches in his throat. 

He can feel a draft making its way through the building,your body shivering as you shift just a bit closer.

“You.. are you cold?” He hesitates, arm stiffening as the fabric of his jacket meets the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Yeah, kinda..” You murmur, eyes darting away from him then back to him- god, you could stare at him and never tire of it. 

Your arms are pressed against one another, his fingers- wait, they’re uncharacteristically smooth, toying with the end of your sleeve. Oh god. The cutest guy you’ve ever met and he’s- oh god- you’ve dreamt of this more than you’d care to admit, hugging a pillow to sleep most nights, mind drifting to the cute guy you meet every weekend outside of town. 

Your fingers graze his once more, breathing pausing once more.

He intertwines his fingers with yours.

You think you’re going to die.

He chirps happily, and with your curiosity getting the better of you, you can’t help but ask, “What’s that noise mean?”

He blinks owlishly, sheepish smile crossing his face, “Oh uh, I don’t know really. It just.. happens?”  

“Ah, mhm. That’s fair.”

You peek down to your intertwined hands, only to see-

“Vash?”

His mouth gapes open to speak, and you get another peek of his- oh god, now that it’s morning you can see better.

Rows upon rows of his sharp teeth. His mouth forcibly staying together in one piece rather than three. Unnaturally long limbs. Feathers sprouting from him. 

“You.. you’re not human, are you?”

Oh god. He scared you. He’s so ugly, and you’re frozen, backing away slightly- “Oh my god you’re not- are you?”

The Humanoid Typhoon.

“Yeah. I.. I am.”

It takes you a moment to collect your bearings, mouth agape. “You.. you  never planned to hurt me, right?” Your eyes are wide, hands in your lap as you now sit up, legs criss crossed. 

“God no! Never! Oh god, I'm so sorry.” He buried his face in his hands, hiding it from the peeking rays of sunlight peering through the wood of the warehouse. “I don’t try to hurt anyone really, it just.. happens.” He swallowed thickly, “You can leave, if you’d like. I won’t hold it against you.”

You shake your head adamantly, “No, no I trust you. Just surprised me is all. I’ve never seen anything like it, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Vash.” Your hands fidget within your lap, “I enjoy your company and you not being human won’t change that.”

He peeked at you from his fingers, pupils dilated. “..really?”

You nodded. 

He certainly didn’t appear very convinced, but as you offered one of your previously fidgeting hands out to him.. he took it. Hand much larger in yours, inhumanly smooth- you found upon closer inspection he had no fingerprints. 

You stayed like that for god knows how long, until you checked your phone, “Shit! I’m sorry Vash, I’ve got to-” Aw god, his face, he was so cute..

“I’ll return soon.”

He walked you to your car parked outside. 

Your next few visits were a lot more different. He never directly said it, but before long you started staying the night, pressed close to one another, easing closer and closer to one another with hesitant touches. His eyes pleaded for your company each time you left, a small pout forming on his lips. 

You hated leaving him each time. 

Your first kiss was sweet, clumsy, and absolutely adorable. Just like him. 

He laid atop you, the world’s best weighted blanket, wrapping his unproportionate, lanky limbs around you to pull you flush against him. “I like you Vash. A lot.” You admitted into his hair quietly, shyly kissing the crown of his head. He chirped excitedly, a few clicks escaping him as he shifted to have your eyes meet, lips peppering pecks on your cheeks, jaw, and the corners of your lips. 

You both were too nervous to initially confess, just basking in one another’s company. 

“Like you too.” A series of inhuman noises escaped him, elated by your flustered giggles. 

He almost felt bad for temporarily silencing you with a shy and quick peck to your lips. His eyes widened, before going in for another. 

Another, another, another, purring contentedly as he pressed closer to you in hopes to mold you both into one. 

Your hands tentatively reached to cradle his face, grinning into the dorky kiss you two shared. 

Now though? You glance at him, wrapped in a mini nest you two share atop your bed. He nuzzles into your neck, teeth gently nibbling at the flesh as the rays of morning peek through your bedroom window. His legs hang off the bed with how tall he is, but he couldn’t care less.

Is it unconventional? Sure. Unusual? Most definitely.

But you’ve never been more happy than you have with him.

[solargeist]

I’m new here and I love everything you’re making already ! I’m just wondering what the story here is?

hello !!!! thank you !!

the story here is uh, an AU of Evo Smp by Grian ! My tag is [here]

i assume thats what ur asking ?

The short version: The story is abt a young man leaving his life behind and joining a bunch of angels, but its not what he thought it'd be like and he regrets it and goes on the run for a long time.

The long version: The angels, known as Watchers, are known to watch players, only interacting to give them new things and updates, or punish them for breaking rules, such as being greedy.

They originally did not like Grian, seeing him as too robust, but over time he catches their (many) eyes, a diamond in the rough... He shows many characteristics of a promising Watcher, he enjoys setting pranks and stalking people, finding entertainment in explosions and traps, and always craving more.

So they start talking to him, they usually don't speak directly to players, only leaving notes, but they talk to him, he's special they say. He calls them the Audience.

The Watchers talk to him often, giving him compliments on his building skills, on his pranks, or they just listen as he rambles abt his life.

Grian is an orphan, I mean he is 25 at this point in time, but he grew up without parents. He has a little sister he took care of, but shes also grown now. Theres a small part of him that has grief over this, that ache, or longing, to have grown up with a regular family, to be taken care of. The Watchers catch onto this, its their job really to notice. They already think of him as a child, but they start acting more familial now, asking if he ate, or slept, or checking him over for any scratches, (much like a mother would--but he swallows these thoughts down, insisting this is how angels are to every player, but its not true, they let him know how much potential he has, so promising ! so special !)

That small part of him really starts to ache and grow.

This isn't the only thing the Watchers do though, they also make a tiny little effort to separate him from other players, quietly isolating him so the transition will be easier. It works, Grian notices his friends not coming around as often, they're probably busy, so he doesn't want to bother them. This goes on for awhile, any negative thought Grian expresses, the Watchers will agree with, in a gentle way... Sometimes people grow apart.. Sometimes you outgrow people.. Its for the better. He festers in these ideas, sometimes just laying on the stone floor of his basement, having not spoken to anyone in days. He looks forward to when the angels come around, even if they're just small floating eyes, sometimes a hand will split through reality and ruffle his hair. (if he leans into the touch, he doesn't realize)

Grian thinks that small aching part of him has outgrown his body.

One day, after who knows how long, the Watchers encourage him to meet up with his fellow players again. He questions why, but they tell him it'll be good for him to go play, theres a portal for them all to go through, a dragon on the other side. Its actually quite nice talking to everyone again, a bit awkward, but they're joking around, and when they find the portal, Grian jumps in before anyone can finish speaking. He was always rather impulsive ! He jumps through and stands alone on a platform, laughing to himself in the dark void, waiting for everyone else to go through. But no one does, the Watchers didn't tell him he'd be alone after jumping through, separated from the group, he feels abandoned. That ache rises again, hurt and anger twisting together, forming embarrassment. The Watchers were right in telling him he doesn't have anyone else to rely on, but them. So he does his quest, he kills the dragon by himself, an arrow between its eyes and it hits the ground behind him, dragging.

Hes sweaty, his clothes are burnt and torn, he's exhausted and he just wants to go home and climb in bed, no matter how dirty he is right now, but before he can go through, an angel statue catches his attention, it slowly moves off its pedestal, having watched his entire fight.

He didn't realize how tall they were off the pedestal, they also wear dark clothes that hide their faces and form, but two large dark wings peak out, its not exactly expected from angels. (Grian is 5'0, every Watcher towers over him)

They talk, and She offers him a place with the Watchers, if he wants to join them..... He's tired, hes hurt, and he's still mad at everyone, how could he say no ? He agrees.

Upon becoming a Watcher and being welcomed into a new world, he gets a haircut, he gets new clothes, and he gets a new room. The buildings rly are beautiful here, he gawks at the architecture, THIS is what he wanted, what he craved, he wanted to do this work too, the tools he could get his hands on has him bouncing on his heels and barely paying attention to the Watcher.

This excitement doesn't last too long, after hes introduced to others and settled in, theres new expectations on him, hes a Watcher now, not just a player, so things are gonna be harder to impress now. The Watchers have to shape him into a Watcher, so they don't let him sleep for a few days, to soften his attitude, they only stop this when he breaks down in exhaustion and tears, but his manners are better like they wanted.

Grian's not allowed to go out by himself, he can't leave the island even if he wanted to anyway, so most of his time is spent within the main few buildings, exploring the halls and library, its a good thing, bc they also make him study a lot, theres a lot to learn abt Watchers and their history, their magic, and their culture.

They don't give him glasses, instead teaching him enchantment magic to use instead, its good to always have Watcher magic flowing through your blood. His eyes are a constant soft purple.

Watchers, being angels, don't rly have to eat, so if Grian wants to eat, he has to ask a Watcher to summon food for him, the fruit tastes good, but anything cooked is always off or completely wrong. If he asks, they'll give him raw ingredients to cook by himself, with supervision of course. (not that he needs it, he is 25 years old and raised himself)

The one particular Watcher that has responsibility over him is named Aether, also known as Watcher Mum, shes the one that makes sure he has food, clothes, and is generally taken care of. She's a lot softer on him than expected, he's so cute ! and tiny ! She can't be strict on him ! She cuts his fruit into little shapes for him, even though he didn't rly ask.

The thing abt having Watcher magic flowing through his body near constantly, is that its slowly changing him. He grows wings, and it hurts so bad he thinks hes dying, they rip out of his skin after a few weeks, splattering blood across his room and bed. Aether cleans that and him up, tending to the wound. She doesn't have worry in her voice when she comments on how bright and pretty his wings are under all the blood. Its moments like this where Grian wonders how much of a mistake he's made, as he stares at the Watchers' extra eyes, and talon hands, he wonders when that'll happen to him, and how much it'll hurt, and how its his fault.

Ah, i'll stop here, its getting very long and I haven't even touched on his run away, or the Listeners, or what Watchers are, or the s6-s8 recovery and relapse arc, or the different timeline connections and his God self he accidentally created and doomed-- i ahve a lot stored in my head *explodes*