#i swear she is so radiant i’m staring at her nonstop

[dragonbackvoyager]

Look at my girl in the top left, she is so crazy beautiful and strong!!! 🩵 I love how you painted the confident gleam in her eyes and the gorgeous natural light surrounding her as well! The whole essence of Vanya as a young monk-in-training is so perfectly captured here ☺️

Go run and grab that sketch slot because lyannatropes’ work is wonderful and she is an absolute pleasure to work with too!

I still have one sketch at a discounted price on ko-fi if anyone wants to grab it here

[h2bakugou]

Yes yes yes yesyesyesyesyes ok!! So then can I request present mic? Doing anything??? No I’m kidding I do actually have a prompt. I was thinking abt mic’s radio show and specifically, if he had an s/o who wrote music. Bc u know he would help them produce it and then play it nonstop on air aaaaaa

a/n: yes!! present mic love!! i love him so much i swear! <3 he has my heart dkdkmn this is such a cute request please- i apologize for the late posting!!

summary: you're an ambitious, gleeful, songbird at heart, and though you're quirkless, you've captivated the heart of the music-loving, radio show hosting, loud, sweetheart, present mic!

key: (y/n) - your name / (f/n) - first name / (l/n) - last name / (e/c) - eye color / (h/c) - hair color / (y/q) - your quirk

warnings: swearing, fluff

word count: 1.3k

;cut for length;

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You started as an intern. A beaming smile on your lips most days, always happy to be in the studio with Mic when he was teaching you the ins and outs of radio hosting.

You'd majored in music business, the end goal in mind of writing and releasing your own music, though most of your plans had fallen through, the only opportunity to get you back on your feet after college being this deal you couldn't pass up.

Co-hosting with Present Mic on his own radio show.

The offer had actually been given to you by one of your superiors at the studio you worked at, having seen your optimism when it came to writing music and your love of music in general.

They wished you good luck and would always welcome you back if things didn't go so well. But you kept your head up high and marched into that studio ready to take on the world alongside the loud blonde.

And down the line, three years later, you were surprised to say the least.

"Your coffee as usual." Hizashi sets down the patriotic blue U.A. thermos sent out to the teachers at the beginning of the year. Since you'd practically moved in 'unofficially' with Mic, unofficially because you weren't technically allowed to stay due to the fact you didn't work for the school, rather employed by Mic himself in his private studio, but you were the tiny exception since you did technically work in the school.

"Thanks! Hey, I was wondering if you could check this new thing I've been working on and give me some criticism, it's just a rough draft, the lyrics just kind of came to me after a shot or two at Vlad's birthday party the other night." You giggled as you tossed him the flash drive containing your latest project, the sensitive information contained on the tiny disc landing in the palm of your boyfriend's hands.

"Another song? You're blessing my ears so early in the morning. I'm dreaming! Pinch me!" He teases. Mic's been the biggest supporter of your music since he overheard the pipes you had.

You'd had that kind of night the second week of your internship, battling the oncoming hangover after drinking with your cool new pro-hero teacher friends, your thoughts turning to lyrics as you worked in the studio, the only light being the small lamp on the side Mic kept when he worked late too.

He'd forgotten his room keys in the studio again, something you realized he did often and as he stopped by to pick them back up, that's when he heard you. You sounded so angelic, almost as if you were some sort of angel.

At first, he thought maybe it was just a recording or some sort of dare he say, Melodyne filter while you were messing around in the mic at night.

But you weren't. Your authentic voice shell-shocked him, and he sort of listened to you the entire night until you nearly pissed your pants turning around and seeing him.

“Yeah, it’s nothing special really-” You’re back to reality as Mic quickly has his headphones over his ears, a large grin on his lips as he listens, his fingers tapping away to the beat already.

You work on other tasks, filtering through requests and putting them in the queue while Mic listens to your song, his heart pounding. You were so talented and he’d wish you’d give yourself a bit more credit. You have what it takes to make it big, and he’d support you every step of the way.

“You know with this and the other tracks you have, you’d have enough to push out an EP. All you need is a bit of marketing and producing, and I’d be more than willing to help!” Mic smiles, wheeling over to you, pressing an encouraging peck to your cheek.

“It sounds great, but who would wanna listen to what I write?” You giggle, toggling an advertisement as you glance over at the blonde.

“How about this, You let me help you, I’ll spread the trial around here at work and if it gets good reviews, we publish.” Hizashi is nothing short of persuasive, and for the rest of the week he has you in his studio, adding layer after layer, fine-tuning and weeding out bits of the collection of songs you’d written until you have an EP.

Long nights fueled by coffee, water, and tea, and takeout eventually land you with the very first copy of your own EP. 

In your hands, it’s palpable. It’s real. It doesn’t have any cover art, or a title, let alone who sang it, but Mic hands you a sharpie and you feel this fire coursing through your veins.

You feel more than accomplished.

You scribble some title down that you’d work on later and messily sign your name for Mic to make copies and then throughout the next week, you’ve got dozens of messages flooding your inbox telling you to drop it on some streaming platforms.

And the following night Mic is consoling your tears as you hit your first 100 streams. 

“I’m so proud of you.” He coos, kissing your cheeks, wiping your tears away with his kisses, patting you on the head.

“You’re so cheesy.” You tease him.

“Says you! You named an entire song after me.” Mic huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What if ‘my beloved’ was about Marty?” You giggle. Marty, the sparkly, beautiful, elegant, beta-fish you’d adopted as the studio mascot swam around in his tank, decked out with super cool aquatic music themed stuff.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Mic laughs, his long blonde hair sweeping over his shoulders. 

“Your hair always looks so nice down.” You snuggle into him, your fingers twisting around the ends. Hizashi shakes his head and stares down at you.

“And you’re as radiant as ever, my love.” Hizashi pulls you into him, snuggling his head into your neck, placing a gentle kiss to your skin as he holds you near to him.

“Do you sing, ‘Zashi?” You ask quietly.

“No comment.” Mic giggles, his laughs tickling your skin.

“Would you work on a song with me?” You ask sweetly.

“I would love to.”

Callers chime in every so often for requests, since Mic loves to annoy the listeners by playing your EP track by track almost daily. You have to knock some sense into him telling him that there’s a quota to fill and while you love how he supports you, you’ve got them stuck in your head too.

And when you play them every so often, your heart warms when someone requests one of yours to play. Even more so, when your songs rise to much more notable fame, you’re working on your own album, with the lovely producing of Mic, and it even features a lovely duet between the two of you.

In fact, something you’d found out with having so many connections to pros, was the amount of hidden talent.

You’d requested a song with Kyoka Jiro, the beautiful voice you’d heard at the school festival had belonged to her and you’d been wanting to work with her since she also shared a love for music, and though she was young, she seemed rather happy to sing, even if she might’ve been shy about it first.

An unlikely duo might’ve come from a dare, Hawks. While he was rather against the idea at first, his voice was smooth and mellow, and it clashed with yours perfectly for some sort of sappy anti-romantic love song. Whatever the case, it made charts. 

But Mic continued to be your biggest supporter, no matter how or if you got big. You’d always find your way back into his arms, messing around with him on the radio show, and dodging paparazzi whenever you two left campus.

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masterlist

[angelofrainfrogs]

One Night at the Ritz

Fandom: Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Description: There are a pair of beings that dine at the Ritz so often they have a permanently reserved table. Naturally, this piques the interest of the restaurant staff, and one waiter is determined to get to the bottom of the most pressing question on everyone's mind: are these two a couple, or not?

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff/Humor/Romance

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303836

The staff working at the Ritz were trained to serve customers with the utmost grace and respect. They were not to argue with or talk back to the patrons, and they certainly were not to gossip about those they served. This was not a hard task, as most patrons only dined at the Ritz once for the experience, and those that were repeat customers did not necessarily come in often enough to warrant interest in their lives.

However, there is always an exception to the standard, and in this case it was a pair that dined at the Ritz so often they had a permanently reserved table, kept open every night on the assumption that they would most likely drop by. None of the staff knew how the pair could afford dining at the establishment so much, and their seemingly endless supply of cash was one of the hot topics of debate underneath the servers’ politely disinterested façade.  

In fact, the pair themselves were the cause of a great many discussions behind the scenes of the Ritz. They were complete opposites, physically- one tall and lanky, always dressed in black and dark greys, the other slightly shorter and round where the other was thin, dressed in cremes and light blues. Their demeanors matched their outfits, claimed the waiters who’d served them, and there would often be a small competition between staff members to see who would get to interact with them that evening to see if this was true.

The most prevalent discussion, though, was not the pair’s fashion sense or what careers allowed them to dine at the Ritz so frequently. What everyone was most interested in was what the pair were to each other. While some employees claimed that they were friends- best friends, surely, but nothing more-, most people had other ideas. However, the lack of requests for anniversary specials, and the more concerning lack of wedding rings, left the waitstaff endlessly wondering just what these two meant to each other.

“I’m going to ask them,” a young waiter said one crisp, October evening, instantly earning a chorus of gasps from his coworkers.

“Oliver, you can’t just go asking people that sort of thing,” one of the chefs said, glancing up from her prep station to give the boy a scathing look. Oliver was the one of the newest members of the Ritz waitstaff and his eagerness to learn anything and everything often irked his fellow coworkers.

“I’m going to be subtle about it!” Oliver replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I’d just walk up and ask them if they’re a couple; I’m not an idiot.”

The chef made a dissenting noise, indicating that she didn’t quite believe that. She placed a ceramic dish of freshly-made crème brûlée onto a small plate and handed it to Oliver. “Well, this is for their table, so good luck; try not to get yourself fired.”

Oliver stuck out his tongue and then flipped his mouth into a smile, plastering on the façade of kind civility that he was required to wear at all times when in view of the customers. Balancing the plate skillfully on his fingertips, he walked to the table where the familiar duo were involved in an animated discussion. Well, more specifically, the blonde was talking nonstop and gesturing wildly while his companion watched him with almost unnerving focus, nodding on occasion.

“Pardon me for interrupting, but I have the crème brûlée you ordered,” Oliver said, gently setting the dish down in front of the one who’d been talking.

“Thank you, dear boy,” the man said, flashing Oliver a beaming smile. His companion merely shifted to rest his chin on his hand, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses he constantly wore. Oliver wondered, half-seriously, if the shades were glued to his face.

“You’re most welcome,” Oliver replied. He knew that he should turn on his heel, go back to the kitchen, and let the pair enjoy their dessert in peace. However, this was probably his only chance to find out the answer on everyone’s mind; if he chickened out now, he knew he’d never be able to live it down. He cleared his throat and, still addressing the blonde, asked, “Would you or your husband like anything else?”

The redhead made a sort of choked-off noise and slammed back into his chair, as if the words had physically assaulted him. In tandem, the blonde’s entire body jerked as if startled, the spoon he’d just picked up clattering onto his plate. The room seemed to freeze, all sounds lost into a void of uncertainty, and Oliver wondered what in the world he’d just done.

Then, a slow smile spread across the blonde’s face. If Oliver hadn’t been told that this man was as sweet as could be- an angel, his coworkers often said-, he would swear that it was more of a sly smirk.

“No, thank you; my husband and I are just fine for now,” the blonde said, his tone smooth and level despite the furious blush creeping over his cheeks. The redhead made another noise, this one desperately confused, eyebrows creased together in astonishment.

Oliver gave a slight bow and hightailed it back to the kitchen. He stole one glance back just before the door closed behind him and saw the blonde gently grasp his partner’s hand atop the table.

“Well?!” the chef asked once Oliver had turned around to find what seemed to be the entire waitstaff staring at him questioningly. He swept his gaze across the room, taking a dramatic pause before answering, reveling in the fact that in less than five minutes he’d gained the answer to a question everyone had been asking for god knows how long.

“They’re married,” he said triumphantly, and a cheer broke out so loudly that the chatter in the dining room momentarily ceased as the patrons shifted their focus to the closed kitchen doors.

                                                           ***

“I wonder what the fuss is about,” Aziraphale mused, lifting a bite of crème brûlée to his mouth. He hummed contentedly when the sweetness washed over his tongue, closing his eyes briefly. He opened them to find Crowley staring at him more intently than usual. “What is it, my dear?”

“You called me your…,” the demon trailed off, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutched in Aziraphale’s, and the angel couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped his lips. Crowley was absolutely adorable when flustered.

“My husband, yes.” Aziraphale put down his spoon and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Do you not like me calling you that?”

“No! I-I mean, yeah, I do! I like it!” Crowley stuttered, automatically squeezing Aziraphale’s hand in affirmation. They both blushed at the gesture, still getting used to the physical closeness after 6,000 years of staying just out of each other’s reach.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said primly, his gaze flickering from Crowley’s hidden eyes to their intertwined hands. “I suppose we should make it official.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped open, his glasses sliding down just enough for Aziraphale to get a tiny glimpse of serpent eyes that were completely yellow, indicating that whatever emotion the demon was feeling, he was feeling it a lot.

“Are you… are you proposing to me, Angel?” Crowley eventually asked, slowly. Aziraphale didn’t answer for a moment, lost in Crowley’s utterly vulnerable expression. For the thousandth time, Aziraphale couldn’t believe he’d wasted so many years denying his feelings and, more importantly, Crowley’s feelings as well. The angel gave his demon’s hand another squeeze, his face lighting up in an utterly radiant smile.

“Yes, my dear, I believe I am.”