#instead of sculpting new shit

[fieryvoid-scout]

GUESS WHO REMADE HIM TEETH BACK

[limewatt]

hghghhh i did a bunch of shit today i’m tired. art stores are fun to look around in though

[seiwas]

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[captainmalewriter]

Bad Sun

It was supposed to be just another day in November when the sun became bad. It happened in a flash, ending as quickly as it started. Look away and you'll miss it. While the sun reverted back to its normal state within a minute, the strange effects of the light the bad sun radiated were already felt by the people who witnessed it.

The news reported there would be a solar eclipse at around 1 o'clock in the afternoon the day it happened. Chris and Marty, two old friends from college, just so happened to be chilling outside at that time.

"Hey isn't there supposed to be an eclipse right now?" Chris asked.

"Oh yeah! Let's watch it?" Marty replied excitedly.

"Dude, no, don't be stupid. You'll burn your eyes if you do that."

"You know that doesn't actually happen, right? Oh shit look! It's happening!!"

Marty turned his head up to the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the passing solar eclipse. Meanwhile, Chris just shook his head in disapproval and looked down at the ground instead. As he waited for the eclipse to pass, the ground underneath suddenly became flushed in a deep, luscious blue. Confused, Chris looked up and saw that everything as far as he could see had become blue- including the sun itself!

"What the fuck? Marty are you seeing this?"

Marty didn't answer. Chris turned to face him and gasped when he saw Marty's once brown eyes had become bloodshot and shined a brilliant blue. His face was contorted with pain. Chris tried forcing him to look away, but despite being the stronger of the two, he couldn't do it. His gaze was fixed solely on the blue sun in the sky.

Thankfully the blue sun quickly faded away within the next minute, taking its strange blue sunlight with it. Whatever it was, that sun was clearly bad news for whoever looked at it! Chris exhaled. He thought it was over, but soon realized he was wrong when Marty still had bright blue eyes.

"Ugh... Uhhhh..." Marty groaned. He was shaking, breathing heavily too.

Then, out of nowhere, Marty started growing taller. His legs lengthened until he hit 6'2 in height. As he went through his sudden growth spurt, Marty's quads and calves thickened until he had a pair of muscular legs to call his own. The shorts he was wearing suddenly became too tight, which left little to the imagination as his junk grew bigger too. Even when flaccid, Marty had a thick cock tip that poked through the mesh of his shorts, almost like it demanded you look at it. As Marty continued growing, blood pumped into his new tool, causing it to grow even longer as it hardened. Marty had become hung like a horse who could not only show off his impressive size but grow even bigger when hard.

His torso grew to match his new proportions too. The body fat he had melted away, leaving behind a set of 6 pack abs with sharp lines in place of his formerly chubby belly. His shoulders filled in with muscle mass, giving him impressive traps and delts. His arms blew up with mass too. The muscles in his biceps and triceps exploded with size until he had melons for arms. His forearms and hands grew bigger too. Veins ran all along his sculpted arm, even without him flexing. Within a matter of minutes, Marty had grown the type of ripped physique bodybuilders take years to build!! Only once his transformation was complete did Marty's eyes return to his usual brown color.

"What just happened!?" Chris exclaimed. He stood by frozen in shock as Marty transformed right before his very eyes. If he hadn't witnessed for himself, Chris would've never believed that the jock standing in front of him was the same average guy he roomed with back in college!

Chris' sudden shout caught Marty's attention. He turned to face him and smiled. He had an innocent look in his eyes, as if he didn't just undergo a supernatural transformation into a bodybuilder a few moments ago. It left Chris utterly bewildered.

"Marty? What happened to you?" Chris asked. Marty seemed puzzled. Chris asked again but Marty's confused expression only sharpened.

"Martyyyy don't fuck around right now! You are still you, right?"

Marty remained unresponsive. It was like he didn't remember who Chris or even his own name! In a moment of desperation, Chris began using hand gestures as he talked. Marty mirrored his movements, though all it led to was him flexing his bicep and grinning innocently. It was no use.

While Marty was busy flexing his new muscles, Chris stood there in disbelief. His mind was buzzing nonstop with various questions. What happened to his friend? What exactly was that blue sun? Why didn't he transform if he was exposed to the weird light too? He had so many questions, but basically little to no answers.

As Chris tried making sense of the situation, a commotion broke in the neighborhood. Screams echoed from down the street. His neighbors came out, fear and confusion written on their faces. A few of them had muscular men Chris didn't recognize following them out into the street. They had no sense of urgency in their eyes. Just cheery dispositions without any worries in the world.

"Holy fuck..." Chris whispered, as the gravity of what happened settled in his mind. That weird sun only lasted a minute at most, but its impact was already felt by the people who happened to see it. There was no telling what would happen next now.

[queen-of-the-avengers]

Knight in Shining Motorcycle

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.1k

Warnings: almost rape, touching without consent, kissing without consent, calling one a bitch and 'easy' for not giving in, heartbroken-ness, fluff at the end, bucky being protective

Summary: Your roommate, Bucky, is one of the worst players you've ever seen. He has a new girl every week and doesn't stay too long to get feelings. When a cute barista asks you on a date, he's not too keen on who it is. You think this is the opportunity you need to get over Bucky but the date doesn't go as planned, and your knight in shining motorcycle comes to your rescue.

Squares Filled: leather jacket (2020) for @star-spangled-bingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

You didn’t get a lot of sleep last night after a particularly rough night. Your roommate had a special friend over making all kinds of noises you’d rather not hear come from his room. It’s not that you were upset that he was getting some and you weren't, it’s that you wish it was you in that room instead of her.

But it’s not like you’re gonna tell him that.

You get out of bed with a yawn and leave your bedroom in search of food. You just bought your favorite cereal that you can’t wait to dig into. You turn the corner and stop when you see a woman you don’t know in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. Upon closer examination, you see it’s your favorite cereal.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” the woman says and smiles at you.

“Is that my cereal?”

“Bucky said I could use this one.”

“Of course,” you roll your eyes.

You turn and storm over to Bucky’s room which is down the hall from yours. You don’t bother knocking so you enter his room expecting to see him lounging around but he’s standing in the middle of the room with only a towel on his waist. Water drips from his toned chest down to the top of the towel, and you find yourself watching the water droplets disappear behind the towel. He clearly sees you checking him out which boosts his ego. He always knew you had a thing for him ever since his sister introduced you two. You look at his face to see him smirking and you give him a deadly glare.

“Are you gonna stay for the show, or…?”

He undoes his towel but doesn’t remove it from his waist so he’s still covered. You jump at the thought of seeing how big his cock is.

“Tell your whores to keep their paws off my shit. She better be gone before I get home.”

You turn and slam his door, missing the way he smirks at your attitude. You quickly get dressed and head out before Bucky can leave his room. You meet up with your best friend who happens to be the sister of Bucky. She waves you over once she sees you but frowns at the sour look on your face.

“Is it Bucky again?”

“He was non-stop fucking this bitch all night, and she was eating my cereal this morning. I didn’t get a good night’s sleep and I didn’t get to eat breakfast.”

“I told you not to be roommates with him.”

When you moved into town to get away from your overbearing family, the only person who would rent to you on such short notice was Bucky. You weren't a stranger, you’re practically part of his family, and he figured he could make some decent money off your part of the rent since he can pay for it fully without your help. Mia warned you not to room with her brother since he’s known to fuck a new girl every week, sometimes twice a week, but you needed a place to stay.

“He’s not all bad all the time, but there are times like this morning when I want to wring his sculpted neck,” you groan.

“Still not over your crush on him?”

Mia is used to all her friends having crushes on her brother. He’s charming, cocky, arrogant, can be super romantic, very protective, and smoking fucking hot. You’re the only one who stuck around long enough to catch Bucky’s attention.

“He’s not worth crushing on.” She looks at you and raises her eyebrows. “Okay, no, and it’s never going to happen. I’m just waiting for this phase to pass however long it may take.”

You two head inside the coffee shop and get in line. Since you couldn’t eat breakfast at home, you’re going to get a sandwich and a coffee with a double espresso. You get to the front of the line and smile at the male barista, Jackson.

“Hi, how are you doing?” he asks.

“Better now that I’m gonna get some energy in me.”

“What can I get for you?” You give him your order. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” You blush at the compliment and look at Mia who smiles. “Is it safe to assume you’re single?”

“I am.”

“Can I take you out tonight? Say, seven?”

You’re quite sure what to say to this. Your mind thinks back to Bucky and how you’ll suffer waiting for him, and Mia shoves you forward as if to say, “This is your way of getting over Bucky”.

“Sure.”

“Cool.” He scribbles his number on the cup and winks at you. “Call me.”

Mia gives him her order and the two of you wait on the other side of the shop for your coffees to come out.

“Girl, I can’t believe that just happened. He’s cute!”

“I know. Is it bad that I'm actually kind of excited?”

“Hell no! What are you gonna wear?”

“That new dress I bought last week.” You grab both your coffees when they’re ready and hand Mia hers. “I’m gonna see if I can get some work done before the date.”

“You work too much.”

“You can’t talk. You don’t work at all.”

You and Mia say your goodbyes and you head back to your apartment. Thankfully, Bucky’s whore is gone so you’ll be able to get some work done. Bucky locked himself in his room but you’re not thinking about him right now. There is a mini workstation across the room from you where you can go to work. Bucky was using it as a video game/music room but gave it to you when he heard you needed it.

You put your headphones on and get to work. You’re an IT support girl for Apple that specializes in fixing computers for people by logging into their network and diagnosing the problem. The next six hours are spent on the computer, talking to people, logging in lots of hours, and watching movies on your other screen.

You have two hours before the date starts so you decide to clock out for the day. You’re not sure what kind of date you’re going to go on so you’ll grab something to eat here. The kitchen is empty when you enter it, and you grab the ingredients for a BLT. Bucky made a bunch of bacon since it was expiring soon, so you’re finding new ways to eat it before it goes bad.

You slather some mayonnaise onto the bread and layer the ingredients on there. When you put the lettuce on, you squirt some mustard on top. The first bite always tastes like Heaven, and you smile as you chew.

Your smile is lost when you feel someone right behind you. Bucky places his left hand on the counter next to you and the other reaches up to grab a glass from the cabinet above you. He presses his body against yours so that you feel the outline of his muscles.

“Excuse me,” he whispers into your ear.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a glass. I’m thirsty.” He backs up slightly which allows you to turn around but the hand on the counter doesn’t move. “Are you done with work?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s do something. The bowling alley doesn’t close until midnight.”

“I can’t. I have a date.”

Bucky’s entire demeanor changes. He takes three steps back from you and anger is evident on his face.

“What?” With who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You grab your sandwich and a paper plate and walk back to your room. Bucky shakes his head and quickly follows after you, not being done with this conversation.

“Yeah, I would.”

“Can you get out? I’m changing,” you say and set your sandwich down on your dresser.

“If I see something I haven’t seen before, I’ll throw a dollar at it and I’m all out of singles.”

“Get out.”

You push him out of the room and close and lock the door. Bucky can’t believe what he’s hearing right now so he takes his phone out to text his sister. If anyone knows who you’re going on a date with, it’s her.

Before getting dressed, you decide to take a shower. Bucky likes to keep his room clean but the bathroom is a different story. He has products everywhere, his short hair litters the sink and his clothes are strewn about haphazardly. You thought you were bad. You ran out of shampoo and conditioner a while ago so you’ve been sneaking some of Bucky’s without him noticing, and this time is no different. He’s not gonna miss a few drops from each bottle since he has so little hair.

After the shower, you walk into your room and grab the dress you bought last week. It’s strapless with the sleeves only covering your arms from the elbows down and it goes down to your knees. You pair this with chunky wedges that make you taller by a few inches, and you pin your hair back in soft curls.

As soon as you slide in the last bobby pin, Bucky comes into your room through the bathroom since your door is still locked.

“I could have been naked.”

“What the fuck are you doing going on a date with Jackson Elliot?”

Mia must have told him who you were going out with.

“He’s a nice man who asked me out. What the big deal?”

“He’s a playboy.”

“Like you aren’t?” you scoff and swipe some lip gloss on your lips.

“Doll, you wish you were going on a date with me.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t ask me. He did.” You unlock your door and head into the living room with Bucky trailing behind you. A motorcycle can be heard from the street below and seconds later, a message pops up on your phone. “He’s here.” You two look out the window and see Jackson on his motorcycle which makes Bucky laugh. “What?”

“There’s no way in hell you’re getting on that.”

“You have a motorcycle.”

“Yeah, I know how to ride one.”

“I have a date to get to. Excuse me. Don’t wait up for me.”

Bucky watches you leave the apartment. You two are on the second floor so it doesn’t take long for you to get down to Jackson. Jackson gives you a winning smile as you climb onto the back of his motorcycle. You look up at Bucky who is watching from the window, and you slide your arms around Jackson’s waist just to piss him off. He glares down at you as Jackson takes off down the street.

He didn’t even give you a helmet to put on.

Jackson takes you to the beach that is quickly losing people as the sun goes down. The water gets colder, the wind gets cooler, and the beach becomes less crowded at this time of night. You didn’t know he was taking you here otherwise you’d have worn something warmer.

“Wow, it’s kind of cold out here,” you shiver.

“You’ll be alright,” Jackson says without offering his jacket to you. He takes you down to the tables where people can sit and have lunch or stop to rest underneath the umbrellas. The employees of the restaurant had tied the umbrellas down so they wouldn't blow away in the night. “So, have you lived here long?”

“For a year, yeah,” you nod.

“Then how come I’ve never seen you at the coffee shop? I think I would have remembered someone like you.”

“Well, my best friend and I actually went to this other coffee shop that’s in the middle of our apartments. We went there for quite a while but they closed, so we--” You’re suddenly cut off by his lips on yours. You’re completely taken aback by this and pull away from him. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

He leans in and kisses you again but you put your hands on his chest to push him away.

“Wait, a second--”

“Come on, you know you like it.”

Instead of attacking your lips, he forces his mouth on your neck. His right hand grips your thigh and starts moving dangerously close to a place where you don’t want him.

“No, stop,” you gasp and try to push his hand away.

“Come on, baby. There’s no one around for miles.”

“I said stop!”

You push him away and slap him right across the cheek as hard as you can. An angry look passes over his face as if you told him you wanted this and suddenly said no.

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” he scoffs and gets up.

“I thought you wanted to date me, not do this. I wouldn't have come otherwise.”

“The only reason I asked you out was because I heard you were easy. I’m out of here. Find your own way home.”

If there were people around, they would for sure hear your heart break. Jackson leaves you stranded at the beach with no way of getting home. You contemplate calling Bucky but you don’t want to hear an, “I told you so” from him. Plus, he’d probably get off on seeing you so sad. Jackson’s motorcycle roars to life as he drives away, and you miss the second motorcycle that speeds by the beach after him.

Thirty minutes pass by that feels like hours, and you’ve moved from the tables to the sand where you’re sitting and watching the ocean crash upon the shore. No one is on the streets walking by or on the beach but you hear footsteps come closer to you. At this point, you don’t care who it is. The person sits down next to you and you see familiar boots come into view.

“Look at me,” Bucky says gently. You can’t. He slides two fingers under your chin and pulls it toward him so you’re forced to look at him. There are new and dried tears on your cheek that break his heart to see. He uses his other hand to wipe the tears away. “He’s not worth crying over.”

“I thought he liked me,” you sniffle. Bucky removes his hands from you and that’s when you see it. Bucky’s knuckles are raw and busted with dried blood crusting over the wounds. You grab his hand and run your thumb gently over the wounds. “What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”

He lets his hand linger in yours for a few seconds before he pulls away completely.

“I bought this dress last week. I never thought I’d get to wear it,” you sigh sadly.

Bucky opens his mouth to tell you just how gorgeous you look in it when he sees you shiver. Upon closer examination, he sees goosebumps litter your arm. He immediately takes off his leather jacket for you to wear.

“Here, put this on.”

“No, I’m okay--”

“Doll, take the jacket.”

He wraps the jacket around your shoulders. You’re immediately enveloped with warmth and his smell. It makes you smile which doesn't go unnoticed by Bucky.

“Thank you.”

“Come on, let’s go home.”

Bucky gets up and holds his hand out for you to take which you do, and he helps you to his feet. He takes you to his motorcycle and grabs the only helmet for you to wear.

“No, you should wear it.”

“Doll, take the damn helmet.”

You do and shove it on your head. Even this smells like him which is making you dizzy. He gets onto the bike first then you do, but you’re not pressed against him like he knows you should be. You’re sitting up instead of leaning into him, and he fires his baby to life. He jerks the bike forward and you go flying into him from behind. You wrap your arms around his waist to steady yourself and he smirks without looking back at you.

He drives off carefully but you’re holding onto him for dear life. Just as he thinks he can get used to holding onto him, he arrives at your apartment building. No words are exchanged as you two make your way inside the apartment. You stop right outside your door and Bucky leans on the wall next to it.

“Thank you for taking me home.”

“We live together. I was just driving myself home,” he jokes.

“Still. Thank you,” you smile. You grab your doorknob to enter your room when you pause. “Oh, here is your jacket.”

“Keep it. I have another one.”

“Okay,” you blush. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Doll.”

You and Bucky retreat into your own rooms for the night. You get ready for bed and crawl under the covers. You try and get some sleep but you can’t get the feel of Jackson’s hands off your body and the feel of his lips off your lips. No matter what you do, the disgust you feel is blocking you from getting sleep.

The thought of Jackson is replaced with the thought of Bucky and how gently he treated you. There is a softer side to Bucky that no one else sees but you that you’re grateful for. Maybe… no, he probably won’t let you. Maybe? You get out of bed and walk through the bathroom to his door and knock on it lightly.

“Come in,” you hear him say.

You push the door open and see him lying on his bed without a shirt on. It makes sense he doesn’t have one on since he’s going to sleep but the sight makes your cheeks heat up slightly.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

Bucky doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he scoots over to give you room to sleep. You quickly crawl into bed and lay flat on your back. The both of you don’t say a word to each other for fear of ruining the moment. What would you even say to him? Thank you? Sleep tight? Don’t let the bed bugs bite? Bucky can hear the gears in your head turn so he turns toward you and wraps his arm around your waist. He pulls you into him so your back is pressed against his chest.

It’s scary how well you fit against him.

Bucky can feel you smile against his arm as you allow sleep to come easily to you. He presses his head in your hair and takes a whiff of your scent. He smells his shampoo in your hair and the thought of you using his shit makes him smile.

You make him happy and he hates it took him a year to figure it out.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[sophrosynesworld]

Cooking Lessons

Did anyone ask for this? No. Did you burn breakfast? Yes. Enjoy your cooking lessons.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I pull the skillet off the burner and dump the charred eggs into the sink, frantically turning on the cold water to douse the flames. The smoke detector blares from the hallway, announcing my cooking disaster to the world.

My bare feet scurry against the cold tile as I rush to open the windows, fanning the smoke with a towel. I push my hair out of my face, breathing in the cool morning air that seeps in as the smoke alarm shuts off.

“Are you trying to kill us?” a familiar voice grumbles behind me.

I jump, startled by Katsuki’s morning voice. My gaze flickers over his sculpted abs before I quickly look away, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Katsuki stands there, arms crossed, his expression a blend of annoyance and amusement.

“Seriously, what are you doing?” he asks, stepping closer. The early morning light catches the tousled strands of his blond hair, making him look even more appealing.

“I was just trying to make breakfast,” I mumble, avoiding his eyes as I scrub the skillet. “I didn’t mean to set off the alarm.”

He snorts. “You? Cooking? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

I bite my lip, slightly disappointed. “Well, someone has to try,” I mutter, rinsing the skillet with more force than necessary.

Katsuki sighs, moving to the counter and grabbing a clean towel. “Move over,” Bakugo nudges me gently with his hip. “I’ll handle this.”

I step aside, watching as he expertly cracks a few eggs into a new pan, his movements swift and practiced. The sizzle of the eggs hitting the hot surface fills the kitchen, the comforting smell of breakfast begins to replace the burnt odor.

“Thanks,” I say softly, hopping onto the edge of the counter and crossing my arms. “For helping.”

Katsuki glances at me, attempting to stifle his smile. “Just don’t make a habit of it,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I watch him intently, trying to understand how he can do this so effortlessly. I had tried to replicate this exact process, but failed miserably.

“Why were you even up this early?” he asks, breaking my train of thought as he plates the now perfectly cooked eggs.

“I wanted to surprise you with breakfast,” I admit, feeling a bit sheepish. “Guess I failed, huh?”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow, sliding the plate towards me. “Surprised me, alright. Just not in the way you intended.” He grabs another plate and divides the eggs between us, adding some toast from the toaster that miraculously survived my cooking attempt.

We sit at the small kitchen table, the tension easing as we eat in welcome silence. The warmth of the food spreads through me, a stark contrast to the earlier chaos.

“You know,” Katsuki says after a while, his tone unusually gentle, “if you really want to learn how to cook, I could teach you. Just… maybe start with something less flammable next time.”

I look up, surprised by the offer. “Really? You’d do that?”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool, "Yeah, well, can't have you burning down my apartment. Plus,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “it’s kinda nice, you wanting to do something for me.”

A smile spreads across my face. “Alright, deal. But don’t blame me if I end up blowing up the kitchen instead.”

Katsuki smirks, “We’ll see about that. Now eat up before it gets cold.”

[cursedcatvibes]

WORLD RECORD!

re4r!incel roommate leon x roommate reader

word count: 3.6k

summary: Incel leon who thinks he’s above women and thinks he’s an alpha male. he’s an absolute piece of shit too.

tags/warnings: 18+ minors DNI! Smut, many many mentions of misogyny. He literally can’t find the clit. P in V, he wrapped it before he tapped it! Incel 😧. quick mention of abuse but it’s not super relevant to the plot. not proofread!

a/n: not much to say other than i cringed so bad trying to write leon’s character, but i was committed, i looked through incel forums on reddit and even got chronically online real quick. also i’m on vacation! so i’m not able to write as much as I want! :( i’ll probably post small drabbles but i will most likely have another full story up in a month considering I cranked out a whole 7k page fic and then now a 3k one. DONT QUOTE ME! Also maybe agent leon x agent reader next. @gettingsilly (my sweetheart who was so hyped about this! here you go my love!)

songs:

pussy - rammstein (highly recommend them)

behind blue eyes - limp bizkit (fun fact; this was the og title of the story!)

rape me - nirvana (this was going to be a non con but i changed my mind)

norwegian wood - the beatles (literally burns the woman’s house down cause she don’t want him😭)

happy reading!

｡ﾟ•���୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

Handsome. Is the first thing that came to mind when you first opened the door to greet your new roommate, Leon. 

-

The rent was getting out of hand these days and you figured it was a way better deal to split the rent instead of living paycheck to paycheck damn near.

The only downside were the horror stories about roommates and even just random strangers too. It made you feel a bit queasy, but what else could you do, a recently single woman and at the ripe age of 25, technically you were in your prime for all types of creeps and weirdos to try and pull something, especially if you live alone.

So you bit the bullet and put up a craigslist ad, putting it at the back of your mind for now while you went back to getting rid of your ex-boyfriend's belongings. 

You only remembered about it when someone responded to it and after a few messages back and forth you gave the address to him and told him he could move in tomorrow. Feeling a bit proud of yourself for even being able to organize such an arrangement.

-

The first thing you noticed was how absolutely built he was, he definitely went to the gym and it made you feel a little insecure for a brief moment, before you stepped to the side to allow him to enter. “Welcome to your new home!” You beamed, happy with what you’ve done to the place. Completely missing the way his eyes ran up and down your body lewdly. 

He only wanted to have a girl roommate because he figured she would give it up easily or at least flaunt her body off to him, much to his dismay you were wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, not a single ounce of skin showing where he could sculpt your body out. “Prude.” Is what ran through his mind.

“Thanks.” He replied stiffly. “Where is my room at?” Leon asked as he looked around, he was kinda pissed off you didn’t show him any goods. He hated girls who didn’t show off their body, but he hated girls who showed off too much, thought they were just whores looking to get some attention.

So what if he catcalled them? Obviously they were dressing like that for attention and got all pissy when he gave them that attention.

You were oblivious to Leon’s degrading thoughts, too focused on trying to make sure he didn’t try to kidnap or murder you. When he spoke about where he would be staying you perked up and showed him the room while also giving a quick tour of the apartment.

You were even sweet enough to help him unpack all his things once they were all brought in! He owned some interesting objects, a bit uncomfortable to watch him unpack as he had a whole box dedicated to just sex toys. Fake pair of tits that were way too big to even be comfortable on a woman, fake mouth, fake ass, and multiple fake pussy’s. That wasn’t even the worst part of it. 

It got all too freaky when he pulled out hentai figurines that had little to no clothes on, all in lewd poses with lewd expressions on their faces, more specifically ahegao. You could feel the initial attraction from him sizzle down to a mere speck of a flame.

How could someone just own all this stuff so casually, flaunting it like it was a toy race car collection? But Leon didn’t care, fictional cat women were so much better than real women. They couldn't reject him or deny him sex. (Because they quite literally couldn’t, they're inanimate figures.)

He had the straightest deadpan expression on his face and you got the heebie jeebies thinking about what he could’ve possibly done with all these weird toys.”So,” You cleared your throat awkwardly, suddenly feeling like every object of his you touched was just icky. “Where did you say you lived before this?” You asked curiously.

Leon glanced over at you, wondering if you were gonna pull your hoodie off and finally show him your tits if he answered all your questions, he was growing frustrated. Dammit woman! Show him something! He thinks this is the longest he had gone without jerking off or watching a porno. If you weren’t gonna entertain him sexually why were you still bothering him?

“My mom’s. She said something about me needing to move out because I'm too old.” He grumbled out, this gave you a major ick, didn’t this guy say he was 27? He wasn’t struggling to get money when clearly he can afford expensive sex toys and other items. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” You replied quietly, to which Leon grunted in acknowledgment.

Once you finished the box you were unpacking you decided the best course of action was to just walk away from this conversation. “It seems like you can handle the rest on your own, I don’t really wanna break any of your computer monitors and stuff.” You said as you stood up from the floor and brushed your hands against your pants.

 “Okay.” Leon hummed, disinterested in  conversation. All he really wanted to do was hurry up and set his computer up so he could jerk off in peace. You leaving his room was a bonus. He didn’t want to be downright rude and kick you out, after all, he is totally a nice guy. Plus he got the opportunity to stare at your ass as you walked out, he could see it jiggling underneath your sweats which was enough to rile him up.

-

You wish you could say it improved from there but unfortunately it did not at all. It only seemed to worsen. Like who the hell is watching porn from the moment they wake up to the moment they fall asleep. It’s all just yucky. The loud and over exaggerated moans that were definitely done for performance and not real. 

The only time Leon would leave his room was to eat or grab some water, he always looked so dazed too, it made you wonder what he was doing in there, you’ve never seen him go to work so it made you curious. 

Leon on the other hand was always so dazed or flustered in the face from the amount of jerking off he does all day. He once ran his dick dry enough to start cumming clear, rubbing himself raw damn near. It’s not like he tried not to get laid, he definitely did. But it never worked.

The way he carried himself was creepy, flaunting the fact he was a nice guy who could give a girl a good time. News flash! If you have to say you’re a nice guy, you're definitely not. Girls often avoided him in middle school and that followed him throughout highschool and even college. So he naturally drifted towards animated women.

He was hot but his personality quite literally sucked, it's like he would attract women because of his looks and as soon as he started speaking they lost interest. But you? You still greeted him every time he came out of his room with a polite smile on your face, offering to cook him something but he always declined because the mere thought of having a woman do something trivial such as cook for him like a traditional woman should, made him hard on the spot.

He had the normal views on life, such as all men do. Women are baby makers, they belong in the kitchen, they should treat their man like a king. It’s not like anyone could change his opinion either. He’s so far into the rabbit hole that his other incels praise him like he was a god, thus only further bursting his massive ego. 

-

You didn’t think much of Leon, not in a harsh way, you just didn’t really know that much about him because you two never spoke like that. All you did know was that he watched porn, maybe a bit too much that was considered normal. It's not like you're shaming him because you watch porn too, but you have some decency, a bit of dignity and pride.

Yet your opinion of him instantly sours when one day he comes out of his room, which reeked with the smell of cum and sweat, the room was humid too, which confused you when you first noticed it. He wore an angry expression on his face as he stomped, yes, like a toddler would, towards the fridge to guzzle down a can of soda. 

You, sitting on the couch mindlessly scrolling through your phone waiting for the time to pass on your off day, you planned to go to a club and slut yourself out to help remind yourself that you’re in fact hot and your ex missed out. Yet when he slammed the fridge door closed that caught your attention, perking your head up like a puppy.

“Uh, you alright?” You asked aloud, watching his eyes snap towards you with a frustrated huff. He figured if you put up with him this long then you must see the same misogynistic views he does about women. “No!” He scoffed out, dragging himself to sit on the couch next to you, like directly. Knees touching and everything.

This piqued your curiosity, maybe you could learn something about him? “What’s wrong?” You questioned as you shut your phone off, sitting up a bit straighter now, putting some distance between the both of you on purpose by grabbing a throw pillow.

Leon then started to rant and you’ve never been more disgusted and horrified in your life before. “I’ve been talking to this really hot chick and we were hitting it off, even had phone sex once or twice but when she asked me who my ideal woman was she ghosted me! Like what's wrong with saying women belong in the kitchen, or doing laundry, or even just cleaning. Women are only here to serve us alpha males.” 

Your nose scrunched up while your face morphed into genuine horror mixed with disgust. Is this seriously his mindset? It must be a joke or something of the sort because no way in hell. “Is.. is this a joke?” You asked, feeling puzzled as you looked around for a hidden camera. Out of all the people you got stuck with, you got stuck with an incel of all people.

Leon stared at you with the most serious face he could muster, he wasn’t kidding, in fact he was getting a bit upset that you were thinking he was joking. “Women are what's wrong with this world! You’re all too soft and so ditzy. You all think men’s feelings are a joke.” He grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and you swear you can make out a dried cum stain on his clothes. 

You felt so sick and also tickled, you’ve never heard someone or have been around a real life incel before and unfortunately this one came in the form of a super hot guy that wasn’t looking so hot anymore 

“Ew..” You stood up from the couch and stuck your tongue out slightly. “Is that how you see women? No wonder why she ghosted you, you’re a fucking incel.” You scoffed out, to which Leon got offended. “So?! What’s wrong with that?!” He shouted, the tips of his ears turning pink. It was different being scolded by a woman in person rather than over the phone because  he knows they can't hurt him physically but rather verbally. Plus it’s much easier to insult someone online versus real life.

“Do you actually hear the words leaving your mouth?” You questioned, staring him down intensely. Leon tried not to shrink in on himself, it reminded him of his mom telling him that he had done something wrong and now he was in trouble. So he doubled down and sat up straighter too, staring up at you. 

“Yeah, and what about it? Why do women get so butthurt over every little thing?” Leon grunted out, rolling his eyes like a little kid would. You were just astonished that he was willing to keep going even after being confronted with the fact, but you weren’t oblivious to the way his ears were turning red from embarrassment. “Fine, if that’s how you’re gonna be.” You murmured as you sat down on the coffee table right in front of him. His eyes follow your form curiously. If he was being honest the only reason why he actually moved in with you was because he thought you were really hot from your profile picture and even the photo you sent of yourself to prove that you were real, per his request. He jerked off to both photos for hours. (Plus his mom really did kick him out.)

Leon went to question you in hopes of turning the table around to make it backfire on you. Yet as his mouth opened to make another snide remark about women you spoke up first. “Let me be the first one to tell you this, and I mean this too.” You paused as you stared right into his eyes. “No woman is ever gonna have sex with you if you have this mentality and mindset.” You watched his eyes widen a bit and felt some joy come from it.

Leon balled his hands up into fists in genuine anger, a deep part of himself knew she wasn’t lying but the other part was so adamant on her being wrong. Obviously she didn’t know what she was talking about, women never do. “You’re a liar. You’re just jealous.” He scoffed out, narrowing his eyes into thin slits.

You were absolutely not lying.

Far from it actually.

The closest Leon had came to a pussy is on a computer screen, let’s face it. No woman on earth would wanna sleep with such scum such as him, not even prostitutes themselves want to take on such a tedious task. They’d rather kill themselves or have their pimp abuse them than sleep with him.

“Really, name 5 women you’ve had touch you in a romantic way.” You countered, staring into his eyes with an intense expression. Leon opened his mouth to try and smugly name a woman until he realized the answer was 0, he had no names because no one wanted him like that.

It was a blow to his ego and it showed on his face. If he wasn’t such a loser with terrible opinions along with his shitty personality then you would’ve felt bad but you didn’t. It was his own fault.

“That’s not fair.” He grumbled, staring up at you with a slight hurt look on his face. He wanted to get back at you. Make you regret and eat your words. How? Well that problem was quickly answered as he grabbed your wrist and pinned you beneath him on the couch. A yelp leaving your mouth at the sudden movements.

“What the—“ You were suddenly cut off by Leon’s hand slapping over your mouth, he smelled of cum and sweat, it made you wanna gag and throw up on him. “I bet I can make you cum so hard you’ll forget that you were mean to me.” He hissed, his fragile ego was broken because of you!

You furrowed your eyebrows before rolling your eyes. “Whatever.” You said underneath his palm, voice coming out muffled.

Leon smirked and moved his hand off your mouth, gazing lustfully at your body. He seemed confident but on the inside he was screaming at himself. He’s never touched or seen a woman in such an intimate manner in real life. This wasn’t a screen this time.

He gulped and hooked his fingers on the waistband of your sweatpants, he was determined to make you cum if it was the last thing he ever did.

Once he removed your sweatpants he found you commando beneath it. His breath caught in his throat, your mound was glistening beneath the light in the living room. It wasn’t even wet because of him, but he was dumb enough to not know the difference. He stared in awe before looking back up at your face when you cleared your throat awkwardly. “You gonna stare or what?” You questioned.

Leon shook his head before putting his hands on you, gently rubbing your inner thighs. Making you think that for a brief moment he might actually know what he was doing, right up until he pressed his thumb against your lower lips and started rubbing them.

Completely missing your clit.

He felt so aroused and a bit cocky now that he was touching your pussy, his eyes laser focused on your face to see if it was feeling good. He even tried dirty talk too. “Yeah? Does that feel good? I bet it does.” Literally hyping himself up.

You found it hilarious and decided to nod, stifling a laugh as you let out a fake over exaggerated moan he hears in his crappy pornos. Leon let out a soft groan at the sound, his hips bucking up into the air while his cock twitched.

Now, Leon had seen enough porn to know that he needed a condom and lube, obviously they never showed the actors prepping the girls' pretty cunts, they just stuck it in. Spoiler alert, foreplay is hot! None is not.

While Leon ran to his room you took the opportunity to finger yourself, even if you were sure he wasn’t packing much you wanted to be somewhat prepared for a small stretch, you groaned silently, throwing your head back in pleasure, clearly favoring your hand over Leon himself.

When you heard his footsteps you quickly pulled your hand away and watched as he excitedly took his pants off. Wow, so much for knowing how to pleasure a woman. It was funny to watch him struggle to keep it together when he kneeled back between your legs.

“I’m gonna put it in now.” Leon announced, squirting a generous amount of lube on your cunt before (attempting to) rolling on the condom. (You definitely had to help him. The last thing you wanted was to get knocked up by some dimwit.)

He put some lube on his cock, jerking off a bit while looking down at your pussy. Not your face. When he stopped masturbating he slapped the tip of his dick against your clit a few times, your body jolting in pleasure at the sudden sensation.

This immediately boosted his ego and you were in awe he was able to make you feel partially good. He was just daydreaming of how tight and warm your hole was going to feel. His dick wasn’t that big either, it was average length, average size, average balls. Just.. underwhelming and average.

“What’re you waiting for?” You murmured, snapping him out his trance briefly before he cleared his throat. “J-Just trying to brace you for my cock, it’s big right?” Leon questioned, feeling a bit insecure but he wanted you to make him feel better, feel like a man. That was a woman’s purpose after all.

“Yes (no).” You sighed out breathily, keeping up your act, dragging your nails down his body gently, causing him to shudder and nod with a smug look on his face. He pushed himself in fairly easily, considering your ex-boyfriends cock was much bigger and overwhelming, accidentally clenching down around Leon’s sad excuse of a penis which riled him up, thinking you had came.

You definitely missed his dick and now was stuck with some crappy one attached to a misogynistic freak. A soft sound of discomfort left your lips and Leon took it as a sign that you were enjoying it. You must love it! He was so confident in himself!

So confident that after 5-6 thrusts he spilled inside the condom, talk about a minute man. He was a millisecond man. His whole body spasmed from euphoric bliss, he had never cum this hard in his life before, burying his face in your neck, sloppily kissing at your skin because he couldn’t kiss for the life of him.

You were stunned someone could cum so quickly, that had to be a world record or something. Quickest man to cum after sticking it in or some random ass title, you hadn’t realized you had zoned out about the Guinness record book until Leon pulled his cock out from inside you, feeling good about himself.

He was panting softly from the intensity of his orgasm, leaning back against the couch to gaze at your pretty pussy, he wanted to eat you out too, wanting to show you he was good orally too.

“Was it good? Did you cum too?” Leon said as he stared into your eyes, wanting to hear you sing his praises and take back your harsh words that hurt his feelings. Almost like a puppy waiting for its owner to praise them for pissing outside the house instead of inside.

You grabbed your clothes and put them back on, smirking as you stared him dead in the eye. “No, I didn’t cum.” You snickered as his face dropped, kissing his forehead quickly. “Sucks to suck, Leon.” You said casually, getting up to go to your room and nap.

Leon sat on the couch stunned beyond relief, his cock kicking against his thigh as he watched you.

He swore under his breath that you were lying and you did cum, after all, delusion is key, and delusion is what made him become your roommate to begin with.

[mishy-mashy]

Bruce is actually really attractive, and I have enough reasoning to make a list

He's:

Tall (. Tall enough to hit his head on the vault doorframe)

Long-legged

Has a straight nose bridge

Has high cheekbones (more noticeable in 2nd pic below)

Has a strong jawline

Sharp eyes, but they aren't small (plus eyebags if you're into that)

Overall, he has strong, attractive facial features

Has broad, refined shoulders. You can tell he works out (or he did, when he was alive)

Even has a thick, muscly neck

He has MUSCLE. Is SCULPTED. NOICE. VERY NOICE. (nice arms. Nice shoulders. Nice neck. Nice legs. Nice butt-)

(There are actually panels where you can see some of his muscles. Other than those already shown here, he's got bricky thighs-

-and in the panels where we first get his name dropped, he's got those shoulder blades too-)

The one time we see him smile, and he actually has a scary one

Has small, kinda sharp pupils, and his eyes remind me of a cat. We only ever saw him tense or defensive, so his resting/listening face is really cute

Other than the physical appearance stuff, he also:

Takes shit without batting an eye (patience, knowing it's just how Kudo is, etc)

Kudo being all "Cut the crap Bruce and give it to me straight", after Bruce tests his blood and is rightfully Concerned because they just faced AFO

Put up with Kudo's experimenting and testing over Yoichi's transferable Factor

Did ya'll see the look on Kudo's face when he realized he had Yoichi's Factor/will? Kudo was going to start in nonsense and Bruce just dealt with that.

Also something I noticed when looking back at the images here; Bruce has bandages on his arms in the void. But not when he faced AFO in the sewers.

Were he and Kudo cutting their arms open in their experimenting over Yoichi's theory? Is this why Kudo has two gauntlets instead of his one? Why we never see his bare arms in the void? That he always keeps his arms down so there's no slip?

Is smart enough to run blood tests, plus has enough common sense to pick Shinomori as his successor

He picked a guy who avoids society, has an Ability to detect danger so he can always stay away from AFO, is also a coward so he's never going to go throw himself into danger, even without knowing instinctively he stands no chance, etc.

Meanwhile, Kudo chose Bruce, who he played Hot Potato Yoichi with; but he did also trust Bruce, and put the only pure combative Ability in OFA through Bruce.

These two made their choices based on what they valued and saw the Factor needed.

Is logical, analytical, and calm.

He tried advising Midoriya on their Abilities in One For All, especially his own.

Midoriya then tried ignoring him about using Fa Jin for the first time, but found he was right, thinking: "Dammit!! I had [Lady Nagant] right where I wanted her, but... ugh! The Third was right. My parallel Quirk processes are all screwed up!" (ch. 314).

Plus, when Midoriya fixed his processing mistakes, Bruce was analyzing the way he reached his new conclusion. Pure facts, no bias, very calm, just saying it as it was.

We never see him panic. When he's caught by surprise in the sewers by AFO, Kudo, and Yoichi's little bubble event, he immediately reacts. He doesn't falter, he just knows he has to do something right now.

Was more willing to listen than Kudo to Yoichi's beckon, and probably was just following Kudo's rejection of Midoriya

While we don't see Kudo's face, we see Bruce's eyes when Yoichi calls on his heroes. Bruce was more open and receptive, or at least more impacted.

Bruce was also the one to start talking, while Kudo just kept quiet.

He actually communicates a lot

When Yoichi called them to support Midoriya, Bruce started talking to paint a picture of why they thought the way they did, so Yoichi understood where they were coming from.

(Though he seems to beat about the bush sometimes, since Kudo spoke up to be direct on how they couldn't just put their trust in some starry-eyed teenager. Plus, when Kudo tells him to just tell him what's wrong [double Factors])

When Midoriya first used Fa Jin against Nagant, Bruce came out just to tell him he knew what he was trying, but that Midoriya wasn't ready; and Midoriya found he was right. Midoriya just didn't want to listen to him then.

He asks Kudo for clarification after finding Kudo had two Factors in him after the sewer incident ("Just to be sure, All For One didn't touch you, right?") Kudo knew him well enough to go "stop beating around the bush and tell me", so Bruce was probably gonna start with questions, theories, and trying to understand everything in general, before saying "yeah you have two Factors. Don't know why".

Is strong-willed and loyal.

He followed Kudo, even to death, carrying on the cause he started until it ended with him.

Plus, when talking about how AFO needs a strong will to override OFA's own, we first see Bruce, Kudo, and Yoichi.

AFO couldn't steal OFA because the will was too strong for him, and that was back during Banjo's time. Since Shinomori never actually tried opposing AFO and just hid, we can assume the first Three (Yoichi, Kudo, Bruce) already had an accumulation of strong willpower that made OFA un-stealable. Those three are a strong enough foundation, and the main wills, that the other users just become bonuses.

Kudo, also saying that Midoriya needs allies with the same will and drive as him... hey Kudo, you're talking about yourself and your old allies, aren't you? That's why you look at Yoichi and Bruce when you say this.

Not only is Bruce attractive, but he's got good character. THE END.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Not How His Monday Was Supposed to Go

Bruce Wayne x plus size reader

The new Wayne Enterprises board member has had enough of Bruce’s shit.

Warnings: Bruce is a bit of an asshole and a pig, mention of a family member needing surgery, swearing, reader is a girlboss, Bruce is low-key a sub, implied smut

WC: 1.1k

Minors DNI

When you agreed to act as your father’s representative for Wayne Enterprises as he recovered from surgery, you certainly weren’t expecting the CEO of the company to stroll in three hours late, dark purple bruises littering his muscular neck, dark shades perched on the end of his nose, suit and hair ruffled. 

You huffed as he crumpled into the stupidly expensive chair at the head of the table, only four seats down from you. You had to admit he was a very handsome man, with broad shoulders and dark hair that seemed to curl perfectly around his sculpted face. He gave an air of intimidation but his bright blue eyes made him seem approachable. “So what’d I miss?”

And suddenly your attraction to the man was gone.

Every meeting that followed, Bruce would strut into the room several hours late, one time he was already there when everyone arrived but he was asleep and still wearing the same clothes as the day before. Most times, he wouldn’t even show up, but when he did, he wouldn’t contribute anything meaningful to the conversation, simply giving generic anecdotes that related to the women he had seduced.

The most aggravating thing was, you knew how intelligent he could be. Sometimes it would just slip out. He would say something profound and incredibly smart but he would quickly catch himself and wave it off with some half-hearted comment like “or whatever the senator told me last night. Though I could have heard her wrong, her mouth was quite full”. It irked you to no end, especially being the only woman serving on the board.

As the weeks dragged on and your father’s health was improving, your own mental health was going completely downhill and by the time your last day arrived, you were done with this alpha male bullshit that Bruce loved to instigate. So, as your final meeting ended, which Bruce conveniently didn’t attend, you stormed off, ready to give the man a piece of your mind.

Your heels clacked on the polished floor leading to the massive corner office he had claimed for himself. As you neared the huge dark gray doors, you paused for a moment, pulling down your pencil skinny so it sat lower down your plump thighs instead of bunching up, and making sure you didn’t have any of those dreaded button gaps around your considerable bust. 

Taking in one last deep breath, trying to will yourself not to straggle the man right as you saw him, you gave a firm knock to the door and walked in. 

Your boss was hunched over his desk, intently staring at what appeared to be blueprints. His dark Armani suit jacket was off and hanging over the back of his chair, leaving him in only a white button-up that stretched across the bulk of his muscles. 

“Mr Wayne.” He glanced up from his work and a brief look of shock flashed across his face before he steeled his expression once more.

He muttered your name as he pushed his work to the side. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” The words were polite but his tone was anything but. He sounded like a typical frat boy who felt entitled to your attentions and affections. Your face fell into a scowl.

The door shut behind you with a slam, but you did not flinch. “Mr Wayne, this visit will be anything except a pleasure.” You strode forward with all the confidence in the world, anger swirling around you. “I have sat in that boardroom for weeks watching as you indulged men far below your moral and social standing. You have let them run wild, making a fool out of not only themselves but of you and your business.”

Bruce sat back in his chair, eyes wide as he watched you get closer and closer. “And I have had enough. I can see right through you Mr Wayne. You’re a smart man, you’re compassionate and generous, and yet you still act like these worms, pretend to be like them for some dumbass reason.”

You planted your hands onto his desk and loomed over the CEO. “So no matter what you do outside of this office that might redeem your flimsy character, you still let shit like this happen here and that makes you just as bad as those little boys. Fuck you Mr Wayne. Next time I see you, I will kick you in the nuts so hard your kids will feel it.”

And with that you turned and strode out like a conquering hero before realising you forgot something. You stuck your head back into his office. “Oh and go to all your meetings like a goddamn adult.” The door slammed shut on a bewildered looking Bruce who’s pants suddenly seemed a couple sizes too small.

“Wait wait wait. So the first time mom talked to you she cussed you out and threatened to assault you!” Tim exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. Dick and Jason seemed both amused and disgusted while Damian just looked at his father with immeasurable disappointment. Bruce smirked as he watched his boys have a simultaneous meltdown. The question had been a simple one, how did their parents meet, but it seems like they weren’t ready for the answer

“Yep.” He said proudly. “And let me tell you, it was the sexiest thing she’s ever done.”

“Ugh!”

“Gross!”

“Y’all are nasty!”

“Don’t talk about our mother like that!” They all screamed at once and, like usual, came to protect your honour. But Bruce just chuckled.

“She was a powerful woman, what can I say?” 

“Was?” You cooed suddenly over his shoulder. “Who’s the one running Wayne Enterprises now?” Your sharp nails dragged along the skin top of his chest where his tight shirt didn’t cover. He shivered under your touch, his entire body going to mush.

You looked up from your now boneless husband to your sons. “Your father was a real piece of work when I first met him but I fixed him up real good.” You purred and pressed the tips of your nails into his skin.

Jason was the first to break, surprisingly. “Jesus Christ!” He cried out, slapping his hands over his ears. Then, they toppled like dominos.

Dick was positively green, Tim had a vein in his neck that looked like it was about to burst and Damian was glaring at the floor. “Go on boys, get out of here before I teach your father another lesson.” In a collective pile, they tumbled from the room, scrambling to get as far away as possible.

Bruce turned swiftly as soon as the boys were out of earshot and grabbed your hips to tug you down onto the chair with him. “Come on, Mrs Wayne, tell me how bad I’ve been.”

Request: Meets her at Wayne Co, she’s a new board member and have a few words for playboy Bruce who misses many meetings

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[adachimoe]

I saw the 3rd frame from this floating around lol.

This is a strip from the P4 Golden anime comic anthology. An anthology is an officially published collection of stories and art created by fans. For Persona, this means it has the Jack Frost logo on it and Atlus sold it as an official product. Since it's officially published, there will be some restrictions set (e.g. this anthology is all ages, no r-18), but otherwise it's anything goes.

So this is more or less an officially published shitpost comic lol. This particular comic is part of a series of 4 panel comics called "The Golden Cabbage Cop" by Naritama Saty where Adachi gets bullied repeatedly. This artist has also self-published Shuada books; it seems very bullying (affectionate) tbh lol.

This particular comic, "New Character", is Yu going to the Velvet Room and finding Adachi there instead of the new girl. The other strips after this continue on with this premise: Yu gives Adachi shit over how short Marie's skirt is on him lmao. And instead of dropping poetry, like Marie, Adachi drops stuff like his grocery shopping list (which has cabbage and beer on it, of course).

Adachi's antics in these result in Yu punching him and Adachi drops 3000 yen (a well-known meme for JP players and reference to him dropping 3000 yen for his boss battle in the PS2 game, tho it was upgraded to 10k in Golden). In the end, Marie makes vegetable art of Dojima and Adachi, then Yu also tries making vegetable art and manages to cast Vorpal Blade IRL and perfectly sculpt an Adachi figure out of a cabbage lmao. "Congrats on your new figure, Adachi!"

There's another anthology comic for the Golden anime that's purely Adachi centric and has more shitposting in it. Like. Adachi getting handcuffed to a cornstalk and Yukiko feeding the corn her curry to free him.

[jesswritesthat]

Bokuto Kōtarō: Anatomy

Fandom: Haikyuu!! — [ Masterlist ]

Summary: ~0.8k, fluff

• Being a manga artist is hard enough but the panic sets in when someone thinks they know your muse.

Warnings: 1 swear word.

>>>>——————————>

"This is very good, you always manage to demonstrate attractive muscle on this character."

"Well, it's basic anatomy right?" A weak defence on your part really, but your editor righteously continued with his honest justification.

"Hm, yes but you must have a reference, this is wonderfully detailed - no wonder he is so popular."

“Maybe it's his personality…?"

"Everyone knows his personaity is vulgar, but the abs of a villain are not." Happily, he returned your work, assuring that you ‘keep it up’ prior to entering his office.

That was a general commentary you received when submitting chapters to your editor anyway.

However this new guy was not your usual manga editor, instead a stand in, but as long as you had your issue in on time you didn't have to worry much. Your work was in Akaashi Keijis’ hands now, and hopefully the latest chapter and illustrations would be approved with minimal alterations.

Still, you wondered if that would be the case as he sat on the floor of his apartment with a sceptical expression painting his features.

"I recognise this."

His muttering voice snapped your attention, looking to him with perplexity as you were originally expecting a comment on the fact you'd hand-delivered the issue to his door.

"I'm sorry Akaashi-san?"

"This villain of yours, he feels familiar now that I really look at him. You put a lot of care into this character?” The man calmly elaborated, showing you a page of your manga that depicted your villain with torn clothing.

Admittedly, your mind had drifted to how such a thing was possible considering this villain of yours was 'one hot piece of sculpted ass' - solely according to the readers of course - you supposed you dedicated time to him to upkeep that opinion.

"You think? Doesn't every manga heartthrob look as good as this."

"That's not what I meant."

Shit.

“Anyway, if there’s anything you’d like me to change please let me know by the end of the week. Thank you and have a good day!” Never had you got out of a door quick enough, thoughts spiralling with questions. Could he recognise him? There was a specific reference you used. Did another manga artist use the same one? Crap crap crap.

—

Naturally you found yourself rushing to a certain someone’s home at the crack of dawn the following morning, hopefully well timed to catch him after his morning run and workout (if they were completed he couldn’t invite you to go this time).

"Kōtarō! You're not allowed to walk around shirtless anymore!"

"Huh?" The athlete hadn’t a chance to welcome your presence, instead standing dumbfounded with a towel to his hair and form fitting long sleeve runner top unfairly complimenting his sculpted physique.

"Or in a vest!"

"But—"

"Or shorts!" Yes those too, he currently made basic volleyball shorts look good.

"Then what am I supposed to wear?!"

"A massive fluffy jumper or a ski suit, I don't know."

"In summer?! But I'll smell worse than the changing rooms after running in that..."

"You’re right, maybe I should be the one to avoid situations..." You pondered for a moment, the flattening strands of the Spikers hair allowing extra motivation. "I'll visit less frequently, and cut out staying over!"

"No! I'll make the sacrifices to wear stupid fluffy clothes if it means you'll continue to stay! I'll do anything for you (y/n)!" Solid hands grasped your shoulders to emphasise his sincerity even as you tried to elaborate.

"That's not—"

"Can I know why though?" It was fair request, and in all likelihood you were going tell him anyway.

"..."

"..."

"My temporary editor has commented that I put a lot of love into my manga villain illustrations..." You breathed, embarrassment clearly evident but this is not what your owl had taken from the conversation.

"You love someone else?!"

"No! I love you but..."

"The 'but' is very offensive!" Again he yelped, pushing you away at arms length whilst maintaining his hold on your shoulders.

"YOU'RE MY MUSE IDIOT!"

"Eh?"

"My villain, his body anyway, is almost an exact mirror of your own." You sheepishly confessed, Bokuto tilting his head curiously with those pretty eyes of his.

"Uh..."

"Kōtarō." It was a frustrated mumble, ultimately influenced by you having to explain such an intimate detail. "You're my inspiration, I can draw you effortlessly even as someone else. Featuring part of you in my work makes me enjoy it far more."

“Oh I get it! Thinking of you during a match always motivates me more too but it doesn’t bother me if my teammates mention it.” He gladly added as a way to relate to your dilemma which lead you to hopelessly smile at him.

“Alright, maybe I was worrying over nothing. It’s not like you even know my editors or anything.”

“Exactly!” He issued a thumbs up, happy to see you more relaxed. “I can take off my clothes and freshen up now right?”

With a playful nod, you couldn’t help but admire him when he removed his top, hair fluffed up and a wrinkle to his nose.

That’s when someone walked right in, apparently having keys to Bokutos’ home which had already piqued you’d interest. Naturally Kōtarō threw an arm around you and offered a bright smile to the visitor.

“Hey Akaashi!”

Immediately you paled, your world crashing down as the painfully familiar editor quietly looked to you, then back to his shirtless Ace.

“Ah. That’s why I recognised him.”

<——————————<<<<

[lvrtwn]

venus if she was awesome

speedpaint and more thoughts under the cut

venus has always been one of my favorite characters, though i feel her design is pretty underwhelming with a lot of wasted potential. this is kind of a redesign, kind of my own personal headcannon, and kind of how i imagined venus in my head as a kid.

this is supposed to be my version of g1 venus, more similar in facial features and keeping the straight hair. i absolutely love her new hair and face in g3 but im hesitant to call the new outfit an improvement. both g1s outfit and g3s outfit are bad in their own ways. i dont want it to seem like im shitting on the new design. again i think the face sculpts, hair, and body types of g3 are so awesome. its great to see more diversity being included in the designs. i just decided to go with g1 venuses look because thats the venus i grew up with

i definitely took some inspiration from g3s outfit for this design. i like the idea of it but the execution is just not great, not to say her original outfit is any better. i feel like out of all of tge original monsters she was the one with the most waisted potential. i love her personality and the abilities she has but the way she was styled has always bothered me.

in the movies shes described as “eco-punk” which is SUCH a cool style to go with a plant monster character. i just feel like the “punk” in “eco-punk” was never really represented in her outfits. i personally love punk music and clothing; ive been an active member in my local diy scene for many years and i love seeing all the outfits people put together.

i thought i would give her an outfit that shows off a couple of my personal favorite staples of punk style. big chunky leather boots with lots of straps and buckles. kept the shoe mouths from the original because they cool as hell. lots of leather, studs, spikes. i gave her denim cutoff shorts inspired by her gen 3 outfit, same with the torn black top. punk style has a big focus on comfort, practicality, and making things yourself. i imagine she cut a pair of old pants into shorts, roughly cut her “undead kennedys”band shirt tank into a crop top, and probably repurposed the remaining fabric. i also totally didnt draw this whole thing as an excuse to use that pun. i included asymmetrical leg accessories, with one fishnet stocking and one torn up sock. i also feel like she repurposed these, continuing to wear her old torn up socks instead of just throwing them out. i gave her a big chunky studded belt matching one of her cuffs with a recycling symbol belt buckle. i feel like it communicates an important aspect of her personality just at a glance, plus i just love big belt buckles. lastly i added piercings because 1. theyre cool and 2. i for some reason remembered her having an eyebrow piercing but i guess she never had one.

i mostly kept her body and hair the same. changed her ears and hair color slightly but thats just personal preference. i decided to make the vines on her body look more like tattoos instead of being 3d. i imagine she can make them grow into real vines, but when shes not using her powers theyre just flat against her skin. gave her a facial expression that made her look a little more unhinged. she might only do things for the good of the earth but she can still mind control people at will.

i wish i leaned a little bit more into the plant theming but im overall still super happy with how this came out. maybe ill made more monster high redesigns in the future

[heyyallitssatan]

Todo fam headcanons

Enji isn’t a dick addition

He didn’t intentionally train any of his to be heroes, he just accepted them as they were

Touya really wanted to be a hero, but when they figured out his quirk didn’t work with his body they had to have a lot of long hard talks, they tried to find a lot of support gear but nothing could completely keep him from burning himself and they didn’t want him to risk his life

He came around to the idea eventually and ended up going to school to become a paramedic

Fuyumi didn’t get parentified and was allowed to explore what she wanted, she ended up loving art and went to an art school before apprenticing under a sculptor and then a tattoo artist, she eventually went back to sculpting and runs her own studio now

Natsuo followed in his big brothers footsteps and went to med school, he’s an er doctor

Shoto loved the skating trips his mom took him on and became a professional/Olympic figure skater and coach

Also, Rei was a snowboarder in this universe because I said so

It should be mentioned, Touya took up rock climbing as a hobby and got really into it

Fuyumi started doing mma as a stress release, she tried to get her siblings into it but it reminded Touya too much of training and the other two never enjoyed fighting

Natsuo feels like he gets plenty of physical activity between the er and his twice weekly workouts, so his hobby is playing video games,

Enji picked up crocheting after rei told him he needed a non stressful hobby to help him relax

Rei I turn felt she also needed a nonstressful hobby, and promptly chose rebuilding old cars because they have more money than god and can certainly afford it

Shoto never really made time for hobbies until fuyumi taught him how to sculpt, now he enjoys making weird little trinkets to give friends and family, and occasionally his competitors

I like to think the show still progresses normally, just with shinsou in 1A instead of shoto

The the reason we find out about the todoroki family is cause bakugou and midoriya both do their internship with Endeavor sanders he gushed about his wife and kids every chance he got

Midoriya thought shoto was the best thing ever and rei tried to set them up

She succeeded and got an adorable little son in law

Fuyumi showed up during bakugous internship with miruko to drop off some food for her wife and he freaked out cause he thinks miruko is so cool and turns out she has a badass wife too, best day ever

Touya meets both of them when he shows up at hawks agency to pick him up for their dinner date, they both lose their shit cause why are so many of them dating heroes

They meet natsuo during his internship/study program with recovery girl

Then they see rei on tv as a pro snowboarder

Now they’re wondering how many todorokis there are cause they just keep showing up everywhere

Then they find out that Touya and fuyumi are both in a heavy metal band, which segways into them finding out all of the todoroki play various instruments, and sports

When they ask how the hell they all know so much and have so many hobbies they just respond that they were homeschooled and rich, this left a lot of time and money to invest in random interests, so they all developed a ton of skills for absolutely no other reason than they got bored

Now Endeavor is number one after allmight retired, and they were competing for that spot beforehand but it was more of a friendly rivalry to encourage them to get better (maybe it started out legit but they both chilled quite a bit as they got older and eventually became friendly, though they kept up the image for the public and because it made them better heroes), but after all might was forced to retire endeavor publicly stated that this wasn’t the way he wanted their rivalry to end, but he would do his best to honour all might memory and carry on his legacy

He also encourages the new number two, his son in law hawks and every other hero to challenge him and make him keep working for his position

Now, this was cleared with hawks beforehand kind of as an announcement of his engagement to Touya, sadly the public misinterpreted that and thought that he was dating his daughter fuyumi, miruko shot that down quick and informed everyone that fuyumi was hers and hawks could fight her for it, all in good fun, and hawks clarified that he appreciates the offer cause fuyumi is great, but he’s very gay and quite in love with her brother

This was great, it was the closest to celebrity drama they’ve ever gotten from the todoroki family and it’s still super wholesome

[bigfatbreak]

ask stolen from zoe-onesama Speaking of Émilie, do you think that she could have been a bad mother before her death, coma, or disappearance? Because, from what I've heard, Émilie had been dead, in a coma, or missing for about a year before the events of MLB, and if Adrien had been homeschooled for about most of his childhood, then that could indicate that his mother was aware of this and didn't do anything about it. Either Émilie was overprotective of Adrien and his wellbeing that she and her husband had to shelter him from the public, or that she was in a horrible situation with her husband from behind the scenes, ergo feeling powerless to do something about her son's sheltered life. There are so many things to imagine who Émilie was really like, but so far, we don't have enough substance to even care about her.

At the risk of spoiling how I'm characterizing Emelie in my AU,

I'm more leaning towards the idea that she was the first to be overprotective of Adrien. I think, initially, Gabriel didn't care as much about having a child as much as he did about pleasing his wife, that Emelie was the one who wanted Adrien more.

Because of this and because he's a sentimonster, I imagine Emelie wanted to closely monitor him and ensure he was developing as a normal child should, that nothing went wrong in his "creation." Being a mother AND a creator of a life form I imagine would spur on some really hard worries, and since we don't actually have an indication of what Gabriel was like beforehand, its more likely he didn't care what Emelie did with her new toy child, only that her wants were sated.

I think Emelie was overprotective to a worrying degree, but because she genuinely loved Adrien and since it came from a place of love, though it was unhealthy, I wouldn't instantly categorize it as abusive. She clearly gave him a lot of attention and put a lot of work into making sure he was educated, (we know this because after her death Adrien got desperate enough to start sneaking out and running away) and I think this habit only got worse as her illness settled in.

With how sick she got, I imagine she also ended up being at home more often than not, which meant... well, more time with Adrien. I don't think it occurred to her that, should she die, she should set up precautions to ensure Adrien eventually got that same love and attention after her death. I think she was more occupied with spending time with him in what time she had left, it really wasn't a thought that struck her, that maybe, just maybe, the guy who was married to her because he loved HER and was COMPLETELY AMBIVALENT ABOUT THEIR CHILD wouldn't care what happened to Adrien after his wife died.

The characterization I'm leaning on for my AU at least, is that Emelie wanted a child and Gabriel just wanted her happy. Because of this, after her passing, the realization that he never saw Adrien as human became abundantly clear. He instead saw Adrien as a product of his wife's work, which is the reason he never let him outside. I think if Gabriel had it his way, Adrien would sit on a shelf with his miraculous and his wife's Movie and their little mementos n' shit.

TDLR: I don't think Emelie was in an abusive relationship with Gabriel at all, but I don't think any of the dynamics at play were healthy. I don't think Gabriel EVER saw Adrien as his son, instead seeing him as a product of his wife - no different than if she had made a sweater or sculpted a statue. I think, initially, Emelie was overprotective of Adrien as a precaution to ensure that as a sentimonster, he 'grew up' healthy like any other child, and as her illness took her and she became more and more of a homebody, she leaned on his support and his presence as a comfort in her last days. I think if Emelie knew Gabriel had been so ambivalent about their son, she would've put a lot more work into ensuring Adrien got out eventually.

Maybe she did. Maybe, she made a will, and maybe Gabriel ignored it because he's so god damn proud.

Or maybe, she was hoping Nathalie would step in.

Then again maybe I'm totally wrong! Maybe Gabriel used to be really cool and they lived in this giant supermansion together and the guy just went ape shit after his wife died. I just think the weird leaps he's taking should be an indicator that something has always been VERY WRONG with Gabriel and maybe Emelie, too! I'm not talking abuse, I'm talking like...

ok so I've lost a lot of people in my life and I lost some important people at a very young age and that damaged me super fuckin' bad. you know what I DIDN'T daydream of? Putting their fucking corpses in like a deprivation tank and finding a way to bring them back to life.

WE DON'T KNOW IF GABRIEL KNEW THE MIRACULOUS COULD GRANT WISHES WHEN EMELIE DIED.

WE DON'T.

we know Gabe and Nathalie and Em like, went adventuring and shit! We know (or as far as I remember from the website) Nath found the peacock and butterfly miraculous, and that eventually Emelie used the peacock and that's what killed her.

We don't know... how much... Gabriel knew about the miraculous before that. Listen, if he knew that the cat and ladybug miraculous were capable of Doing That Shit (aka granting wishes if put together), wouldn't he have kickstarted his plans instantly into evil fuckery to try and find them instantly? I can't imagine a guy desperate enough to plonk his dead wife into a clear coffin would go on eBay listings trying to find them for a fuckin year.

What I'm getting at is that it seems like Gabe idolized Emelie or their relationship on some level, and that he defined himself by how he loved her. So when he LOST her, when he lost that column of his life, his real character was drawn out. Grief makes the worst of us yeah, but we have no clear indication that Gabriel KNEW there would be a method for bringing Emelie back when he hid her corpse under their mansion.

like that's some unhinged shit.

its ALSO some unhinged shit I don't think Gabriel would ever let Emelie know he was capable of while she was still alive, I think he valued her and her opinion and her happiness too much.

I just woke up so Ive gone clear past normal conversation and straight into ranting, but essentially I think Gabriel's weird shitty personality traits were sated by being married to someone he defined himself by, and that he was always capable of being an abusive fuckhat but would never show that in front of Em. I think he's never seen Adrien as more than a byproduct of Emelie and if Em knew he was going to do this insane shit, considering she was also unhinged enough to have a baby using a fukcking magic god bird brooch, she would've taken Adrien, maybe with Nathalie, and fucking DIPPED.

[weregreatatcrime]

Anyways *deep breath* thanks @omalahsocs for making me think SO MUCH about this bcz of the prompt during stream. It's very late and I'm tired but I want to get the concepts down before I lay down and presumably forget all about it

So heres some Trans Girl Noctis ideas to ruminate on

I've said it before I'll say it again: her sculpted shoulders are one of her FAVORITE parts of herself and she is PERMANENTLY salty it means struggling to find dresses and blouses that fit

(Thanks to omalah) A? Corset?? You're galaxy brained

Corsets are just Gender it doesn't matter what the gender IS they're just Gender and wonderful. Tiss isn't sure about them at first but then she tries one on and it's like. A back brace that pushes her pecs up. She looks hot as FUCK

I'm probably going to draw this at some point gfdi

All of the chocobros are supportive in their own ways but absolutely nothing compared to how feral Prompto is. He hears a misgender and he is about to Throw Down. He hears "His Majesty" and Prompto is pulling out a gun

He goes through all of Tiss's mail and crosses out everything addressed Incorrectly with a sort of manic glee that Ignis doesn't even dare stop him

Ignis is so supportive in an Ignis way. He does All the research. He's that ally that knows more about trans experiences through research than most trans people do from personal experience. While they can't exactly do much for her transition medically on the road and technically being fugitives (and she's not overly concerned either) he still goes over every single potential option she has just so she Knows

Ignis is very annoyed that they actually Do Not Have The Funds to help Noctis like, socially transition in terms of clothing and jewelry and presentation. Tiss has to inform him that she is still perfectly happy dressing masc on the regular because they are, in fact, war fugitives and no, she does NOT need a new wardrobe

He still finds little ways to help her feel a little fem. Ignis is the one who starts to paint her nails for her and will on occasion just hand her a hair clip or small bits of jewelry she's not sure how he got

If Ignis ever gets the chance to find Noctis feminine formal ware he just about has a heart attack because instead of her usual grumping and groaning about how stupid formal wear is she is actually very tentatively excited. She definitely wants to wear the pretty dresses, Iggy. She doesn't UNDERSTAND a lot about fashion and shit but going over dozens of pretty dresses is a million times funner than going over dozens of suits.

She still gets bored after like an hour. But that's an hour of Noctis going through CLOTHES. Ignis is taking so many notes

Gladio isn't very like outwardly supportive or anything but he is so good at being the scariest thing in the room. He will Loom behind her and make people think twice about talking shit

He is the one who has to nearly tackle Prompto from trying to attack people at the SLIGHTEST hint of bigotry

He's not good at fancy shit. But while they're on the road, living out of the armiger and clothes bought from thrift stores and hunter depots, Gladio helps resize dresses and shirts and everything that won't fit her

He's not the one who'll give a nice pep talk or comfort her when she's down but he WILL be the first to pull her aside and ask very seriously if she needs a hug

Being the one and only one of them with a living female family member, Gladio also is the resident "Iris does X girly thing, if that helps?"

The day that Prompto and Noctis wear matching skirts Gladio calls them fucking ridiculous, ruffles their hair, and threatens to lock them in a closet together

[canmom]

rn attempts to use AI in anime have mostly been generating backgrounds in a short film by Wit, and the results were pretty awful. garbage in garbage out though. the question is whether the tech can be made useful - keeping interesting artistic decisions in the hands of humans and automating the tedious parts, and giving enough artistic control to achieve a coherent direction and clean up the jank.

for example, if someone figured out how to make a really good AI inbetweener, with consistent volumes and artist control over spacing, that would be huge. inbetweening is the part of 2D animation that nobody especially wants to do if they can help it; it's relatively mindless application of principle, artistic decisions are limited (I recall Felix Colgrave saying something very witty to this effect but I don't have it to hand). but it's also really important to do well - a huge part of KyoAni's magic recipe is valuing inbetweeners and treating it as a respectable permanent position instead of a training position. good inbetweening means good movement. but everywhere outside KyoAni, it mostly gets outsourced to the bottom of the chain, mainly internationally to South Korea and the Philippines. in some anime studios it's been explicitly treated as a training position and they charge for the use of a desk if you take too long to graduate to a key animator.

some studios like Science Saru have been using vector animation in Flash to enable automated inbetweening. the results have a very distinct look - they got a lot better at it over time but it can feel quite uncanny. Blender Grease Pencil, which is also vector software, also gives you automated inbetweening, though it's rather fiddly to set up since it requires the two drawings to have the same stroke count and order, so it's best used if you've sculpted the lines rather than redrawn them.

however, most animators prefer to work in raster rather than vector, which is harder to inbetween automatically.

AI video interpolation tools also exist, though they draw a lot of ire from animators who see those '60fps anime' videos which completely shit all over the timing and spacing and ruin the feeling and weight of the animation, lack any understanding of animating on 2s/3s/4s in the source, and often create ugly incomprehensible mushy inbetweens which only work at all because they're on screen so briefly.

a better approach would be to create inbetweens earlier in the pipeline when the drawings are clean and the AI doesn't have to try to replicate compositing and photography. in theory this is a well posed problem for training a neural network, you could give it lots of examples of key drawing input and inbetween output. probably you'd need some way to inform the AI about matching features of the drawing, the way that key animators will often put a number on each lock of hair to help the inbetweener keep track of which way it's going. you'd also need a way to communicate arcs and spacing. but that all sounds pretty solvable.

this would not be good news for job security at outsourcing studios, obviously - these aren't particularly good jobs with poor pay and extreme hours, but they do keep a bunch of people housed and fed, people who are essential to anime yet already treated as disposable footnotes by the industry. it also would be another nail in the coffin of inbetweening's traditional role as a school of animation drawing skills for future key animators. on the other hand, it would be incredible news for bedroom animators, allowing much larger and more ambitious independent traditional animation - as long as the cheap compute still exists. hard to say how things would fall in the long run. ultimately the only solution is to break copies-of-art as a commodity and find another way to divert a proportion of the social surplus to artistic expression.

i feel like this kind of tool will exist sooner or later. not looking forward to the discourse bomb when the first real AI-assisted anime drops lmao