#man i love ballpoint pen

[1caru]

spooky lil skull kid I doodled in a waiting room :D

[phonification]

going through the horrors (art block)

[creepyscritches]

My mom is thinking about picking up watercolor :3 my partner is starting to practice his pen/sketch exercises :3c Even though I didn't go into my initial choice of middle school art ed, I have kept compiling teaching materials, supplies, and teaching strategies for the past decade so it's fun to have two people eager to learn crafts I am FULLY outfitted to supply them w mediums and instruction :'3c

[chuckchuck228]

CAN YOU PLEASE DRAW STEVE COBS AND BALLPOINT PEN PLZZZZ I LITERALLY LOVE UR ART IM NOT EVEN LYING BUT PLZZZ DRAW THEM TOGETHER 🙏🙏🙏

My requests are closed right now BUUUUUUUT YOU'RE IN LUCK BECAUSE I DRAW THEM A LOT FOR MYSELF!!! Here one art I drew this week :3

And THANK YOU!!!!! I AM FLATTERED ÓwÒ

[iluvvaporeon]

starlo doodles!!!

[policyoftruth]

black ballpoint pen: *exists*

me: FUCK YEAH *SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE*

[heyimcolleen]

🌼Various Mayas🌼

[viktortittiforov]

on the subject of old ships DO YOU remember our old drrr ship. mikado x aoba. i still have fanarts saved somwhere i think

YEAHHHHH ofc i remember!!! also kida x mikado for me ahahaha oh man :") i still have a tender spot for these ships too......... never 4get

(also the fact that toyonaga toshiyuki voiced both mikado and yuuri is NOT lost on me lol I WONDER IF IT'S A COINCIDENCE THAT I IMPRINTED ON BOTH OF THESE CHARACTERS HMMMMM)

[saturnsorbits]

I got a bit carried away... Sorry!

Bakugo's almost crushing his coffee cup by the time Kaminari eventually trips through the door of the cafe. He's late and dressed in those stupid, bright blue loafers he bought from his mothers last collection.

The sight of him alone almost makes Bakugo leave, but then he remembers how his hands had clammed up when you scanned his notebook at the check-out last week and he contents himself with scowling at the oncoming fashion nightmare.

'Hey, bro -.'

Whatever niceties Kaminari has prepared aren't even allowed to tumble from his tongue before Bakugo is shoving a - now cold - dry cappuccino towards him and mumbling about how he: 'Best not fucking tell anyone about this.'

Kaminari cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing over his drink as he sips at the foam. 'So...' He starts, 'What's up?'

Bakugo mumbles, again.

'What?'

'Fuck...' Embarrassment coils in his stomach. He's thought about asking literally anyone for advice before Kaminari, but desperate time call for desperate measures. He cringes as he admits: 'There's, there's this girl.'

With his eyes shining, it takes everything in Kaminari's body to stop him from blurting out the stream of exclamations rushing through his mind, but he manages: just. 'A girl?'

'She...' Bakugo coughs, but fails to dislodge the awkwardness in his voice. 'She works in the shop down the road, y'know the -.'

Kaminari grins. 'The one with black hair, right? Pretty eyes. Makes the uniform look great?'

The muscle in Bakugo's jaw jumps. He know's he shouldn't, but the idea of Kaminari's eyes roaming over your body makes his skin burn. He resists the urge to call him out and settles on a meek 'Yeah...' He can punch him when you're actually his, he reasons. It makes his fists un-clench.

'And what? You wanna ask her out?'

Bakugo nods, but it's stiff.

'Ahh.' Wiggling his eyebrows, Kaminari stretches out his arms and clasps them behind his head. He winks. 'And you thought you'd come to me for advice, huh? I mean... I don't blame you. We all know I have a way with the ladies...'

With a roll of his eyes, Bakugo pops Kaminari's bubble. 'You're just the one who puts themselves out there the most. You don't have a problem going over to people and shit, it's got fuck all to do with being a bastard ladies man.'

Pretending to act hurt, Kaminari covers his heart with a hand.

'I just, I don't know how to talk to her, y'know...' Bakugo fixes his eyes on his cup and tries not to stutter as the all-too familiar butterflies start to flap their wings in his stomach. It's a new sensation, one that torments him when he so much as thinks about you - which seems to be more and more often these days. He's hopeless, he knows. 'She's just. She's so fuckin' pretty and I - my brain just turns to fuckin', I can't...' Slumping forward, he rests his head in his arms on the table and grumbles into the black of his sleeves. 'I'm a fuckin' mess. I'm never a fuckin' mess.'

Kaminari coos. 'Bakugo's got a crush...'

'Shut up.' Swiping at him, Bakugo peaks over his arms. A crush seems like too weak of a word for the tumult of emotions swirling in his chest, but he supposes that is what anyone else would call it. Even if he's pretty sure he's wanted to marry you since he saw you screwing up your face in concentration while stacking a new set of books. He sighs. 'I just need you to fuckin' tell me what to do.'

A laugh bubbles up Kaminari's throat and then, he's shrugging. 'I don't know what to tell you man. You're rough around the edges, but you're attractive enough and you're actually not a terrible person. You can keep a conversation going... Just, talk to her: Be yourself.'

Bakugo blinks, unbelieving. 'Your advice is for me to be myself?'

Kaminari nods. 'Yeah... Ask her about her day, that kind of shit. If she's feeling it, she'll keep the conversation going. If not... Well, if not I know this great bar we can go drown our sorrows in.'

Swallowing, Bakugo licks at his lips. He imagines how you might act, if you'll blush and bite your lip, or giggle at him.

Fuck, he wants to make you smile.

Nodding, he's about to thank Kaminari for his advice, but Kaminari is already beating him to speak:

He clicks his fingers, a light bulb shining above his head as he levels Bakugo with an amused smirk. 'If that fails, you could always ask to borrow her pen.'

I love the thought of Bakugou having the fattest crush on you and being so desperate to talk to you that he actually takes advice from Denki and uses a cringe pick-up line on you that obviously doesn’t work and he gets so mad about it because he thinks he’s ruined his chances🥺😭

[anisangeldust]

Office Hours 𝜗𝜚⋆

Summary: Anakin definitely has a favorite student.

Pairing: Prof!Anakin x Student!Fem!Reader

Warnings: READER IS 18!, masturbation (m receiving), mentions of sex, no use of ‘y/n’, undertones of grooming.

A/N: Ik this shouldn’t be glorified, but i also crave for an older man to tell me he’s proud of me and that i’m doing a good job <\3. Also i hope the perspective changes make sense in this!

PART 2 HERE!

Anakin loved grading your work, in fact, he set aside your papers so he could grade them together.

He taught a required course, one that all student who wished to have a degree in anything to do with English had to take and pass. Some hated it, most just did their work and got their grade.

But not you.

You cared, Anakin could tell. you were always on time, you were attentive, a gifted writer, a wonderful person, and a great student. On top of all that, you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

At first he kicked himself for his feelings, telling himself it was inappropriate, that it was wrong, how dare he think about one of his students like that! But you were 18 and he was only 32, that’s not so bad right?

The more he stared to feel about you, the more he let himself think about you. How could he not? When you always wore little pink bows at the back of your pigtails, when your lips were always pink and glossy, your cheeks always flushed when he’d compliment your work. You were truly an angel, perhaps a goddess; but that didn’t matter to him.

He’d worship you either way.

The ding of a clock indicated that he had 30 minutes to grade before his next class started, the class you were in, and he dug into the pile of ungraded work like it was the best book he’d ever read.

The last assignment Anakin gave was easy but long, a research paper on a book of your choice. Then you had to take notes on your work and turn in the paper and notebook.

He was giddy with he saw yours, the essay neatly tucked into the cover of the notebook, adorned with a small smiley face on the corner by your name. Anakin saved yours for last, a little treat he reminded himself as the other students’ work was less than savory.

When he got to yours he opened it up and almost groaned with excitement. never would he be over how neat and tidy your handwriting was, nor the fact that you wrote the whole thing in with a crisp, pink ballpoint pen.

Your work was superb, as always.

Anakin could have cum in his pants from how careful your essay was, the time and detail was apparent as he read through your incredible notes. He read both over and over again before the filing in of students reminded him that class was starting soon.

He wrote a few notes on your work and put it in the stack of graded notebooks to hand back.

——

“Brilliant work as always clever girl”

The words seemed to jump out at you, they were right next to the big red 98% on the corner of the essay you just got back from your favorite professor.

Surely it meant nothing, he was a professor, an educator, he was meant to praise those who did good, so why when directed to you did it always feel so different?

‘Maybe i’m just better than the people in here’ was the thought that jumped forward in your mind, of course your professor didn’t have a crush on you! what a silly thought to even entertain!

Yet his glances at you when you left the classroom, and the fixing of his pants when you smiles and waved at him made you think otherwise.

——

Anakin was rock hard when your class got out. the look on your face when you saw your final grade and the little note he wrote was enough to make a lesser man moan out loud. The way you chewed on your nail the rest of the class and jotted down notes had him sitting down so his erection was less apparent.

Naturally, he wasted no time when the day ended.

He quickly discarded himself of his blazer before sitting in his desk chair and unzipping his pants, his aching dick slapping against his stomach as he pulled down his boxers and immediately started rubbing the pad of his thumb over his leaking tip.

He wondered what it would feel like if it was your cunt, the mewls that would erupt from your throat, the desperate movement of your hips as he pounded you into his desk, the wet slapping of your arousal, god he craved you.

After gently teasing himself for a few moments, he fully wrapped his hand around his full length and began to messily jerk himself, your name falling from his lips like a sacred mantra.

The moment felt so good, the feeling of his hand was heavenly against his aching length, it was so good that he began to wonder what he could do to get you to let him fuck you, asking you up front could lead to him losing his job, no.. he needed privacy, he needed to know you wanted it to.

Ropes of cum spurted from his fat dick, the moments of clarity allowing him to think of the most perfect scheme.

——

The flutter in your heart was almost painful, you had ran the moment over and over again in your mind. Double, triple, quadruple checking that you weren’t crazy, that your beloved professor did, in fact, call you sweetheart.

If you were a man you’d 100% have a boner right now.

All you did was mention how you were proud of yourself for your grade on your last assignment, you were not expecting your beloved Professor Skywalker to quip back with-

“I’m proud of you too sweetheart”

-you could’ve cum right there, and you might’ve if you didn’t race out of that classroom like someone was chasing you.

This was wrong, horrible, ghastly. Though he wasn’t married, he had a tendency to ramble during his lectures, he was still 32! a whole 14 years older than you! But no amount of self-scrutiny could stop you from wanting to tangle your hands in his shaggy blonde curls while you rode him like a stallion.

———

The next few weeks felt interesting to say the least.

It seems your professor was un-aware of how much he was affecting you. the semester was coming to a close, so he rid himself of his blazer to prepare for the summer air, dawning only a white button up that displayed his back muscles the way they deserved.

You wanted to rip him apart, claw at his back until it was bloody and raw, suck on his skin untill you were the only thing he could feel, you wanted to destroy him, the only stronger feeling in your system was your want for him to destroy you.

His little notes also changed. It went form standard teacher notes like:

Awesome! or you did great!

to ones you could tell he only left on your paper, adorned in the corner of everything you got back was:

good girl, i’m so proud, i knew you could do it princess

It was getting too much to bare, he even started to touch you, to let his hands linger. Like when he passed you in the library and places his hands on your hips to move by you. It was too much.

He had to know what he was doing right? he had to know that you were rubbing your pussy raw to the thought of him, gridding pillows and hooking up with random boys that had similar mops of curly blonde hair and piercing cobalt eyes. he had to right?

He did.

——

Anakin knew he had you. Weeks of teasing, testing the waters, leading you to him, and you finally took the bait.

When he opened his E-Mail this morning and saw one from you he almost jumped out of his skin. it was professional, just you saying that you’d like to chat about your grades, but he knew, he knew the moment you walked in that you were his, that you’d do whatever he wanted.

It just so happened he was unavailable the rest of the day after you scheduled your office hours.

———

Anakin groaned, he thought maybe he could wait, that he could hold in his desires for after you two spoke, but he just couldn’t. He was uncomfortably. hard, his whole body was shaking from need, and it was still 5 minutes until you had scheduled to see him.

despite his better judgments, he undid his belt and palmed himself through his boxers, it felt so good, his balls were heavy with need and the tiny wet patch indicated that he needed to get off, now.

Yanking down his boxers, he did the same thing he did everytime he was alone with the thought of you, his hand pumping up and down his fat cock. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. he was so deaf, in fact, that he didn’t hear the rattle of the turning knob to his office door.

“Professor Skywal-“ your voice was sweet like velvet. His eyes shot open.

shit.

[kisses4reid]

convenient pt.4 | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

pt. 3 (you cannot read this without prior reading)

summary - you don’t need help with your biology anymore, you need help understanding the chemistry that seems to be growing between you and spencer.

warnings - jealousy, dickhead guy, unwanted flirting, awkward spencer, mentions of getting run over and pouring rain, studying.

genre - college!fem!reader x earlyseasons!spencer, fluff, angst if you squint, jealousy trope

a/n - i hope you all enjoy this part. comment or put in a req to be added to the convenience taglist, if you’ve already asked and i haven’t mentioned you please message orso i can make sure you’re on my list for the next part! love you all 🫶

sat in a plush office chair, in a cool room, in a comfortable dress shirt, surrounded by the people he trusted most, spencer couldn’t seem to live in the moment.

now that’s not something you would suggest to the man when he’s sat in front of multiple gruesome photos and case files, usually he would be 100% focused, no bullshit, no wandering thoughts.

but suddenly he felt light, airy, like these cases were just another day and he would be confident either way. it wasn’t completely untrue, but it was odd. everyone else seemed to notice.

“spencer, are you okay?” aaron hotchner startled the man with his stern and concerned voice, everyone looking up at spencer as a natural reaction. spencer looked around the table, noticing a growing grin between garcia and morgan.

hotch continued, “if you need to sit this one out, by all means.”

spencer shook his head and adjusted his posture, picking up a profile to skim over. there was a small giggle from garcia that brought the attention of aaron.

“what’s going on?”

“reid’s distracted because of a certain someone…” morgan replied, biting the end of his ballpoint pen. garcia slapped his shoulder.

“don’t tease him, meanies. keep going, hotch.”

they were right. he was distracted and felt far away most of the time. he wanted to go somewhere comfortable, like a convenience store with a pretty employee to talk to.

ricky, a handsome guy a few years older than you, was annoying logan with questions he could’ve answered himself. he tagged along with logan to your weekend study session at a small cafe not far from the college. the tall man was mostly agreeable, except for his apparent obsession with straight black coffee. he had had two cups of it already.

“so, y/n. what do you study? wait don’t tell me. nursing, because you seem to be healing my broken heart. psychology, because you’re making me crazy? or is it music, because your voice is like a song?” he leaned forward from across the table, disregarding the punch in the shoulder from logan. you only glared and returned to your expensive textbooks, leaving your drink to turn cold in its abandonment.

“don’t try anything, ricky. she’s basically taken.” she warned with a smirk. you lifted your gaze and rolled your eyes,

“you’re nonsensical. you’ve had too much coffee,” you stop filling out a questionnaire, “he’s not even that… he’s… ugh, i don’t know.” you place your pen down and stretch in the stiff wooden chair.

ricky laughs, clapping his hands together, “okay so you totally have a crush on a guy.”

“i do not.”

“i guess i’ll back off with my advances, unlessss, you truly don’t have a crush on your lover boy?”

“i do not- but still please back off, you’re gross.”

logan and ricky shared a glance and went back to their work silently. like they knew something you didn’t. your brain had turned stuffy, you need to get some air, you needed to get away from the truth.

garcia and morgan appeared so suddenly spencer thought turbulence had pushed them into their seats in front of him. his gaze snapped from the airplane wing to their two giddy faces and immediately knew what this conversation was going to be about. it only made him a little bit uncomfortable, these types of conversations. girls, flirting, being happy around someone he doesn’t work with, it was all unfamiliar. it seemed he chose the best people to talk about it to though; garcia had given him a little too much information about his crush from her unwanted snooping, and in the process morgan was also given all of this information.

“yes, okay, i told derek all about your girl but i couldn’t help it! he’s very persuasive!” garcia pouted. spencer thinned his lips and nodded, expecting a surge of conversation but he was only met with silence. morgan and garcia shared a glance.

“look, spencer. we’re only doing this to distract ourselves from the case we just closed, and to help you. if you don’t want help, if you think this… thing, will die out, then tell us. but, if you do want some adviceee…” morgan spoke smoothly, quiet enough to avoid attention from anyone else.

when spencer stayed silent, thinking about how he could never use you as a distraction, morgan whispered, “if nothings happening, you gotta light the match.”

you were standing on an uneven step ladder when the doorbell rang with 10 minutes to closing. you rolled your eyes, thinking you’d have to stay even later because of this customer. but your demise quickly turned to calmness, a little bit of panic, when spencer appeared in the entry way.

you nearly fell off the ladder, dropping the pile of juice boxes in your hands onto the floor. you cursed under your breath, watching from above as spencer picked them up for you.

“thank you.”

there was no need for formalities anymore, it was like you had known each other forever. spencer was silent again, it was becoming his thing.

you clear your throat, “i changed my medication.”

he glanced at you, brown eyes observing your tired expression. he came here unconsciously. he had already had some take out, he didn’t need any coffee, and his fruit bowl was stocked to the brim. spencer walked to this convenience store, the result of the action being evident through the pain in his feet.

the phone in your back pocket caught spencer’s attention, before he promptly looked elsewhere to avoid looking like a creep.

“good, im glad.”

are we really back to this? was one awkward conversation all we needed to go back to strangers?

you stepped down, “no more bruises.”

spencer placed his fingers delicately on his healed cheek, holding back a smile that you actually remembered that.

he asked, “who’s texting you so much?” without much thought. he didn’t think about how it sounded, like he was protective or worried, or what it implied. he didn’t even have your number, why should he be so upset?

“oh it’s just logan and ricky.” you replied simply, folding up the ladder and glancing at the clock placed above the register desk, “are you getting anything?”

because it didn’t seem weird if he came here for you instead of his groceries.

“like your brother, ricky?”

there was a small match burning in his stomach at the sound of those names. he felt like taking your phone and snooping until he reached the end, until his fingers hurt. spencer felt like asking intrusive questions, before he bit his lips to stop himself.

you made notice of his hands fiddling in his pant pockets, rolling your eyes. that made his tongue slip.

“how many guys do you know?”

you looked at him with surprise, walking over to the register, “you think i’m a whore?”

spencer’s heart skipped a beat, “no not at all, i just- i didn’t word that right.”

you shook your head and laughed quietly, starting to count the change sat on your swivel chair. something was off. the street was empty. “did you walk here, spencer?”

spencer’s breath hitched. oh god, were the only words circling in his brain. when you used his name, it was different. this was weird, he needed to get out of there.

you looked so effortless. he looked so anxious.

“yeah. i did.”

you nod, “okay, you can help me lock up then.” you pass him a set of keys for the window covers, and add, “you can walk me home, to make up for the other day.”

spencer nods with a small smile and begins locking up.

you lead the way out of the store and around the corner to a set of traffic lights. the streets are silent and misty, but neither of you felt the need to jay walk in an attempt to speed up this process of awkward walking.

spencer watches you from his advantage point. at how you bite the inside on your lips, how you look at the concrete pathway.

“what’s wrong?” you don’t react, instead push the pedestrian button and sigh.

“it’s monday, spencer. you were going to ‘retry’, ‘be better’? i’m not 100% sure what you meant by that, but you said that right after you told me you were going to ask me out so.”

spencer gulps and nods, hands going back to their safe space in his pockets. “yeah, i said that. but i’m going to have to delay that again. this isn’t really,” he motioned towards the weeds, litter, and flickering street lights with his eyes, and you nod with a smirk.

“romantic?”

“romantic.”

you smile at each other, and for a second he’s utterly entranced before a wave of wind and tires pass him. before a soft hand is hard on his upper arm. his eyes trailed the car, heart beating nearly as hard as it does when he looks at you.

“jesus, are you okay?” you asked worried, and when he nods with a simple stare accompanying it, you look away.

light a match.

you hand leaves him quicker than it got there.

in front of your apartment building, you notice logan’s window alight behind white curtains, and turn to face spencer.

“thank you for walking me home. i would invite you in but it’s 1:20am and i don’t really… know you.”

spencer furrows his eyebrows slightly, looking at you expectantly. your faces turns cold, slightly sorrowful.

“spencer, i don’t know you. i know things about you but i don’t actually know you.” you yawn, wiping a hand over your eyes, “maybe i’m just tired and overworked and…” logan’s voice echoes through your head as you look over the tall, tired and handsome man in front of you, “if you’re not going to ask me out first i’m going to ask you out. so, make a decision.”

it felt wrong being so stubborn and solid with him, but with school and family stress you truly didn’t need any unknown feelings to topple on as well.

spencer was taken aback. he didn’t know one couple where the girl asked out the guy, he didn’t know someone could like him that badly. he didn’t know what to say.

“goodnight, spencer. i’ll see you.”

you turned and pushed on the pull door, before pulling on it. heart thumping in your ears, you slowly held a hand over your mouth, impressed with yourself.

but you lied, you weren’t going to ask him out. you have no idea how to ask someone out.

the convenience store wasn’t so lonely tonight.

logan was arguing with ricky over his choice in deodorant almost louder than the terrible radio music playing throughout the store.

the beating of rain was creating a calming background to this chaos, as well as keeping customers away. all but one, of course.

spencer had an excuse, he was supposed to bring food for the team tomorrow, and this was the closest store. totally. but as he stood under the cover of the stores overhead steel, he felt another match being burnt in the bottom of his stomach.

a tall and toned man with bright blonde hair was leaning over your register and talking to you, making you smile and laugh. your arms were crossed, you were leaned away and you avoided eye contact, but spencer didn’t see any of these signs as the waves of jealousy drowned him.

spencer looked out onto the street. he had no right to feel that way, this was his own fault. he felt even weirder and out of place than he usually felt.

the doorbell rang and your fake smile turned real. logan watched from the toilet spray section and smirked when she recognised the purple-sweater adorned man. ricky stopped his flirting and turned to meet spencer’s eyes, they sized each other up. the blonde man smiled and looked back at your much happier face, “so this is lover boy?”

you smacked his arm hard, receiving a squeal in return. “what? no. ricky this is spencer, spencer this is ricky.”

spencer gulped and ignored the stranger and you. he went for the fruits section. ricky glanced at your confused face, “i might be a threat.”

“in your dreams.” you rolled your eyes and pushed his elbow off your desk. logan approached the counter with a basket full and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. you noticed ricky’s change in expression when looking at her and held back a smile.

“you didn’t get anything for me?” he asked, voice teasing. logan took out a block of mint chocolate and threw it at him, which he caught perfectly with a smirk on his face.

“what’s wrong with lover boy?”

you glare at her, deciding avoiding that nickname was out of the picture. your shoulders slump as you begin scanning her items while making sure spencer wasn’t in earshot. “i mentioned you two, and then he went weird.”

“i mean, if i liked a girl and she told me about two guys- sorry, two people with guy names- i’d be pretty jealous,” ricky inputted.

“is that all? some jealousy got to his head?” logan pressed.

you seriously doubted he would be jealous over that, he seemed smarter than that. he was smarter than that.

logan paid and left, literally dragging ricky behind her, as he waved and winked at you through the windows.

the store was eerily quiet, the only noise coming from the thunderstorm brewing outside. it felt uncanny and uncomfortable. you needed someone’s cologne to wade through or something.

turning while shaking your head, you grabbed out some posters taller than you and turned to have the life scared out of you.

“jesus! i thought i told you to walk louder.”

his groceries were perfectly in line to be scanned, a small smile appearing before promptly vanishing. spencer avoided your eyes, a beating all he could hear.

“he’s your…”

you sighed, disappointed spencer even thought that dumb blonde was someone to you, “acquaintance.” you finished his sentence. “i’ve known him for two days and he a flirtatious dick. everyone named ricky is a dick.”

he pulls out his slim wallet to hand you a $20 bill, fingers skimming each other. one glance.

spencer nods and nearly leaves before you stop him, “can you help me?”

spencer is on the top of the ladder outside, barely staying dry underneath the steel overhead cover with the top corners of a food poster in his hands. you tip toe to give him a piece of double sided tape. the laminated photos wave in the wind, spencer sticks his tongue out in concentration and you smile at the innocent act. leaning against the wall, quickly glancing inside to make sure nobody wanted to check out, you begin talking.

“thank you for doing this, i totally would’ve fallen and died if it weren’t for you. what can i do to repay you?”

spencer thought for a moment, looking down at you, “nothing. you don’t have to do anything. just keep talking.”

so you did, because you didn’t know if you’d see him again after tonight.

PART 5

taglist: @jeffswh0re @hypotheticallyspeakingwitch @trashmonstersara @wannabewolf @evysian @navs-bhat @mywellspringoflife @daphnesutton @smalls155 @amortencjja @anuncalledbridge @belsreid @redmurderbaby @tatilolz @criminalmindsandhouse @forensicuntology @nomajdetective @ilikw @screechingphantommaker @c-losur3 @v1ckycheesue @ackermans-angel @scarlettssub @fictionlurker @lovelyygirl8 @momooooca @random-kimmy @leabunny @cultish-corner @doigettokeepyou @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @hinataboke @wenttohogwarts @yaboohah @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @drewsandsebastianswife @hoeshissworld @flow33didontsmoke @bookworm124 @violetvsworld

[ddejavvu]

hi! i was wondering if you could write spencer reid with a reader who's hotch's niece? and hotch always tells her that she should meet reid and go out with him instead of all the shitty guys she usually goes out with so when she meets him she's just like "oh! you're the guy my uncle wants me to fall in love with!" and he gets all flustered. thank you, have a good day/night!

You'd already been eyeing up the FBI badge clipped to the man's chest pocket, but when you put together Reid from the laminated card and Spencer when the barista gives him his coffee, you know it's the man, the myth, the legend.

"Oh my gosh," You pipe up from where you'd been waiting for your own drink behind him, "You're Dr. Spencer Reid?"

He doesn't look like he'd been expecting you to speak to him, and he clumsily stops in his tracks, nearly spilling his coffee through the short opening in the plastic lid.

"Um- yes, hi." He blinks bewilderedly at you, "Are you- do I know you?"

"You know my uncle," You grin, turning briefly towards the counter to accept the coffee that the barista slides towards you, "Aaron Hotchner."

Spencer's brows shoot towards his hairline, "You're- oh! You're Hotch's niece?"

"That's me," You nod, shuffling towards the corner of the shop so that you're not in the way of the other patrons, "Y'know, my uncle speaks very highly of you."

Slowly, very slowly, rouge starts spreading over Spencer's cheeks, coloring them close to the salmon accent that the coffee shop has running along its crown moulding.

"Uh, he's- that's good to hear. I try my best."

"Oh he says you're a fantastic agent," You nod, "But I meant more personally. He tells me I should fall in love with you, actually."

All of a sudden salmon is out, and fire-engine red is in.

"You- uh, love?" Spencer splutters, and your heart skips a beat. Maybe you could take your uncle's suggestion.

"He's not a fan of my love life," You laugh, "He'd rather me go for someone nice and, uh- not a criminal."

Spencer's face quirks up in a bashful grin, and he fights through his flustered state to chuckle, "Uh, yeah, that sounds like something he'd want for you."

You delve a hand into your bag, coming out with a ballpoint pen that you uncap, "Listen, Dr. Reid, if you'd ever like to take me out, and- uh, not to your prison cell..." You reach for his hand, and the tense muscles beneath your fingertips relax as you neatly pen your number onto his wrist, "Give me a call, okay?"

"Okay," He nods, and you're sure the word was supposed to come out as a confident agreement, not a breathless whisper. But he finds his voice soon after, clearing his throat, "Um, it was- it was nice meeting you...?"

"Y/N," You smile, heading for the door opposite of where he's heading, "Hey, good luck with work! Don't let my uncle boss you around."

[m1ckeyb3rry]

hii, i was wondering if i could submit a request for a fic🤔I don't rlly have any specific prompt but i want it to be about karasu or zantetsu, either one is fine. i've read all of ur karasu fics and they're so good! i love ur writing sm!! if u don't want to i totally understand but i also just want to tell u that i think ur writing is awesome (^◡^)

Synopsis: You become taken with your coworker’s roommate, Karasu, unaware that he’s just as fascinated by you — and maybe he has been for longer than you realize.

BLLK Masterlist

Pairing: Karasu x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 8.6k

Content Warnings: relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…, <- never thought i’d be using THAT for a karasu fic, i’m bored of normal karasu characterization so i made him ooc, he’s like fr a weirdo icl, otoya catches strays, yukimiya is just trying to get through the workday, reader is a model, reader’s feet are mentioned a lot?? not sexually in the slightest (they’re injured so she complains abt them) but i mean it’s there ig if you’re a hater, very vague and unfinished feeling not on purpose i just gave up tbh

A/N: you sent this to me so long ago idek if you remember it LMAOAOAO i am so sorry i like fell off the face of the earth in terms of answering requests but HERE IT IS erm sorry it actually highkey sucks but at least karasu is in it…i guess…UGHHHH I HATE THIS BUT I COULDN’T KEEP PROCRASTINATING IT YOU LITERALLY SENT THIS IN THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST I’M SO SORRY MY DEAR but also tysm HAHHA you are very sweet!! i’m glad you like my writing and once again i am sorry for disappearing…

Additional: check my pinned post to make sure i have requests open; after reading the rules, please feel free to make your own!

You had never seen the man leaning against the wall behind the camera before. He wore a dark trench coat and a plaid scarf looped around his neck, and unlike everyone else bustling about the set, barking out orders and shoving each other into place, he was entirely calm. In his right hand, he held his phone, scrolling through something on it with his thumb, and in between his teeth was a lollipop — cherry flavored, which you only knew because of the wrapper lying at his feet.

“That’s not Yukimiya, right?” you whispered to the girl who was buttoning up the back of your top.

“Hm?” she said. “No, Mr. Yukimiya hasn’t checked in yet. I have no idea who that is.”

He was tall, with wide shoulders and the type of face that must have been crafted with painstaking detail by someone or another, his features keen, his eyes a brilliant shade of blue so dark they were nearly violet or black. Dark hair fell into darker eyebrows like the ink of a ballpoint pen on a paper-pale forehead, and just above his left cheekbone was a black beauty mark, which changed everything and yet nothing about him.

You supposed he must’ve sensed your gaze lingering on him, for he furrowed his brow and then lifted his chin, scanning the room before his eyes meet yours. He didn’t seem offended by the prying, his lips curling into a smile as he lifted his left hand into a jaunty wave, returning his attention to whatever he was reading on his phone before you could respond in turn or do anything to feel less like you had been caught committing some crime.

“I’m sorry I’m late!”

This must’ve been Kenyu Yukimiya, your partner for the shoot. He was handsome, too, with a harried, windswept appearance to his reddened cheeks and tousled hair; when he grinned at you apologetically, he was entirely reminiscent of a painting from antiquity.

He sat in the chair next to you as the makeup team got to work, applying the faintest touch of product so that he was not entirely washed out by the blinding lights of the cameras in your faces. You returned his smile with one of your own, polite and careful.

“Luckily, the director hasn’t arrived yet, so it’s not a problem,” you said. “Apparently, he’s strict on everyone but himself.”

Yukimiya winced as a heap of clothes was thrown at him and the finishing touches were placed on his chestnut hair. You watched him with amusement, your hands folded in your lap as he was yanked to his feet.

“Guess I got lucky this time, then,” he said, stumbling into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood yourself, stretching your arms and legs with a deep breath, rolling your ankles in the air, alternating as you did so, and then pacing back and forth in an attempt to accustom yourself to the monstrosities that your feet had been shoved into.

The man in the corner didn’t seem affected by the chaos Yukimiya’s appearance had thrown everyone into. You thought you saw something like a snort escape him, but otherwise he was calm — although you noticed he had tucked his phone away and shoved his hands in his pockets, opting to instead observe his surroundings with a soft curiosity.

You turned away before he could shift his attention to you once again, because your pride could not handle being caught by him a second time, and you pretended like you were entirely fascinated with putting one foot in front of the other, walking in a line so straight it was as if it had been drawn with a ruler.

Yukimiya reappeared completely ready a few seconds later, tying the laces of his dress shoes and then joining you at your side, although of course he did not need to practice walking or anything so silly. Like most men, he had been afforded the luxury of comfort; he wasn’t the showpiece of this edition, after all. You were, and so you were the one made up into a spectacle beyond natural ability or attempt.

“Everyone, in your places!” the director shouted as he entered the studio, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the other on his hip. He was diminutive in stature and wore a ridiculously feathered hat, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in position, so nobody would dare to say that to him, least of all you, who could so easily be replaced.

Still, for one final time, you allowed yourself to look at the man standing all by himself, wondering if he’d offer some reaction to the getup, some indication that you weren’t alone in your feelings. You weren’t sure why it was him who you sought out; perhaps because he, unlike everyone else, was a mystery, an enigma, and so while you could map out without knowing what all the other faces in the room looked like at that moment, you needed to see his to understand it.

He wrinkled his nose into a snicker, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, and then he took his phone back out of his pocket, maybe to give himself an excuse for laughing. It wasn’t like he really needed an excuse, because no one else was even looking at him, but then again, there was never any harm in caution.

“You’re Y/N L/N, right?” Yukimiya said to you, his hand on your shoulder as you faced the camera, waiting for the director to adjust your stances. “It’s a pleasure. I’m surprised this is the first time we’re actually talking.”

“The pleasure is mine,” you said. “And yes, it’s a wonder we haven’t worked together before, given how frequently I’ve heard your name mentioned. I’m looking forward to it.”

Something about Yukimiya served to enhance everyone he was around, and so, instead of stealing the attention from you, he somehow managed to direct the spotlight so that it shone only on your placid face. You had been expecting the opposite, but you weren’t angry about it; in fact, you couldn’t have been more pleased. It was always the worst thing when your coworker was jostling you out of the way for a few extra seconds in front of the cameras, and you thought to yourself that you’d have to find some way of ensuring you were booked with him more often.

“Amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever been so quickly satisfied by a shoot!” the director said, clapping his hands together and nodding at you both. “Excellent work. I think we can wrap up for the day. I’ll see you two here at the same time tomorrow!”

“Wow,” Yukimiya said as everyone started disassembling the set. “I thought you said he was strict.”

You shrugged as you walked over to the dressing rooms. “I thought he was.”

“Well, we probably shouldn’t complain,” he said. “Between this and practice, my schedule is booked. I have no space to be ungrateful about a little extra time.”

“Very true,” you said. “It’s always nice when things like this end sooner than anticipated. Better than later, anyways.”

The first thing you took off were those excuses for shoes, kicking them under the door for good measure and shoving your feet into a pair of fluffy slippers, wiggling your toes with a sigh. Peeling off every layer you had squeezed into for the sake of the director’s creative vision, you curled up on the bench in only your underwear, sipping on water through a metal straw and staring at the wall, hugging your knees to your chest, lost in thinking about nothing.

Only when you grew cold did you stand, pulling on a sweatshirt three sizes too large and sweatpants that puddled at your shoes, shielding you from the world as you trudged out of the dressing room, wanting to rub your eyes but knowing that you would smear makeup all over the backs of your hands. You settled instead for playing with the thread you had taped to the handle of your water bottle for exactly such an occasion, twirling the loose ends of the meticulous knots in between your fingers idly.

“Ah — L/N!” Yukimiya waved at you as you made your way towards the exit. Unaccustomed to further camaraderie after the end of the workday, you had to fight to keep your expression neutral, and when you noticed the man from earlier was at Yukimiya’s side, the lollipop long gone, you had to fight even harder.

“Is something the matter?” you said.

“No, nothing at all,” he said. “I just figured we might as well walk to the parking garage together, since it’s late and all.”

“I appreciate it,” you said. The studio you were at had only one security guard in its employ, a man that inspired pity more than fear, with a few strands of hair glued into a desperate attempt at a combover and a shirt that was far too thin to be considered professional, so you hadn’t even considered asking for an escort, figuring you would take your chances. Still, the thought of walking alone wasn’t the most appealing, and while you wouldn’t have asked for it yourself, you were glad Yukimiya had offered his company nonetheless.

“Oh! Karasu, this is Y/N L/N. L/N, this is Tabito Karasu,” Yukimiya said as you reached the door and the other man — Karasu — used one black-gloved hand to open it.

“Is he your bodyguard or something? Thank you,” you said, nodding at Karasu for holding the door.

“He wishes,” Karasu said. His voice was rough and deep and sounded like he was perpetually in on some private joke, but you didn’t mind it, not in the slightest. “I’m his roommate — the one with a car, by the way. And a driver’s license. And the time to pick his sorry ass up.”

“What he means is that he offered to stop by on his way home to get me,” Yukimiya said.

“That’s very generous of you,” you said. “Especially considering you were there even before Yukimiya was.”

“Don’t you think? It’s fine, now he owes me one,” Karasu said, his eyes glimmering. “And I intend to collect, of course.”

“He never does anything out of the goodness of his heart,” Yukimiya said with a long-suffering sigh. “You better be careful around him, L/N. Whatever he gives you, he’ll expect the same in return.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, though of course you had no intentions of ever being around Karasu in any way that mattered.

“We play soccer for the Japanese team, you know,” Karasu said. “You should come to one of our games, L/N. I’m sure some of our teammates would be delighted by that. Right, Yuki?”

Yukimiya sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If you’re talking about Otoya and Aiku, then yes, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“Not for her, it isn’t,” Karasu said. “For them, sure it is. But I wasn’t talking about those two, anyways.”

“Pardon?” you said.

“Ignore him,” Yukimiya said. “I don’t really know what he’s going on about.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Karasu said, picking up before Yukimiya on the fact that your steps had stuttered to a stop. “L/N, was it?”

He offered you his hand. You took it and shook, arching a brow at the firmness of his grip, which was much more in line with a businessman than a soccer player. 

“Yes,” you said. “Karasu? It was nice to meet you as well.”

“Don’t worry,” Yukimiya said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll make my other roommate pick me up tomorrow.”

“Otoya?” Karasu said. “Good luck with that. He’ll be late to his own funeral, so don’t think you’re high on his priority list. The only time he comes early is—”

“Karasu,” Yukimiya interjected. “Don’t be crass.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “See you around, L/N. Or maybe not.”

“See you,” you said, starting your car so that it wasn’t freezing when you got in, deciding it wouldn’t be polite to tack on a definitely not to the farewell and instead opting to stay silent.

“Bye, L/N,” Yukimiya said. “Until tomorrow.”

Although your apartment wasn’t large by any means, it wasn’t small, either, sitting at a comfortable medium that was paid for half by you and half by your brother, who was hardly ever home, anyways, but needed somewhere for his mail to be delivered. He was a free spirit, always traveling: for work, for fun, for women and wine, for anything his heart desired, which left you the entire space to yourself more often than not. People were jealous of you when they found out, but when you sat on the couch alone, a blanket pulled up around your shoulders and a bowl of salad held in between your knees, the television on only to ward away the silence that permeated the room, you wondered what they had to be jealous of.

The next day, you didn’t look for Karasu when you entered the studio, but you knew as you stepped in that he wasn’t there. There was something missing, the room a little brighter without him in the corner, waiting with an unmatched patience for Yukimiya to be done. Yukimiya must’ve made good on his threat, then, to call their other roommate to pick him up, although privately you wondered why he couldn’t just drive himself.

The shoot went even smoother the second day than it had the first, and it was a surprise the director didn’t fall to your feet and grovel at the speed with which you executed his vision. Yukimiya struck that perfect balance of workmanlike and personable, and you were content to play along with him, so all in all things moved with relative swiftness.

When you went to leave, you noticed that Yukimiya was standing by the door on his own, tapping his phone furiously. You were under no obligation to stop, but for some reason, you did, waiting awkwardly for a second before clearing your throat.

“Is everything alright?” you said. He startled, almost dropping his phone as he blinked at you.

“Yes! Yes, it’s fine, it’s just my roommate is a jerk, that’s all. Last night, he told me he was fine with picking me up, but now all of a sudden he’s busy,” he said with a scoff.

“Otoya, right?” you said. Yukimiya cocked his head.

“Yes, how’d you know?” he said.

“Karasu — your other roommate mentioned him yesterday,” you said, correcting yourself so that it didn’t seem like Karasu was someone you paid special attention to. Judging by Yukimiya’s expression, you didn’t think you had been entirely successful in the attempt, which was unlike you. You bit the tip of your tongue so that you didn’t say anything further, waiting for him to respond.

“Right,” he said.

“Why don’t you drive yourself?” you said, crossing your arms and standing beside him, facing the road as he was. 

“I can’t,” he said.

“You never learned?” you said. He shook his head, adjusting his glasses self-consciously.

“It’s not recommended I do,” he said. He didn’t elaborate further, but he didn’t have to; you recognized it wasn’t your place and hummed in acknowledgement.

“If you want, I don’t mind taking you,” you said. You didn’t know where Yukimiya lived — for all you knew, it was across the city entirely — but it didn’t hurt to extend your hand like that, especially because you had a sense that he wouldn’t even accept it.

“It’s alright,” Yukimiya said. “Karasu said he’s on his way, since last he checked, Otoya’s in the shower now, for some reason.”

“Oh,” you said. “That’s kind of him.”

“Kind?” Yukimiya said, and then to your surprise, he laughed. “I wish I knew as little about him as you do.”

“Is he a bad person?” you said.

“Not at all,” Yukimiya said. “He’s great. He’s one of my best friends, in fact; it’s just that kind and Karasu rarely if ever go together in the same sentence.”

“How can someone be your best friend if you don’t even think they’re kind?” you said, intrigued by the puzzle Yukimiya had presented you with. The way he spoke of Karasu, it was as if he were some willful spirit that occasionally deigned to lend his aid to those who could bring him some benefit, but the way the two of them treated one another didn’t seem anything like that.

“I don’t know,” Yukimiya said. “If you knew him better, I wouldn’t have to explain this. He’s a hard person to understand, and just when you think you’ve finally got it, he goes and complicates things further.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you said.

“That’s the strangest thing about it all,” Yukimiya said as a car pulled up in front of you both, the hazard lights turning on. “With him, it’s entirely natural.”

Karasu stepped out of the driver’s side, shutting it behind him and joining the two of you on the curb, grinning at Yukimiya in a way that almost felt mocking.

“Told you Otoya wasn’t to be trusted,” he said. “You’re paying for dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yukimiya said, tossing his bag at Karasu, who caught it without flinching. “Put this in for me.”

“Whatever you say,” Karasu said, opening the back door of the car and throwing the bag onto the floor before slamming it shut and patting the handle for good measure. “Is that everything, your royal highness?”

“Yes,” Yukimiya said. “I’m going to kill Otoya when we get back.”

“Hm,” Karasu said. “Violent.”

“He deserves it,” Yukimiya said. “Bye, L/N. Thanks for waiting with me.”

“It’s not an issue,” you said, especially because you hadn’t done it on purpose, and even if you had, it hadn’t been for him. “I’m glad everything worked out.”

You wanted to say something more, something to Karasu in particular, but you didn’t know what or how. It wasn’t like you knew him — not a little and not at all, as Yukimiya had pointed out, and indeed you had no reason to speak to him in the first place. He wasn’t anything but your coworker’s roommate, so what did he mean to you?

Yukimiya shut his door with a hurried apology about the cold, and then it was just you and Karasu on the curb, and you couldn’t tell why, but the way he looked at you made you think he could hear every thought which was racing through your mind. 

“Yukimiya’s right. It’s cold out,” he said. “You should go home now.”

“I’m just about to,” you said.

“Are you?” he said. 

“Why are you questioning that?” you said, surprisingly affronted, although he hadn’t said anything insulting. “Of course I am. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

“I’m not questioning anything,” he said. “Drive safely.”

“Wait,” you said. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Would you prefer it if I am?” he said.

“I’d prefer it if you answered my questions instead of coming up with more of your own,” you said, which you thought would be met with shock — after all, it was a rare thing that you broke character and said anything that could be perceived as cutting — but was instead received with a snicker.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Early, if that’s what you want.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” you said. “Do what you’d like.”

“I think that I will,” he said, and then Yukimiya was rolling down the window, telling him to hurry up, damnit, so he left you behind without another word, the car’s engine purring as they drove away.

You must’ve looked like such a fool the next morning, the final of the shoot, your eyes immediately going to the corner where Karasu had been that first day. It was empty, and despite yourself, your shoulders slumped when you realized that he wasn’t there, which was enough for you to break out of that strange trance. Why had you even hoped in the first place? He had made no indication that he was going to come, and you were old enough to know that hoping and wishing were certain paths to disappointment.

“Do you want me to take you back tonight?” you asked Yukimiya, sitting in a chair beside him as you waited for the director to come. It was a clumsy and roundabout way of getting to what you actually wanted out of him, but the last thing you could do was tell him the truth. What would he say, if he knew why you were actually offering? What would he think of you then?

“Hm? No, it’s fine, Karasu’s already got it. He’s at the gym with Shidou — er, another teammate of ours — right now, but he’ll be done before we are, and the studio’s closer to the gym than our apartment is, so he told me it wouldn’t be any extra trouble,” he said, and you thought he must’ve added those extra details for the sole purpose of seeing what your response to them would be, but then you remembered that Yukimiya wasn’t that kind of person. He was just telling you as a way to fill the time, not to get one over you or anything like that.

“That’s good,” you said. “Convenient.”

“Yup,” Yukimiya said. “My agent told me we’d be doing individual photos today.”

“Huh?” you said. “Oh, right. Yes, I think that’s the case.”

“That’s a shame. I enjoyed working with you,” he said.

“Me, too,” you said, and unlike most times, you weren’t lying when you did. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon, though. There’s not so many of us our age.”

“True,” he said. “It’s a given.”

“Exactly,” you said.

“Yukimiya! You’re up first!” the director shouted, entering as he always did — like a whirlwind, leaving papers scattered and assistants flustered in his wake. 

“That’s my cue,” Yukimiya said with a long-suffering sigh.

“Good luck,” you said, glad that it wasn’t your turn just yet. The shoes you were meant to wear sat innocently before you, about two feet away, and although it was impossible for inanimate objects to be snide, they were quite close to it, glaring at you with their bejeweled straps and their impossible tall heels, tittering between themselves at the thought of the cuts already forming on your ankles, the bandages you’d have to remove in order for those terrors to slide on without fuss.

You set your water bottle on the armrest of your chair, taking up the thread and crossing it over itself in the patterns you had been taught in elementary school. You didn’t have anyone to tie these bracelets around, and you couldn’t wear them yourself, for they’d be cut away almost immediately, but the repetitive motions soothed your mind, distracting you from the red soaking through your white socks.

“L/N!” the director screamed, even though you were sitting right there and could hear him perfectly fine. “Put your damn shoes on and get the hell up here!”

Without Yukimiya there to soften the blow, you were the direct target of all of his anger. Swallowing back every emotion you had ever felt and would ever feel, you bent over and began to rip the nude-colored band-aids, stained rusty at the edges, off. Balling them up and throwing them in the trash, you stood on aching soles and pulled the shoes on, one after another, clenching your teeth and taking off your sweater so that you could waltz over to where the cameras were trained.

“Took you long enough,” the director groused. 

“Yes, sir,” you said. “How should I stand?”

“Just put your hands there, and your one leg there,” the director said vaguely, waving his arms about before striking what must’ve been an approximation of the pose he wanted you to take. You did your best to copy it, and the cameras went off, your vision temporarily fleeing and then coming back in spots as the lights faded. “No!”

“No?” you said.

“That’s all wrong! It’s horrible, horrible — you’re not even trying to do what I asked!” he said. “Yukimiya could do it, so why can’t you? Just do this!”

He did the same thing again. You weren’t sure what else you could adjust, but you moved slightly, twisting your torso at a different angle and smiling without your teeth this time. He grunted and motioned for the cameras to go again, but after a few more photos, he groaned, dragging his face over his hands.

“This is horrendous! You look entirely stiff and posed. It’s like you're a mannequin!” he said.

“I don’t — I’m not — what should I fix?” you said, unable to stop nerves from creeping into your voice and jostling it about. As difficult as he was to work with, you knew that the director was a big name in the industry, and if he only had bad things to say about you, then your entire livelihood would be threatened.

“Ugh!” he said, stomping onto the set and grabbing your arm, wrenching it down so hard you were surprised it didn’t dislocate. You chewed on the frayed flesh of the inside of your cheek to keep from yelping, allowing yourself to be pliable as he dragged your leg forward into what he wanted from you. “It’s like you’re a completely different person today! Just disappointing.”

Whatever position he had coerced you into was nothing like the one he had wanted you to imitate, but you refrained from pointing that out, holding it in place while the photographers adjusted their lenses. It was uncomfortable and made the lace lining your collar dig into your throat even more, but at least that served as a reminder for you to be silent.

“That’s enough,” the director said, massaging his temples. “We’re not getting anything more out of you.”

“What?” you said, standing normally, tired of contorting yourself for the impossible-to-please man. “What do you mean?”

“You’re lifeless. I don’t know how you managed to fool me yesterday and the day before, but I see it now. Honestly, if it weren’t for the concerning accusations I’d face, I’d just dig up a grave and pay the families half the royalties. It’d be a cheaper and better performance than whatever you’re giving me,” he said.

“What?” you said again, shame pouring over you, cold in a way that was closer to heat, ringing in your ears and coating your tongue. You couldn’t think of another response, any other way to defend yourself. If he was saying it, then it really was the truth. You swallowed, about to bow your head and shuffle off of the set for good, but then, like a bird in your peripheral vision, you noticed someone standing in the corner.

It was Karasu, and he was muffling a laugh. When he noticed you were looking at him, he dropped his hand from in front of his mouth and jerked his head towards the director, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like get a load of this guy. Your eyes widened, and then you, too, were fighting back a giggle, because you were so tired of the entire charade and your feet hurt and you wanted to go home and sleep for a few hours but this director, this stupid fucking director, couldn’t make up his mind about what he wanted from you. And now your career was ruined and you’d go back to waiting tables and Karasu was standing there, which was ridiculous, because where had even come from? But, then again, did it matter? Because the most amazing thing of all was that he was laughing. The situation was horrible and he was laughing as if it was the most entertaining moment of his life.

“There!”

You cringed as the cameras went off in quick succession, but they were faster than you, and you knew for sure they had caught you before you had cowered away. The director stroked his chin, and then, to your surprise, clicked his tongue in approval.

“Well done,” he said. “That’s the kind of genuine appeal I was looking for. If you can bring more of that to the table, then anyone would be happy to have you.”

You frowned, his sudden switch in mood giving you whiplash. Only seconds earlier, he had been berating you, and now he was praising you? You couldn’t understand what had brought about the change, but you were at least quick enough to not question it. 

“Thank you,” you said. “I appreciate the advice. And the opportunity to work with you.”

“I’ll hire you again,” he said, which sounded as much like a threat as it did a promise. “We’ll bring it out of you. Now that I know what you’re capable of, I won’t rest until I’ve perfected it in the way only I can.”

The thought of being perfected by him, molded and shaped and honed, was the most unappealing you had had in a while. You could imagine him tugging your limbs out of their sockets, rearranging them at his leisure, slicing gashes into your skin so that his clothes and accessories sat better, smoother, without unappealing wrinkles or reflections marring their surfaces.

“Thank you,” you said once more. “It’s an honor.”

“Are you alright?” Yukimiya said when you wobbled over to where your shoes and clothes were strewn about. 

“I’m fine,” you said, but you weren’t looking at him. Your distracted eyes were following Karasu as he left the studio, your eyebrows knitting together as you tried to ascertain what the point of him even coming inside had been, if he was going to leave without you — without Yukimiya. 

He didn’t come for you, a voice in the back of your head, sounding eerily similar to the director’s, said. He came to pick up his roommate, just like he promised he would.

“I can’t believe he chose you as his favorite. Maybe you’ll be his muse for the next few years!” Yukimiya said. The director was known for picking one model to fixate on for an extended period of time. His every project revolved around them, and they were catapulted into unprecedented stardom under his guiding hand, staying there until their retirement. It was everyone’s dream, and you should’ve been happy at the prospect of being next in that line, but when you beamed at Yukimiya, it was fake, the muscles in your mouth straining at the unnatural position you were putting them into.

“Who knows?” you said. “I don’t want to rely on it. It’s not a guarantee.”

“Smart idea,” he said, scrunching up his face. “I’m sorry. I’m used to soccer more than all of this. Everyone’s very…full of themselves.”

“You’re not full of yourself,” you said, shutting the door of your dressing room behind you and calling through it as you changed, hoping to delay him even slightly.

“You’ve never seen me on the field,” he said. “There, everyone’s different. You have to be, if you want to live. Ego’s a form of survival out there.”

“Doesn’t sound much different than modeling,” you said.

“A little different,” he said. “People here are just vain. That’s not the same.”

You hadn’t ever gotten changed so quickly, but in record time, you were swinging your bag over your shoulder and rejoining Yukimiya, who seemed as surprised as you were that you had finished so quickly. After all, you had a bit of a reputation for…sulking? Brooding? You weren’t sure what word they were using for it nowadays, but regardless, your proclivity for sitting in your dressing room in silence was well-known, as much a part of your character as it was a habit. 

“You’re not wrong about that,” you said. “But vanity’s a necessary evil, I think. If you want to succeed.”

“Er, right,” he said, standing in place like he was unsure of how to react. “I suppose so.”

When you did not halt but instead kept moving towards the exit, he straightened and hurried after you. You weren’t going very fast, and his strides were so long that he caught up with you before you could even brace for the biting wind that rushed in as soon as you opened the door. The two of you went along in silence, Yukimiya obviously befuddled why you were still with him but too polite to say anything about it, and it was only when you reached the entrance to the parking garage, where a familiar car was waiting, that you allowed yourself to smile.

“Man, talk about an asshole,” Karasu said, stretching like a cat as he got out of the still-running sedan. “That director is a piece of work.”

“Karasu!” Yukimiya reprimanded, which got him nothing but a sly smile from the man in question. “He’s our boss. We can’t say stuff like that about him.”

“He’s your boss,” Karasu corrected. “So you can’t say stuff like that. I can say whatever I want.”

“You’re going to get me fired,” Yukimiya said. “It’s a good thing I have soccer to fall back on, or else I’d be in trouble.”

“Go sit in the car, then, if you want to stay blameless,” Karasu said.  

“I will! And you better not bother poor L/N. I don’t want her to have a bad opinion of all of us just because of you,” Yukimiya said, jabbing his finger at Karasu, who raised his hands in the air innocently.

Today, he wore a white windbreaker over a grey shirt, and because he was not wearing gloves, you could see that there were calluses on his palms, standing out pale at the seams of his fingers. You weren’t used to seeing calluses on anyone, not when the few people you met on a semi-regular basis took such diligent measures to prevent them, but now that you were faced with them sans demonization, you found their roughness was warm and friendly, not hideous.

“He was pretty bad,” you mumbled as soon as Yukimiya had shut himself away in the car. 

“Yuki, or the director?” Karasu said.

“Don’t be horrible,” you said. “You know who I’m talking about.”

“I can’t believe he compared you to a dead body,” Karasu said.

“That’s not the worst I’ve gotten,” you said. “It took me by surprise because things had been going so well until then, but he was relatively tame, all things considered.”

“Really?” Karasu said. 

“Yes,” you said, dropping your voice to a murmur in case anyone was around, not wanting to give yourself a reputation as a whiner. “Once, someone asked me if my mother was a fish, because there was no other explanation for how I was flopping around.”

“That’s rude,” he said.

“It was!” you said. No one had ever listened to you before, least of all with such a benign expression on their face, and you were so starved of it that you could not contain yourself any longer. “Especially because I was standing still, not flopping around or whatever. Honestly, I wanted to ask him if his mother was a fish, because you know what? There was no other explanation for how he smelled!”

“Horrid!” Karasu said, beaming at you. “You should’ve.”

“Oh, no, no, I couldn’t. I shouldn’t even have said it to you,” you said, shaking your head and pressing your hands over your mouth, unsure of any other method of stopping yourself that would be nearly as effective. 

“But you did,” he said, zipping up his jacket in a swift movement. “I’ll think of something about myself to tell you in return. Give me a day or two.”

“That’s not why I did that,” you protested. “And we don’t have a day or two, anyways, so you’ll have to do it now or never again.”

“Sure we do,” he said. “We live in the same city, don’t we? I bet our paths will cross. Where do you go grocery shopping?”

“Grocery shopping?” you said.

“Karasu! You’re low on gas!” Yukimiya said, rolling down his window. 

“I go to the place across from the park on South 18th Street. Every Thursday after practice,” Karasu said. “Meet all sorts of people there. Never know who I’m going to run into.”

You could picture exactly the store he was talking about; it wasn’t where you typically went, but sometimes, if you were running low on something hard to find, you’d walk the extra few blocks. It was much bigger than the one close to your apartment, after all, and suddenly you wondered if you had seen Karasu there before, if you had seen him ten or twenty times and just not noticed.

“When do you finish practice?” you said, right before he got into his car. 

“Lunchtime,” he said. “I’m hungry more often than not.”

“It’s not good to shop for food when you’re hungry,” you said.

“Then I’ll have to do something about it before I do,” he said. “Well, it depends. Only if I have good company.”

You didn’t realize until you were halfway home what he meant by that, and by then it was too late for you to change your mind — not that you would’ve. Not that you needed to. He wasn’t holding you to anything, even though you knew as well as he did that you would be there; still, ultimately it was your decision. Your choice. 

That was a strange characteristic of his, one that Yukimiya hadn’t mentioned. Karasu didn’t ask for things; he didn’t command them, either. He only made suggestions, nudging you along until you reached the destination that he wanted you to arrive at. You had never met a person quite so adept at it, at presenting choices and questions as disguises for inevitabilities, at guiding people’s thoughts so precisely. It would’ve been unsettling coming from anyone else, but from him, it was natural. It was how he operated. Who were you to chafe at it when that was simply who he was?

The grocery store was large, but they never changed their layout, so you knew where everything was familiarly and without checking the signs. You didn’t have anything to shop for, so you decided to wander the aisles, thinking that if something caught your eye, you’d buy it without further consideration.

You found yourself staring at a bag of oranges, a bright red 50% Off! sticker slapped right on the netted packaging. Swallowing, you reached for it, but before you could, someone snatched them away, holding them in the air teasingly.

“I thought you shouldn’t shop for food when you’re hungry,” Karasu said. “And might I add, what a coincidence it is, seeing you here!”

“I’m not hungry,” you said, taking the oranges back and holding them to your chest protectively. “And I wasn’t looking for you.”

“I didn’t say that you were,” he said. “I distinctly recall saying that it was a coincidence we even met, in fact. Anyways, maybe you’re not hungry, but I am, so I should be off. Meals to eat, shopping lists to plan…it’s a busy life I have.”

“Sounds mundane,” you said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “You’re right. That reminds me! Before I go, what is it that should I tell you?”

You couldn’t deny that that was the real reason for why you had come to the grocery store — what was he going to reveal? For as much as he knew about you, you knew frighteningly little about him, and now that you were faced with a chance to learn what kind of person he really was, you didn’t want to let it leave your grasp.

“Whatever you want,” you said. He plucked the oranges from your grasp again, and before you could complain, set them at the bottom of the small basket he held in his arms.

“How about this? I knew you were going to go for the oranges,” he said.

“How?” you said.

His eyes sparkled as he leaned closer to you, and you suddenly remembered Yukimiya’s warnings. Whatever you thought you knew about Karasu, it was likely only half or maybe a quarter the truth. Really, he was shifting and cunning, a fox and a crow, far from comprehension, not a danger but not kind, either.

“I’ll answer if you tell me something else about yourself,” he said.

“Why are you acting like I’m entering some kind of contract with a devil?” you said.

“I’m not a devil,” he said. “Just Karasu. My teammates think I’m a great guy, if the recommendation sets you at ease.”

“It sounds more like you’re trying to blackmail me,” you said. He shook his head.

“Couldn’t it be said that you’re doing the same? You’re asking questions about me and expecting that I answer when you have no intentions of reciprocating,” he said. 

You pouted, because when he put it like that, he wasn’t wrong, and it wasn’t that you didn’t trust him — because you did. You trusted him more than you should’ve, considering how guarded you had learned to become.

“I have an older brother,” you said. “He’s overseas right now. I don’t think he’ll be back for a while.”

“I have an older sister,” Karasu said. “Maybe they know each other.”

“Probably don’t,” you said. “Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I guess I didn’t,” he said, reaching around you to take two boxes of cereal off of a shelf. “Try again.”

“My parents didn’t want me to be a model,” you said. “They thought I should be a teacher. I’m good at it. Children like me.”

“I was going to go into investment banking,” he said. “Or consulting. One of those such fields. Maybe I still will, but soccer is fine for now.”

This was a game for him, you realized. Like tennis, but better, and so, instead of being irritated, you decided you might as well indulge it. It had been so long, anyways, since the last time you had spoken to someone freely, without concern for what they might spread about you, whose ears they would whisper your secrets in just to get one or two steps ahead.

“I threw a dress at a designer’s face once,” you said. “He didn’t like the shade of lipstick I was wearing, even though he was the one that picked it. The only reason my reputation wasn’t ruined was because he ended up liking the way the lipstick turned up digitally and promised not to say anything about it if I allowed them to use my photos after all.”

Karasu laughed, opening the doors to the fridge and taking out milk, stacking it neatly in the basket. You weren’t sure when the two of you had begun shopping in earnest, but it seemed he had forgotten about his plans to eat lunch. 

“In high school, my teammate pissed me off, so I made sure to shove him around extra when we tried out for a nearby youth team. It made him look so inept that he didn’t make the cut,” he said, taking an abandoned cart and depositing his things in it, motioning for you to put your purse in as well.

“That’s mean!” you said, but it was hard to disguise the fact that you, too, were laughing. “You’re mean.”

“His fault. He should’ve played better, anyways,” Karasu said. “I had been helping his sorry ass out for too long. He would’ve been cut regardless. You could say I just…expedited the process.”

“I’m the only one in my family who still wishes my brother happy birthday,” you said. “He’s a disappointment in everyone else’s eyes, but he lets me live with him and pays his share of the bills, so how can I disown him?”

“Between the two of us, my sister is the perfect one, so I’m afraid I can’t relate. Vanilla or hazelnut?” he said without skipping a beat. Before you could even answer, he face-palmed. “Oh, wait, Otoya hates hazelnut. I’ll get that so he doesn’t mistake it for his own.”

“I used to be a waitress,” you said. “Before I was a model. It was a lot less glamorous of a career. I don’t think my feet ever recovered from it.”

“I’m sure those shoes that you were forced into for your last job didn’t help any,” he said. “They looked inhumane.”

“They were,” you said, your ankles panging at the reminder, still inflamed and angry as they were. “Though I think anyone would’ve suffered with them on. I doubt the designer had human anatomy in mind when making them; I haven’t bled like that in a while.”

“They made you bleed?” he said. You hummed.

“Yeah,” you said, seeing no point in lying. Who would he tell? Who would even believe him? “Fashion over function, right? It was only for a few photos. They’ll be healed so quickly I’ll forget I had them in the first place. Enough about me, though. Tell me something else about yourself.”

“I sprained my wrist playing soccer as a kid,” he said. “It was a long time ago, but even now, I can feel it when it rains.”

He still hadn’t answered your original question, and you didn’t think he would, not until you offered him something of equal or greater value. But what did you have like that? What aspect of your silly life held enough weight that it would make someone like Karasu, always so ready with his wit and his charm, willing to part with something he clearly deemed to be a secret?

“I’m lonely,” you said, turning away from him, pretending to be fascinated with comparing two different brands of yogurt, neither of which you would buy. ���You’ll laugh, but I think this is the longest conversation I’ve had with someone outside of work since my brother last came home. It’s nice, surprisingly. Talking to you and all. I like it.”

Or maybe you just liked him. You couldn’t really separate the two. Either way, it remained that ever since you had met Karasu, you could not conceive of a time when you had not known him, a time when you had gone home to your empty apartment and watched your empty shows and eaten your empty salads and thought you were satisfied by it all. You doubted he knew he had this effect, and you certainly wouldn’t be the one to tell him — after all, he’d probably be frightened if he found out that you had, in such a short time, grown so attached to him and his games and his conduct.

“The oranges,” he said. “You tried to buy them the first time I saw you.”

“What?” you said. Now it was his turn to avert his eyes and yours to watch him in fascination, finding it far easier to stomach a secret than to spit it out.

“It was a long time ago, but it was definitely you,” he said. “It was a Thursday, and I was just coming back from practice; this grocery store is far from my apartment but close enough to the field that, when Otoya — he was sick, so he had skipped that day — texted me that we were out of bread, I decided I’d make the detour. I wasn’t planning on staying here long, but right when I was about to leave, I saw you. You only had a packet of instant noodles and a bag of oranges in your hands. They were on sale back then, too, but—”

“But I had to put them back,” you finished for him, remembering that day as well as he did, albeit not his role. “Because I didn’t have enough money to get them, even when they were 50% off.”

“Yes,” he said. “I left before you noticed me, but I always — I always wish I hadn’t. I kept making the trip here, doing my shopping every Thursday at the same time until it became ingrained in me like routine, and I told myself if I ever saw you again, I’d buy them for you.”

“I can buy my own oranges now,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “That wasn’t the only reason I came back each week.”

“Why else?” you said.

“Well,” he said. “I can’t just tell you everything in one go like that, can I?”

You scoffed. “You can.”

“But I won’t,” he said.

“But you won’t,” you said with a sigh. “Anyways. So you knew me even before we met?”

“I knew of you,” he corrected you. “Though not as a model. Just as an absurdly beautiful girl I saw in a supermarket once and thought about occasionally.”

“So it was a coincidence that you happened to be at that shoot?” you said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“When Yukimiya told us about the girl he’d be working with, Otoya looked you up,” he said. “And despite how long it had been since you last crossed my mind as well as how much longer it had been since the only time I saw you in the flesh, I recognized you immediately.”

“You have a good memory,” you said.

“So I’ve been told,” he said. “I didn’t go with any strange intentions, if you’re wondering. I only wanted to know what kind of person you actually were.”

He wasn’t a typical admirer, taken with your celebrity or your status. He was curious, not about Y/N L/N the model, but you, the girl he nearly met in a grocery store so long ago it was all but inconsequential. You wondered what it said about you that instead of being wary, you only felt all the more inclined to reveal yourself to him. You wondered if this was some lack of self-preservation, as your brother would declare it, or if this was an innate knowledge, an instinctual understanding that the man before you was different.

Maybe he was or maybe he wasn’t. You didn’t know, and maybe, on some level, you didn’t care. Taking his hand, you set it on the bag of oranges, placing your own atop it firmly, your thumb tracing his scratched knuckles.

“Buy them for me,” you said. “And I’ll tell you who I am, plainly and without fuss.”

“Is that what you consider a good deal?” he said. “I’d say you’re a bit more valuable than a discount bag of oranges.”

“Do you think so?” you said. “Fine, then. The oranges, and a pack of instant noodles.”

“Closer,” he said. “But I’m a fair person. I can’t accept.”

“You,” you said, all in a rush. “The oranges, the noodles, and you. That’s my final offer. I’ll give you everything if you give me that much.”

He didn’t even pretend to consider it. You thought that it must’ve been what he was waiting for all along, what he had been, in that way of his, leading you towards.

“You’re a tough bargainer,” he said.

“So you agree to it?” you said.

“Sure,” he said, and when he noticed your face falling at the noncommittal nature of his acceptance, he laughed. “Yes. Yes, yes, I agree. The oranges, the noodles, and me; you can have all three as you please.”

And it was odd, but just for a moment, the reprieve lasting only for as long as his breathy chuckle, your feet ceased to ache.

[slowd1ving]

Hello can u write a Dokja x Medusa!male!reader please

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR GORGON ゜゜・KIM DOKJA

'You listening, Dokja? Maybe if you followed the guides for dealing with intelligent species like this one, you wouldn't be in such a stupid mess.' yall think aegis can be used as a different sort of barrier?!?! sorry anon this is less mythology centric than i planned icl art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! pairing: kim dokja + male reader warnings: canon typical danger, mentions of self-sacrifice wc: 2.9k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There exist several unspoken rules when interacting with the particularly volatile species integrated onto Planetary System 8612. Most ‘monsters’ are unable to effectively communicate with the main intelligent species in the domes, thus are doomed for imminent slaughter. However, exceptions like the catalyst behind these reports must be treated with particular regard. 

Guidelines will serve you well in the coming days, reader. If you’ve accessed these reports, it probably means the days are bleak and you’ve encountered one of these species. One thing is for certain; if you are reading this, you will survive your encounter with a gorgon. 

< Observation log, section 1 > (Relative Earth time 21/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDING

‘Rule number one: if possible, do not engage with a gorgon. Though, considering your perusal of these records, it seems this was not successful on your end. Better luck next time!’

‘Sooyoung-ah, don’t be ru—’

Avoidance was always a good policy when it came to the apocalypse. It saved time, toil, and lives—much like a vaccine helped one bypass a virus. But one couldn’t rely on it entirely; neither vaccine nor evasion was infallible after all. 

‘If they were, these records would not need to exist.’

And for humans, their biggest hamartia was their ignorance. Nerve cells could only do so much to detect dangerous stimuli and trigger a reflex for flight. If the hazard was less obvious, much more innocuous, then the poor human would only be wading into quicksand if they weren’t smart enough. Right before getting devoured. 

‘Of course that squid was the blind one who got us into this mess.’

Just like these unspoken rules, it was de facto that Kim Dokja was unlucky. Unfortunate. Ill-destined. However you chose to put it, the man was born under a cursed star, which meant that the stranger sitting across from him in the park was naturally part of his jinx as well. 

“What are you staring at?” Unlike the squid wearing his stupidly pristine coat, the man sitting on the bench facing him appeared to be a student: civilian wear and a lanyard still around your neck, like you’d frozen in time these past few months. Glasses rested on your nose, which you pushed up each time they slipped—even if they moved only minutely. 

Perhaps you were nervous, but the caustic indifference in your tone suggested it was an unlikely possibility. 

“Ah, sorry. I have a habit of looking at interesting people,” he laughed your question off, but the lack of information on you, coupled with the fact he didn’t recognise who you were, gave him the answer he needed. You weren’t a part of the original novel. “Uh, it’s a nice park, isn’t it? Lovely statues.”

You glanced at the reader, unimpressed. Just like that handsome bastard, there was that same impassive scowl plastered on your face. But as soon as he’d mentioned the sculptures scattered around this surprisingly lush pocket of Seoul, your face had softened somewhat. 

“Art major?” he probed, for there was something about your gaze that drew words from his mouth. Or perhaps it was just how surreal this scene was: someone enjoying the park like anyone before the paid service began, just some guy taking a breather from classes with a thick, bound book beside him. 

A ballpoint pen, rather than a sword or any other weapon. Blue ink, instead of bloody atrament. 

You were a part of this world, yet detached from it all. 

“No, chemistry,” you said. Deadpan, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m specialising in geochemistry. Rocks, soil, minerals. Humans do so underappreciate what goes on beneath their feet.”

Specialising. Present tense. Not specialised. 

Humans: like you were utterly detached from anyone and everyone. 

His breath caught in his throat.

The urging of constellations reminded him of just the situation he was in—about to run out of time in this sub-scenario, where hordes of monsters would soon swarm. Right in this very park. 

“Listen, you’ll need to get out of here soon—there’s going to be swarms of insect-like creatures here in, uh, five minutes give or take. You’ll be in danger if you can’t fight,” he swallowed. A look of disdain flickered in your eyes, and his head throbbed with how much your expressions resembled that sunfish bastard’s. You’re the idiot, your brows indicated, while the set of your mouth held only one question: who said I couldn’t fight? In the same strand of thinking, the sudden curdle of your shoulders—hunched, guarded—seemed to gesture and who are you to tell me that?

‘If only you knew back then.’

In short, you could fight. You could fight, and you were absolutely terrifying to watch. 

“Aegis,” you whispered, and the statues seemed to continue in susurration with you as the air warped in on itself. Dokja was thrown back by the shockwave as the space rippled—all in time for the main guests of the sub-scenario to arrive. 

Insect mutations. 

They crashed right into the distortions. A barrier. You’d set up an impenetrable defence in less time it took for him to draw breath, only for him to keel over behind you instead. Wow. Okay. He could still work with that. 

“What are you—”

“Silence.” It would’ve stung less if you just told him to shut up instead, but from the very get-go you were never particularly nice. Kind? Somewhat, in the sense you’d viewed him as some useless, bumbling fool that would be better off behind the translucent shield you’d conjured. But nice? No, from the very beginning, you were never nice. 

‘Deserved.’

That was fine. Bearable. Still in the realms of believability. 

For Kim Dokja, the shock came after watching your hand raise to your face to slip your glasses off. From the back, he could no longer see the stern expression you no doubt wore. But he wasn’t focused on your face, but rather the warmth of the day instantly seeping from the molecules. 

Time itself froze, and the insects did too. 

No one breathed, and not a singular sound rang out—save something hissing. A tire, perhaps, but nobody was fool enough to simply drive cars during the apocalypse. 

Then came the stirring of your clothes. It was a breeze only you felt, rippling and undulating until your hair moved too. Except it wasn’t the wind that hissed, nor was it the wind that wafted the coils. No, they twisted into thicker, scaly locks—snake-like, except these were snakes suddenly attached to your head. It was no longer a simile, nor was it a metaphor. 

You had fucking snakes in your hair. 

His breathing was shallow; in the sudden frigid climate, those puffs crystallised and condensed in small white clouds. 

And what of those insects?

His eyes flicked back to the ground shakily, to where the arthropods lay crumbling. Statues, like the ones he’d complimented brief minutes ago. Pearlescent marble—no, stone. Your glasses were still grasped tight in your hand, and he knew if you turned to meet his wide-eyed stare he’d be next. But, alas—

“Who… are you?” 

‘And this is how Kim Dokja put his foot in his mouth and demonstrated his exceptionally poor luck.’

< Observation log, section 2 > (Relative Earth time 24/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDING

‘Rule number two: do not stare into the eyes of a gorgon. Don’t even look, except for when there are protective measures in place. Case one: a blindfold. Case two: glasses, which he literally wears every minute of the day save for when he’s sleeping. Dokja, do not sneak up on the man when he’s sleeping.’

‘Dokja, you suck.’

It wasn’t often you let down your guard, with writhing, clawing humans nonetheless. Pointing fingers to find the monsters under their beds and threatening their cities—when in fact it was their bellicose faults that doomed them. A self-made end, a fitting conclusion for the snake that bites its own tail. If you had ever been human once, these people shared more blood with the beasts than they thought. 

Point was: you didn’t particularly care for those who appeared to be like you. Bodies, soft and squishy from a life coddled in cities; smiles duplicitous and more monstrous than any snarl; and their thoughts, often more heinous than any demon. And despite their sins, they’d meander in life wrapped in the bliss of self-ignorance. Dead in their varying morals like shrouds of far-too different cloths. 

In this, no human was the same. This was the philosophy that alienated yourself from your sisters. 

This was also the philosophy that landed you in a warm, damp place—completely dark with something poking at your cheeks. Correction—even through the thin membrane and slightly thicker skin that covered your eyes, there appeared to be a dim redness seeping into the edges of blackness. It seemed your blood vessels were alit by some foolish beastling. Almost like the golden chariot was prancing afore your eyes, except only Aeos of the Dawn was trotting along your lash line with a proud toss of his shrunken head. 

Your fingers twitched inside your sleeping bag, but you forced a deep breath in before you could hear any hissing. 

Actually, you knew exactly who was prodding at your cheek with a frigid index finger; the faint brush of his scent gave him away almost instantaneously. 

“Kim Dokja. Are you an idiot?” you ground out, eyes still tightly shut to avoid turning this fool to stone. “I’ve already agreed to travelling with your circus, so I’d prefer you refrain from getting petrified.”

“You really do sound like him when you’re irritated,” he let out with a suppressed snort. 

“Aegis,” you whispered, and the impertinent hand ceased its movements. 

The barrier was not, in fact, activated. 

“Gave me a bit of a fright there,” he swallowed. “I just wanted to say, it’s fine if you open your eyes.”

“No,” you deadpanned. Though you couldn’t see the expression, you could feel your facial muscles twitch into an impassive wall. “Don’t involve me with your stupid plans to kill yourself off.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he corrected himself. Were all humans like this when you lived as one? “It just won’t work on me. Me alone, which is why I locked the door so no one could come in.”

“Why?” He was a fool like the rest of them—risking peril for a glimpse of cursed eyes. Like all of man, his hubris rested heavy on his shoulders. 

“I just want to see your smug face without any glasses.”

“You’re looking at it presently,” you argued. Though your ire was evident with your furrowed brows, he didn’t relent. Where was that puny man who’d trembled behind you at the sight of insects? More importantly, how had he changed so quickly?

“With your eyes open,” he clarified. He was more insane than anyone you’d ever met. 

“Does it really make a difference?” you stalled. “How can you be sure you won’t suffer the effects as every other human and beast does?”

“You care about me that much?” 

It was a quiet question. A tentative venture into teasing, yet strangely vulnerable. 

“You worried?” he echoed. It was a weak aegis of his own, already prepared to accept your scoff and firm no. 

“Fool.” Both the skin eyelids and the thin membrane unsheathed haunting irises. You already knew what you’d see in them—a milky sort of quality to their natural colouring, even without the extra membrane. Slit pupils dilated minutely at the sight of him, and his breath caught in his throat as you gazed upwards, unblinking. 

Fool. The word echoed in his mind, an answer to his question but not at the same time. 

I’m not worried. 

Peering, your claws gently grazed his face: almost a kiss, if a kiss left a slight sting behind.

“I’m always worried about you, Kim Dokja,” you murmured, and it was perhaps then that his heartbeat grew erratic. Staring into those pretty eyes of yours with your thumb tenderly swiping across his flushed cheekbones, it was no wonder he could taste his very pulse. “Remember our first meeting?”

“How could I forget?”

A back facing his hunched form, more dependable than the shield spreading and curling beneath your mighty palms. Snakes coiling down your back, but there was nothing scary about how they swayed like ribbons in the sunset. And finally those eyes, directly protecting him from the swarms of insects. 

No, perhaps it was then when the thrum of the organ grew somewhat more rapid. 

‘Glad you realised.’

< Observation log, section 3 > (Relative Earth time 03/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPTION OF RECORDING

‘Rule number three: do not feed the snakes. Do not feed the snakes, Dokja. DO NOT FEED THE GODDAMN SNAKES.’

“Is Kim Dokja a masochist?”

The question, like most questions, came out of the blue. Such an innocuous, casual tone veiled your usual clipped syllables that Han Sooyoung found herself seriously internalising your words, before—

“What— koff— huh?” she spluttered against the sudden taste of her lemon candy, expression turning troubled, then incredulous. 

“Does he take pleasure in torturing himself?” you clarified, as though it were a matter of comprehension rather than tact. 

‘I knew what a masochist was! Why would he ask that?’

“If it’s Dokja, probably,” she coughed finally. Honestly, she’d pondered this very question herself—staring deadpan at the numerous deaths he’d experienced by his own plans. “Uh, just so we’re clear, why do you ask?”

“Is it normal to try to feed my snakes?” Definitely not.

“That… idiot did what?” she stared at the resident gorgon with quite the perplexed expression, but soon regained her composure. “No, not particularly. Are they… venomous?”

“Yes. Very much so. Please tell him to quit.”

Yet, despite all the half-hearted chidings of you and Sooyoung alike, your little snakes were beginning to grow fat and affectionate towards the man. You could feel something fundamental begin to shift, and it wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling. 

< Observation log, section 4 > (Relative Earth time 14/◼◼/20◼◼)TRANSCRIPTION OF RECORDING

‘Rule number four: gorgon venom should not be ingested. If you are Kim Dokja, this applies perhaps most poignantly to you. You may be immune to its effects for whatever reason, but the venom is a nightmare to get out of clothing. Thanks.’

“An experiment?” 

Kim Dokja’s face didn’t change from his usual, vaguely blurred visage; but it wasn’t like snakes had particularly good eyesight regardless. “Yes. Would you be up for it?”

You’d agreed on a whim. Why the experiment was to take place in a closed room, you didn’t particularly know. Maybe humans encountering an apocalypse had special customs to adhere to. “I am familiar with experimental protocol in laboratories and practicals.”

“Would you like to help me upgrade my poison-immunity skill?”

You’d initially refused outright—struck dumb at how recklessly he treated his life. Every time you thought he was a fool, he proved himself even more foolish—a crazed endeavour if you ever saw it. 

Gorgon poison. Released in more diluted doses from the snakes on you, concentrated particularly in the bone-white fangs in your mouth. Like a vampire, Yoo Sangah had excitedly noted: much too excitedly for your liking. 

Bite me, he asked you. 

A pale wrist was held out cautiously in front of him. The air was no longer mere air, but an ancient altar dedicated to this sacrifice. Thus, you were the priest for this rite once more, but this time the ram carried the bronze knife itself. 

He’s an idiot, you seethed, yet you were too. 

For you suggested a less painful way of transferring venom, but he agreed. For you gently clasped his chin with razor sharp talons skimming the dermis of his throat, but he melted pliantly in your hands. For you leaned in with softened eyes, but his own simply fluttered shut in anticipation. 

You surged, pressing him against the cold cement of the wall. Air was robbed from his lungs as he gasped, but rather than pulling back his warm, human hands merely wrapped around your nape to meld your body against his. 

Why did his hands shake so? Was this not just an experimental procedure dedicated to strengthening a human? 

Despite your analytical mind, your eyes closed too—both membrane and skin—and you savoured the lingering taste of the meaty dinner he’d eaten, and the underlying flavour of him. Hot blood pumped beneath his fragile oral mucosa; your greedy, long tongue prodded his own to find just where his pulse thrummed the strongest. 

Ah, fuck, he thought dumbly; sloppily making out with you in a forgotten room was not how he’d envisioned this night, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Even as he winced with sharp pain when your fangs cut his lips, he couldn’t pull back—objective achieved but long forgotten. Those pesky, wandering hands of his clung onto your body when his head canted: deepening the kiss rather than wrapping up his poison exposure. 

Iron tainted his mouth. Dripping past the seams of desperate lips was the crimson mixture of blood and venom, dripping onto his sweater and corroding the very threads—yet Kim Dokja both did not notice and did not particularly care. 

But all good things came to an end. The two of you were met with an extremely exasperated Han Sooyoung at the door as she gave you a look, one that implied I expected better from you. For Dokja, the reserved expression was I expected this, to be honest. 

‘PDA is not appreciated during the apocalypse. Take that shit elsewhere.’

‘Thus, these reports can be summarily concluded in two points of advice: 

1. Unless you are Kim Dokja, do not attempt any of these activities with a gorgon. 

2. Simply don’t do what Kim Dokja does.’

[yuphoric]

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME ❥ yuuta okkotsu (m) | part 1

➵ summary: Yuuta Okkotsu is head over heels (read: pathetically) in love with a girl who wouldn’t even spare him a second glance. When the opportunity to call her “his” arrives on a silver platter—that is, when she loses all her memories—without thinking, he grabs the opportunity to claim himself as her husband.

➵ pairing: obsessive stalker!yuuta okkotsu x f!reader ➵ word count: 1,163 ➵ warnings: MINORS DNI – stalking & obsession (for future drabbles? chapters? smut)

author’s note: ALL LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED! <3 inspired by the 1D fanfic i read 9 years ago (“illegally yours” by _DaniMoon_)… ALSO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS……….. the yuuta brainrot was just sooo... bad i wrote all of this in one sitting SCREAMINGGGG

Yuuta Okkotsu is a well-calculated man; he’s a “mastermind” as Taylor Swift would say. He’s smart, and he’s careful. He’s everything but stupid.

However, when it comes to you, he becomes stupid. Stupidly in love. All thoughts of intellect trashed at the deepest corner of his mind, all reasons of rationality ignored. Even back in high school, he’d admire you from afar—too insecure to even place himself in your world. He never deemed his world worthy to accommodate you; you who he defines as perfection, you who shines brighter than any of the constellations combined.

When this seemingly perfect chance to have you, to love you, falls beneath his feet; he takes it—he grabs it. 

His day started like his usual routine. He greeted the kind barista named ‘Yuuji’ behind the counter and bought his usual coffee order from the small café he frequents at. He sat at the plush chair (technically, could be labeled as his own by how much his ass sat on it) near the window, catching sight of the beautiful morning scenery—

You.

You, at exactly eight in the morning, arrive with the usual twinkle in your eye. Yuuta falls in love more every day with the sight of perfection. In these typical mornings, you always carry a digital camera, taking pictures of your usual subjects; like the shop’s designs that change weekly (Last week, he recalled it was designed with cute little balloons to celebrate the owner’s birthday), the baristas which have become your friends, and the pastries layed out inside the glass display. He always wondered when he could be the subject of your pictures.

Once Yuuta hears the soft jingle of the shop’s bells, you dash over the counter and greet Yuuji. If someone would ask Yuuta what you usually order, he could easily recite it: “One sea salt latte and a banana muffin, please.” On days you feel like ‘experimenting,’ he knows that you would instead order a double shot of espresso and a puff pastry.

While he tries to not seem obvious stalking—admiring—you, he couldn’t help himself to let his eyes wander on your body. Especially when today, you wore the pink miniskirt he loved seeing on you, how it perfectly hugs your waist down to your thighs. After you pay, you walk to your designated seat: the one near the counter, just beneath the air conditioner. He shakes his head, turning back to his table; his hand grasping the ballpoint pen he brought to messily sketch the you of today on his journal. His ordered drink is neglected at the side, his focus on your sketch and his view of you by the corner of his eye.

Today seems like any other day.

Until it wasn’t.

The bells ring once again at the entry of another man with dark hair bunched in a top knot. Yuuta watches as your eyes light up at the sight of this man, and he could swear he feels his stomach lurch. Who is this man and why is she so happy to see him? The grip Yuuta had on his pen tightened, similar to the feeling of his vulnerable heart. Do you have a boyfriend he never knew of?

For the next couple of minutes, he watches the sequence of events play out. First, Yuuji delivers a tray of two different drinks and two different pastries on your shared table. Second, the sweet conversation you introduced to this ‘top knot’ (read: ‘top one asshole,’ as Yuuta conjured in his head) seemingly turned sour instantaneously. Then currently, Yuuta watches the back and forth of free flowing arguments between the two of you.

How dare this man hurt you?

Someone as perfect as you?

The chatter in the shop couldn’t mask the heated conversation you shared with the man across your seat. Yuuta desperately wanted to intervene; to say something, to wipe the leaking tears away from your face—but he stayed still. He remains unmoved. What else could he do, anyway? He watches as your emotions get the best of you; your face displaying emotions of frustration and anguish. Yuuta vowed to himself not to make you feel the way you do right now because of the asshole you were with, to not see these expressions on your pretty face.

You stand up, and Yuuta hears the loud screech your chair evokes as you trudge your way out. The ‘top one asshole’ remains seated, his back turned against Yuuta. With no other thought passing through his head but you, he follows your lead outside the shop. His coffee remains untouched, pen now bashed in his jean’s pockets and his journal pinched between his fingers.

He, himself, couldn’t calculate his next few actions.

Yuuta follows the blue sedan car you drive; he strikes closely behind you, not too near, but not too far either. His eyes zero in your form, maintaining the pace of his motorcycle. He hopes you don’t notice him following him for the past couple of minutes already; of course, he just wanted to ensure that you were safe—that you were okay. He was just worried, that’s all.

After the three alternating turns and the two highways you drove, the road the two were driving at started to get steeper. The cars and other transportation devices started to lessen and lessen. Yuuta feels the sweat start to drip down his neck, the helmet he wears starts to loosen, while he continues to push down all the weight of his body on his seat to control himself. He sees your car get faster than a lightning speed, your car evoking a loud screeching sound. 

What the actual fuck were you trying to do?

You seemed frantic, displayed through your driving. In a matter of seconds, you started to lose control of your car. Yuuta watches your car fishtail like a wild animal, spinning repeatedly until you hit a light post. 

He feels the adrenaline rush through his veins, as he pushes his motorcycle behind you. The exhilaration overcame his body’s fatigue from the extensive, one-sided pursuit. The reverberation of the screeching continued to pierce the tranquility of the road, resonating in the middle of almost nowhere. Yuuta feels his heart race, but not because he's in love with you; rather, it’s because he worries you got seriously hurt. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Yuuta mutters to himself as he sees dust erupt from your car’s tires, casting a cloud that obscured his view of you. He catches up to your swerved car, him haphazardly pushing down on his rear brake pedal. “What the fuck happened?”

He cautiously approached your car, his heart stuttering against his ribs. Yuuta peers through your car’s cracked window, only to see head laid on your headrest with your eyes closed. His gut wrenches at the sight of the blood seeping through the wound on your forehead; fortunately, the cut wasn’t too big, but it was deep.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

a/n: will post other parts to this!! planning to make this multichaptered?? I JUST LOVE YUTAAAAAA.....the brainrot is so bad imnfdndsbhjhbascdhjdajchhjajksjkjsdkdnwkejkdjw pls lmk what u think <33

[coryosbaby]

Thinkin’ of Anakin with a Ditzy Girlfriend Who Completely Forgets Everything <333

Frustration ebbs as you remember that you completely forgot to wash Anakin’s shirt for work tomorrow. He sits next to you in your shared bed, watching the way your plump lips turn into a pout and your lashes form crystalline tears.

It’s not uncommon for this to happen; you’re a sensitive girl, a delicate little thing, as Anakin always says, and when your memory jogs you always feel terrible about forgetting. He pulls you against him, wiping your tears away with his thumbs.

“It’s okay, baby, ‘m not mad at you. It’s not a big deal.”

“B-But it is! I always forget. Now you can’t wear your favorite shirt tomorrow…”

So considerate. So precious. That’s what Anakin thinks as you sniffle into his neck, your tiny hands grabbing onto the drawstring of his sleep pants in frustration. He smiles, regardless of your tears, because he knows you just want to make him proud. He kisses your head, taking note of the ribbons you love to wear so proudly in your hair.

And that’s when, a couple of thoughts later, Anakin gets the idea.

He pulls one of those ribbons from your hair. Your brows furrow as you pull away.

“What’re you doin’ Ani?”

“Hush, baby. Jus’ helping you.”

He grabs something from the bedside table, a hot pink ballpoint pen with tiny hearts decorating the expanse of it. It’s your favorite pen, one you use to do crosswords and write little poems for Anakin when you’re feeling extra sentimental. He leans over to the table, places the ribbon down, and begins to write.

You lean on his shoulder, trying to get a peek of what the man is writing, but he’s done before you can even try to read it. He shows it to you, his handwriting messy but predominantly Anakin so you find it completely endearing.

𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛: 𝚆𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝙰𝚗𝚒’𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

He grabs your finger, much to your confused face, and wraps it around your index finger. He ties it into a little bow, and presses a kiss to it.

“There. Now everytime you forget something, you can look at these and remember.”

And that’s how it is from then on: your fingers are always covered in pretty bows, some color coordinated to the outfits you let Ani pick out for you, some just plain and pink. There are times when Anakin loves to write sweet little messages. Things like, “Remember: Ani loves you” or “Remember: Ani’s gonna marry you one day”. It should be hard to carry those around on your fingers all day, but Anakin does most of life’s work for you. His friends know when “Anakin’s girl” comes in to greet him at work because of the trail of ribbons that follow behind the ditzy girl in the tiny skirt. Ribbons stay strewn around the house, smelling of your perfume or with tiny pieces of your hair woven in between them. But Anakin wouldn’t have it any other way <3