#one just has a more slick shiny bag

[whorekneecentral]

Your Pick

Fernando Alonso x Fem!Reader

Warnings: pr!reader, a bit of an age gap (reader is mid twenties) randomness from nando's end, unspoken feelings until now, thigh riding, penetrative sex (p in v), a bit of teasing, praise kink go burrrr, creampie.

Word Count: 2,358

Author's Note: I literally only picked the middle pic for @oconso, it was for her. you’re welcome.

merry smutmas series

--

Fernando enlists the help of a certain someone to get his Christmas shopping done but the list is oddly familiar.

A charity event that Fernando attended every year, some sort of mission for children and their dream of being a driver. Fernando gave them an afternoon of his time, indulging them in all of their questions and stories, sharing some of his own as well.

You were, of course, right there with him. You weren't needed for this event exactly but as his press officer, you followed him. Sebastian often joked when he saw you that you were to Fernando what Britta is to him; except for the fact that you are much younger and hadn't been with Fernando for as long.

The idea was the same, you did everything for him. From making sure he gets there on time to meeting fans and signing everything he can.

At some point during the long event, Fernando asks you if you can do him a favour, handing you a piece of paper.

"I need to pick up some stuff, you can take my car. Oh and my card." He tells you, fishing the keys and his card out of his pocket to hand it over to you.

The keys to his Aston in your hand, along with the card and a list with some words scribbled along the lines, both in English and Spanish. You'd just have to figure it out along the way.

"You don't need me to stay?" You asked, looking between the list and the man. Fernando shook his head, "I'm good here. You should be done by the time I'm done here, no?"

"Probably."

"Come back when you're done, I'll wait for you."

You nodded, telling him you'd text him when you're done before you head out. The car beeps when you press the unlock button, a slick, shiny grey DBX 707 sat in the parking lot. You smiled to yourself, getting into the car and shutting the door.

The list sat on your lap, you looked over the things on the list and the places you'd get to go.

First stop on the list was Chanel; a Chanel classic with the double flap in Tiffany blue. It was stunning, Fernando had dotted down that he wanted it in the medium size. You were surprised he even knew what that meant.

His card beeped on the machine, the woman smiles as she hands the bag over to you. You carry it as you walk down the street to Christian Louboutin.

Purses, clothes and shows lined the walls, you felt like you were underdressed but the massive Chanel bag you were carrying fit you right in with the other rich people in the store.

You asked the woman for the shoes that he had written down; so Kate 120 in black, size 8.

You waited for her to bring them back. "Would you like to try them on, miss?" The woman asks, the slick box in her hands. You shook your head, "that's alright, thank you."

"Is this all?" She smiles, and you nod. The woman leads you to the front, doubling checking the sizes of the shoes and packaging it up into the brown bag.

There's one more place on the list that you've got to stop; Dior.

It's a few minutes drive from where you were, you leave the other bags in the car and head into the store. Fernando has listed that he was looking for the Miss Dior perfume. You look around a bit, stopping at the back to look at the wall of fragrances they had set up. You look closely and carefully and still you don't see the one that Fernando had wanted.

You reach for your phone, texting the man.

To Fernando: Hey, they don't have the perfume you wanted.

From Fernando: Which one was that again?

To Fernando: Miss Dior.

From Fernando: Just pick another one.

To Fernando: Any one?

From Fernando: Yeah, you have good taste. I trust your judgement.

You reply with a thumbs up and decide to look for something that you liked. It was a bit odd that Fernando sent you out like this, he did it often but never like this. He was never one to have you shop for someone who was clearly a woman. She must be important to him if he's spending so much on her.

You ended up picking out Dior Addict in place of Miss Dior. This one had the same jasmine scent with more of a vanilla undertone. You pay and take the bag from the man at the counter with a smile.

Getting back into the car, you reach over and set the bag with the others. You texted Fernando to let him know that you were on your way back, to which he replied with a thumbs up emoji.

It was a 20 minutes drive back to where he was, and once you arrived, you waited in the car for him. You were scrolling through your phone when a tap on the window startled you.

Looking over, you see Fernando. You wind down the window, "uber for Fernando ?" He asks, a cheeky grin on his face.

You roll your eyes. "Haha," you say flatly. "Do you want to drive?" You look over at him and he shakes his head, walking around to get into the passenger seat. Fernando lifts your purse, setting it on his lap carefully.

"Where to then?" You look over at him, yet again. "Home?

"Yours," he says, looking through your purse.

"Stop that," you smack his arms, turning the key to start the engine. The car purrs in response, a sound only luxury cars have.

"Do you have gum?" He asks, still looking.

"Front pocket," you inform him, heading towards your place. It didn't strike you as odd to be heading to yours. Fernando often picked you up so you just assumed you'd get home and then he'd head out to his place.

What did strike you as odd was Fernando taking the bags out of the car and following you up the stairs to your front door. "What are you doing?" You turned, clearly confused.

"Go on, I need to come in."

"What if I don't want you to come in?" Your question made him laugh, the man shaking his head. "Just go," he tells you, knowing you're just being difficult.

You unlock the door and walk in, Fernando sets the bags in the living room and makes himself comfortable on the couch. He had been to your place before it wasn't like it was awkward or anything. You just weren't sure why he wanted to come in.

"Want some coffee?" You called from the kitchen, filling the kettle. "Tea would be nice," he calls back.

You shake your head, setting two mugs on the counter. "I didn't offer any tea."

"I'm suggesting it then." He leans over the back of the couch, smiling at you. You roll your eyes, dropping the teabag in the cup while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Finding your way over to the living room, you sit on the floor by the couch. Fernando sets the bags on the floor next to you and you assumed that he was making space for you on the couch but instead spoke; "show me what you got."

The statement left you a bit confused, he had given you a list, of course he knew what was on it but you indulged, taking the stuff out of the bags.

You have them set on the floor in front of you, Fernando watches as you show him each thing carefully, not wanting to scuff or damage them.

"Do you like them?" He asks and you nod, "I do. Just a bit confused though," you look up at the man.

"Why's that?"

"Well.. you've always been the type of guy who shops for their women themselves so it just struck me as odd that you asked me to shop and pick up.. this."

Fernando smiles, "well I was busy and she's an important person to me, perhaps the most important."

You raise an eyebrow, looking at the driver. "Ohhhh okay.. so you have a girlfriend? C'mon, tell me, tell meeeee!" You nudged his knee, propping your elbow up on the couch as you turned your attention to him.

He doesn't say anything, he just smiles at you. This time was different; it wasn't playfully or teasing, there was something sincere about the way he looked at you.

It takes you a moment but you finally speak, "what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"The stuff is for you." He says and you look at him, clearly confused.

"You made me shop for my own Christmas gift? Fernando, that's.." It hits you at once, all the things he had listed were things you had mentioned to him that you liked over the last year or so.

Your hands covered your mouth, looking at him in shock. "Fernando, oh my god.. no." You shook your head, "this is too much."

"It's not," he rests his hand on yours, "you've been by my side for as long as I can remember, you do everything for me. You're the only person I trust and well.. love. You deserve this and so much more."

"It's a lot," you whisper and the man hushes you, letting you pull him into a hug. "Thank you." You whisper yet again, unsure how to repay him for his kindness; you knew you didn't have too, seeing that it was a Christmas gift but still.

Fernando's hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your skin softly. He smiles at you, wondering how he got so lucky. Not everyone gets to have someone they love in their life and he was lucky enough to find that in you.

You can't help it, it was like instinct. Shifting onto your knees when you reach up, your hand wrapping around his wrist to pull him closer, your lips on his.

A part of you thinks he's not gonna react and pretend it never happened and the other part of you expected him to push you away but he did neither.

Instead, he kissed you back.

He helps you up off the floor and onto his lap, having you settle on his lap. "Let me take care of you," he says, his hand cupping your face, finally pulling away from the kiss.

"Yeah," you lean into him once again. You stay in his lap, Fernando pushes the skirt you had on up a bit, shifting you onto his thigh.

His hands rest on your hips, rocking you on his thigh; back and forth very slowly. His head leaned back and he lifted his leg slightly. The sudden change caused you to slide forward, clit rubbing against the denim fabric under you.

The sound that left your mouth was like heaven on earth to him.

“So beautiful,” he coos, pushing your hair back off your shoulders. “So good for me.”

You nod, pushing down on his thigh a little harder. “Let me hear all those pretty sounds, you don’t have to be quiet, mi vida.”

Little by little, your top and bra ended up on the floor along with Fernando's shirt. Your hands ran over his shoulders, down his biceps to his forearms.

His fingers creeped up under the hem of your skirt, "I've been waiting to have you to myself."

"Why's that?" You shift a bit to look at him, an arm over his shoulders as you look at him.

“Because I’m gonna ruin all that pretty makeup," he whispers to you, pulling you for a kiss.

It only spiralled from there; hands all over each other, clothes being tugged and pulled on. You’re both impatient, wanting more than you can get too at the moment. 

Fernando scoots you back on his lap, undoing his pants as your skirt gets pushed up on your hips, panties pulled to the side before you sink down onto his cock.

He bucks his hips and your nails drop down from his shoulders to the scratches along his back. He lets out a groan, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

"Oh god," you mumble, thighs on either side of the man as you roll your hips, arms over his shoulders. One of your hands tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, giving it a solid tug.

Fernando tilts his head back, a soft groan slipping from his lips when he feels your own lips meet his skin.

“Fuck, do that again.” He mumbles, feeling you clench around him. Soon enough he can feel your hands on his shoulders, letting you set your own pace, bouncing on his cock as your nails dug into the back of his shoulders; surely leaving behind red marks. 

His own hands digging into your hips hard enough to leave behind their own marks but that was the least of your concern right now. 

“Fernando,” you whimper, forehead pressed to his.

He feels you clench around him, your hips stuttering and he knows you’re close. His hand moving from your mouth to between the two of you, fingers rubbing circles over your clit and your head falls onto his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sounds slipping past your lips. 

He rests a hand behind your neck, pulling you back slightly.  “Look at me,” he tells you, kissing you softly. You both knew the other was equally as close, orgasm on the verge of happening. His hand shifted to grab your chin, pulling your focus back to him. “Look at me when you cum.” 

His words were enough to push you over the edge, Fernando following quickly after you. 

You fall flat against him and Fernando lets you sit on top of him for a bit, his hand rubbing around your back softly, fingers tracing random patterns into your skin.

"You okay?" He whispers and you nod, sitting up a bit to look at him. "What?" He asks, seeing the look on your face.

"How did you know my sizes? You know.. for the gifts."

He smiles, kissing your shoulder. "I pay attention, you know."

---

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[suguruspit]

begging for you

18+ MDNI!! // Choso x reader, vampire!Choso

cw; blood mention (vamp related not graphic!), begging, oral (reader receiving), overstimulation (choso)

summary: after intense battles choso needs to replenish blood, something he finds no particular pleasure in until he finds you. he makes sure you get something out of it, and he loves you. <3

Choso was a patient man- half man? He still wasn’t sure what he technically classed as, as if it mattered. Being born to a half curse had its side-effects, not to mention existing as a cursed womb death painting for over a hundred years before being able to stretch his legs. His brothers manifested in ways that made them outwardly more ‘cursed’, whereas he seemed to have settled into his body quite well. 

Noritoshi Kamo possessed the Blood Manipulation technique, it was inherited and therefore part of the body, meaning Kenjaku had been able to pass it down to him. Blood Manipulation, as it seems, is a lot more complicated than simply telling your blood where to go. Using blood in battle has its setbacks, and if the opponent is smart, they won’t let the fluid return to your body. 

Which means, in short, Choso needs to replenish it in less than conventional ways. 

There’s the traditional blood bags which he used to get Kechizu to steal off the back of the transportation vans, preying on smaller animals which tasted rotten and gamey, or… feeding off of humans. 

Choso likes humans, they can be misguided and psychopathic but that's the minority of them, and he’s half-human himself so he has a sense of some connection to them, which means he doesn’t prefer the final method as it isn’t in his ideals to harm another human when there isn’t necessity to do so. 

Unfortunately, though, it happens to be the best way to replenish his blood and feed his strength after battle. What’s fortunate, though, is he met you. Who doesn’t seem to mind this affliction of his at all.

However, as patient as he is, as intelligent as he is, when it comes to you that just isn't the case/

"Fuck," Choso breathes, taking in the sight below him. You were both on your bed because it was twice the size of the one Jujutsu Tech gave him. Your hair was fanned out across the pillows, legs spread with your knees half up as you caught your breath. "S'good for me."

You whine, hands covering your eyes in embarrassment as Choso just hovers above you, staring, admiring his handy work. Pink, angry marks shiny with spit were dotted across your thighs and stomach, leading up to your chest where they tapered off into nip marks instead.

Choso can never get enough. He's greedy, he knows that he just doesn't deserve any of this but you're here, you're with him. So perfect, angelic, his savior.

"Cho?" You ask quietly, not wanting to spook him out of whatever he's got on his mind, but your thighs are grinding together and you can feel your own slick sticking them together. "You okay baby?"

"Can I touch you?" Choso answers in a whisper, hands ghosting above your breasts as his scar starts to leak pin-pricks of blood on his nose as he gets flustered.

"You already have been," You laugh breathlessly, but you take his hand anyway and guide it to your chest, letting out a quiet moan as he squeezes gently, smoothing his thumb over the soft flesh of it.

He leans down before taking a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking gently, his eyes rolling back at the noises you make for him. He ruts his hips against the sheets and whines around his mouthful, making you bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

"Fuck, don't," Choso whines, his cool forehead leaning against the warmth of your stomach. His hand is moving quickly beneath you, and you feel heat stir in you at the realisation of what that means.

Your blood hangs in the air, a scent of metal and arousal, and Choso begs you to let him have it, let him earn it.

This leads to him desperately eating you out, tongue lapping up every trace of your taste that he can, whining whilst he does it and humping the mattress. Choso loves tasting you, something about it is so addicting, and he can't decide if he loves that more or the refreshing blood that flows through your veins, the blood that spills out fresh and warm onto his tongue when he bites down as you flutter around him.

Just the thought of it has him panting on to you, he sits up to press a thumb to your clit, rubbing gentle circles as he grunts above you, spilling his own release onto the bed.

You laugh breathlessly in between moans as you feel that familiar coil of heat in your stomach, and your thighs twitch at each circle of his fingers. Always so eager to please you he can never last.

"You're so beautiful," Choso moans out, cheeks pink and scar open and flowing now. He's rutting into the air, before he looks at you and lets his fangs drop so that they're denting his bottom lip. "Can I? I'll be good, I promise, princess. I'll be good for you."

You spread your legs with a groan, reaching out to take his hand as he frames over you, holding your hand and pushing inside, both of you groaning at the stretch.

"Oh god," Choso whimpers, hand gripping yours like his life depends on it. Blood from his nose drips onto your chest and flows like a slowing river down your stomach to join the mess you're both making. "You're so perfect."

"Fuck, Cho," You whimper. He's so big and the burning stretch as he starts a rhythm is just so good. He's so beautiful like this, thin bangs sticking to him with sweat and cheeks flushed a pretty pink making his nose scar stand out with a beautiful crimson. "So good for me, won't last baby, wanted you too much." You confess, hoping he can feel how desperate you really are, your slick already dripping on the bed and mixing with his come from earlier and that trail of blood.

Choso whines, rutting his hips into you, his rhythm failing slightly as you tighten around him. So close. He pants, before biting his lip and doubling his efforts, hips snapping and fucking into you roughly as you cry out against the pillows.

His index finger finds your clit again, sliding as your slick makes it slippery and wet. That band is getting tighter and tighter, but he hasn't bitten you yet, and you know that's what he needs.

"Cho, baby," You pant out, your hand reaches out to brush against his lips, catching his fangs slightly at the with-draw, making him whine and stutter his hips. "M'close, bite me, please, need you to." It's more of an incoherent babble, but you know he must get the message because he closes his eyes, tears leaking out from overstimulation before he finally leans down into your neck.

You can feel the tears drip down and cool your hot skin, and you bite your lip in anticipation. You really wanted to wait, to make the whole thing longer but you were so so close you felt like crying yourself, he was hitting all the right spots with such confidence and still abusing your clit which hurt just right.

"Can I?" Choso begs against your neck, breath ghosting against your jugular and you feel feverish. He's close, leaking impossibly inside you as he asks your permission. "Please, can't wait. Please."

"Yes!" You cry out, feeling yourself slip over that supernova of an edge, your walls flutter around him, pulling him in even tighter as your release coats him, creamy and wet and making you so tight that Choso sobs out against your neck.

His tongue teases your neck, following your vein before he lets out a prayer and a thank you and finally, finally, sinks his teeth into your warm and waiting flesh.

You gasp and whimper as it sets of a second wave of your orgasm, and you feel your vision go white. Choso is groaning and sobbing as he sucks your blood into his waiting mouth, his hips snapping up twice before he's coming hard, his hips humping you almost as it comes and comes. You feel it flowing down your thighs and your eyes slip close as you just let him have his way, knowing how much better he's going to feel in a minute.

It's not like you don't get anything out of this. Secretly, you hope he's off on another mission soon if it means this is the gift you get on his return.

-----------

sorry that i dropped a singular fic and left for months I was getting over my embarrasment

[ellsbclls]

can’t stop thinking about ellie finding a strap while she’s on patrol . . . ( 18+ minors please for the love of god don’t interact )

stumbles upon this desolate ‘adult world’ where, in an odd and rare display of post-apocalyptic serendipity, it’s last breath clings to the still blinking open sign. waves at her with red and blue fingers that say “we’ve got what you need!” and while jesse flattens a wrinkled maid costume against his lean frame, she manages to stuff the harness into her bag before he could see it and give her a whole patrol’s worth of regret

can’t stop thinking about how shy she gets when she first brings it up to you, because there are a slew of things that ellie is, and shy has never been one of them. so it ticks you off at first, puts you into high gear, squares your shoulders and tightens your spine until you finally see what she’s talking about — long, and girthy, and so shiny that the fluorescents drown out the pseudo-veins. the only reason you laugh is because you’re trying to cover a flustered sigh.

can’t stop thinking about ellie making a home between your thighs. one arm hooked around the dip where your tummy meets your leg, thumb stroking against your clit, sending you up the fucking wall with how feather light her touch is. absent minded. and the other is pulling at your lip , clearing a path for her tongue to lap at your folds, your sweet little hole, all nice and lazy with it . she’d be at it for minutes, hours, fucking days if that’s what it took to make you wet enough for her, all “gotta make sure you can take it, bug.” and “you can barely take my fingers, know you’re gonna strangle this fucking cock.” know your pussy just drools with a mixture of her spit and your own slick, to the point where her chin is painted in it, her throat, hell — the collar of her wife beater.

can’t stop thinking about when she finally puts it in. how you had to beg her, give her a flash of those big, wet doe eyes that make her crumble oh so fast, and just like that you’re both fumbling with the dildo. giggling. trying to figure out how the fuck it goes on the harness itself and “if it comes off in the middle of this i’m gonna kill myself .” and “you’re gonna make me finish myself?” but no sooner than you figuring it out does she line herself up. lays a tender kiss behind your knee as you swallow the tip and murmur a low “it’s so big, els. it’s too fucking big” and she nearly fucking stops. the furrow in your brows and the waver in your voice is enough to make her go into fight or flight, but you lock eyes with her and you’re anything but scared. hell, you’re somewhere else, hazy and sated with enough love and trust to let her keep going. so she keeps burrowing between those snug little walls, huffs a low “that’s it, that’s my girl.”

cleans the tears littering your cheeks with sweet kisses, and you take the opportunity to coax more out of her, whisper “i’m all yours, show me i’m all yours.” because you feel so fucking full, but you could feel fuller, and with every inch by suffocating inch that stretches you out, lights up every nerve it presses into by the minute, nothing compares to the jolt of lightning that shoots up your spine when her hips stutter. hard. bottoms out in a clean sweep and prompts strangled moans from the both of you.

can’t stop thinking about the slick sound that accompanies her thrusts, from tentative to greedy. how it gets louder when she hooks your knee just over her waist. this wet, sloppy puddle that spreads over your thighs, over her thighs each time she plunges into you, and pulls back with spindles of it tethered together. how it’s drowned out by the raspy little grunts she punches out of you. a part of you wonders what you were so scared about, panting underneath her, teeth bared each time she prods against that devastating spot that you can barely reach on your own because it’s just so fucking perfect

[luveline]

jade, happy new year! id love to request a cute little lunalovegood!reader with sirius. maybe he catches r painting something for him or making him a necklace or something crafty like that

thank you!! sorry this request took some time, I hope you like it | fem!reader ♥︎ 1k

You aren't usually so secretive about your artwork. You aren't especially forward with it either, but when Sirius asks to see what you're working on, whether it be a thumbnail in your sketchbook or the rendering of a huge canvas, you oblige him with one of your funny smiles. 

This one is a different story, evidently. You won't let him see it, citing that it doesn't look perfect yet. 

"My darling," he says, seriously and joking at once, "when has that ever mattered?" To you, between us. 

You tap your nose and duck in for a kiss. Afterward he realises he's been duped, distracted by your bright and shiny lip gloss, your sparkling irises full of promise. He doesn't see the painting for weeks, looking up in the living room to watch your back move as he always does and finding you've closed the door. 

He sits on the sofa with his guitar some nights plucking away at the strings, and other nights he sort of just lies there. He knows how important hobbies are, doesn't deny you your earthly pleasures, but he misses the days where you'd allow him your company. He'd sit on the floor of your small studio for hours if you'd let him, he misses you that much. 

He comes home one night a little earlier than usual, guitar case heavy on his spine, a bag of food shopping in hand. He's gonna make something nice, and he's gonna pry you away from your painting with a crowbar if necessary, and he's going to be honest. I love you and support you but I can't keep on missing you like this, sweet thing. I know your paintings are important to you but I am too, and I need you to make more time for me. 

He has it rehearsed. 

You're humming in the studio (which had been his office, and still houses the majority of his instruments), head bobbing every so slightly. Your hair glows in the afternoon sun, your skin shines. Your shoulders — Sirius swallows. Everytime he sees the back of you he wants to envelope you in a steel-armed hug. To dip his face into the curve of your neck, to breathe in the spritz of your dainty perfume, to fill his hands with your soft abdomen. 

You've left the door open, and when you move to the left to put down your palette on the brown desk he'd gotten for you specifically for moments like this when you need more hands and he's not around, he can see the entirety of your canvas, corner to corner, each lick of oil paint muddied and slick. 

He knows this painting is almost done. There's no first coat of sepia to be seen, no sketchy lines, only full-fleshed shapes and colours. 

It's a painting of him. He admits to thinking he's handsome, but you've made him beautiful. You've painted him in one of his better moments, a real smile playing on otherwise smirking lips, his face 3/4ths  eyelashes thick and pointed leftward, off the canvas. He would guess that he's looking at you. He's never looked at anyone else like that. 

It has emotion like a flood welling inside him, creeping slowly up and up from the core of his aching stomach to his lips. He can't stop himself. 

"Sweetheart," he says, clearing his throat as subtly as he can, "my girl. Why didn't you tell me?"

You're predictable even now, you don't jump in startled shock, or try to close the door between you. You finish squeezing out a blob of cadmium yellow paint and wipe the mouth of the bottle against your palette, paint covered fingers screwing on the cap with a slow precision. He loves the way you move, is enchanted as you lay down the tube of paint and meet his eyes. 

"It's a surprise, Siri. If I tell you, that makes it not a surprise." You smile at him, lifting your chin, and Sirius has no choice but to use the word adorable. You look adorable, eyes shiny and smile soft. "Surprise, sweetheart." 

"It's your best work," he says honestly. 

"I know." You take up your paintbrush, dip it into the small blob of yellow, and bend to start painting again. 

He remembers what he'd wanted to talk to you about and slides his guitar case carefully off of his back, hand extended as he approaches you, placing his warm palm against the small of your back. 

His lips part, the beginning of his speech on the end of his tongue, when you bounce backward and smile. 

"Done," you say. 

He squints at the bottom of the canvas, where you've signed your name over his painted heart. It's an astute place to put it. 

"How much paint do you have on you, my darling?" he asks. 

You flare your lashes and peel out of the cream, paint-dappled apron you'd been wearing. You pour a little of white spirit in your hands to his displeasure and wipe them together, drying the resulting oil on your apron. He wonders how you've survived this long, and wants to harp about spontaneous combustion, but you're weaving your arms around his waist with a heaving sigh, your pert smile, your lovely nose, rubbing into his front indulgently. 

He sighs, satisfied, and kisses your forehead. His arms settle around you familiarly, forearm straight across your shoulders. In his head, he swears he can feel the knot there from your hunched painting stature. He promises to investigate later. 

"I'm so glad you like it," you say. 

"I haven't told you I like it," Sirius says quietly, eyes closed in the bliss of being near you. 

"Oh, sorry," you mumble, not too sorry after all, "just thought, from the hug…" 

You're thinking correctly. Of course you'd read him like that. You don't need words to know how he's feeling, you never have. 

"I love it. Your talent never fails to impress me," he says. 

You peel away from his chest, take his clean face into your sullied palms, and cradle him like water in your hands, heels touching under his chin. Your fingertips dance over his stubble, and you meet his eyes and beam. 

"I love when you make that face," you say. 

He looks exactly like the painting. Stupidly in love. 

[aliasrocket]

Hey guys! Due to some … activity on the Rocket server I’m a little inspired to write a long fic (abt maybe 20k words long??? And I wanna post the whole thing in one shot so it will take a while) but wanted to see if you guys are up to the idea first.

I’ll let you guess what this is about, results are gonna be at the end of the fic—and it would be really helpful if you guys told me if you liked it so I know to write it!

He doesn’t really know how it happened.

No, it wasn’t a blur—more like vivid pictures worth 2 seconds of vague context, nothing beyond in a club, sitting at the side or watching other people getting it on.

At this point, he has to tell himself he’s not doing it for sport, it’s not that simple. Can’t be, right? There’s lot’s of assholes in the galaxy.

And then, there’s that pesky little voice in his head, nicking the insides of his skull, hissing, well, you killed the ones that mattered already.

Rocket lifts his drink to his lips and sips. He’s not looking at something in the club, though his eyes were to the ceiling on the other side of the room.

And then … nothing.

Nothing, and suddenly he’d in this black fitting cloak with a belts strapped from his shoulder blades to his collar bones and platform boots so chunky he almost passes off as your regular alien.

There’s a lot of dust by the stairs of your apartment, but there’s also a lot of crying.

Not yours, though.

Yes, one of his vivid snapshots had brought back another friend you were holding behind your back, clutching her chest with her shoulders up to her jaw.

Rocket shook his head. Oh, this is horrible. How often do you keep your wall to wall window open? And with the lights on so bright too? What if a creep had followed you back to your place? What are you to do then?

Your friend stands up from your bed, which was up against your window so Rocket had front row seats. Your hand rubbed her back the whole time, supporting her when she stood and when she took her bag to leave. Oh, shit, you’re leaving.

Rocket dove for shelter as you and your friend were down the stairs in less than five seconds, and you had called her a ride back. A wave, and you’re back on your phone while you walk up the stairs.

Oh, silly, silly you. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?

Rocket turned to leave, but before he could even take the first step, he found rusty spot in his neck—a certain pivot of it that he had to get rid of, an itch to eradicate, and now he was facing your orange-lit window again.

You had just closed the door and entered. Still on your phone. The different ways he could have you, if you were going to be so careless. He could have dreams of them.

He willed himself to take another step. A foot forward.

And that’s as far as he got. His head turned right back around, drawn to your glowing window, and it had occurred to him that the itch wasn’t in his neck.

It was in that window.

That lovely, luminous window displaying you in your barely-even-shorts shorts, your oversized t-shirt and your bare legs.

Naturally, Rocket was at your door five seconds after you had propped your legs up in a certain way on your bed. He wanted patiently, a little pin-like gadget in his hand so shiny, covered in nothing but his nail marks.

Inside, he heard another door close. The cluster of buildings in this area were one room apartments; that was the bathroom he heard.

A few taps and jabs with his lock-picker and the door opened with a pop. His gadget folded inwards as he pocketed it, his heel the first to make contact with your floor, then the rest slipped in, a shadow slick on your walls and closing the door behind him.

The first thing that made him dizzy was the faint vanilla scent coming from your bed. There were many crumples on your sheets, and your pillows had been piled on top of one another like you were rushing to ruin your bed.

You were out of the bathroom quicker than he anticipated. Not to worry though, you switched off the light right after and Rocket had already set up camp in the darkest corner. Spiders fled their homes in his arrival.

You got into bed, wiggling for a few solid minutes into the right, the perfect position that had you curled up in your thick sheets and pillows. They’re all white, like snow laying you down in its bed. It’s a real shame, though; he’s willing to bed blood doesn’t look half as flattering on white sheets.

He rose from his corner. The moon giving him a spotlight, lining his every move toward you. His hand was quick to flip his knife in the air, twirling it around his fingers—he’d cut himself if he wasn’t careful, an it was made clear by the main thin slashes on his gloves. The 120 is large for someone his size.

He finally clasped it in his fist, but the closer he got, the thicker the vanilla scent needled his nose.

Your chest moved, in out, in out. Slow. Your shirt was still too large on you, but as gravity would have it, your waist had been perfectly defined against the glint of the moonlight.

Strange.

He imagined starting at your waist.

And, he imagined … nothing.

Nothing came up, it was all white. Blurry. Where he would usually see blood and guys forming a small heart on the bed, he saw you, sleeping your hair falling to your forehead and your eyelashes fluttering.

Your eyelash fluttered and they fluttered up, and up and up—

And just like that, shot dead by a flinch and a wide-eyed look.

it’s a ghostface rocket au guys! @toiletpaperchick brought it up in the server and if I’m not wrong @glow-autumz will be posting some art soon hehehhehehehhehehhehehhehehe anyways this has consumed and rotted in my head for far too long, and I need to know if this will be worth it. I hoped you enjoyed as always, I’ll be back in november <33

[philtstone]

Kundavai Nandini bitch

whos ready for another round of perfectly stupid barely plot-coherent modern road trip fix it au. please dont take this seriously, as i didnt. this verse probably would have worked more smoothly if i wrote it in chronological order but instead. i didn't do that. thanks 2 maya for helping me decide the funniest option at every juncture. a sequel to this fic, if you're interested enjoy

“It’s just, legally speaking, this looks quite a lot like a kidnapping.”

“Oh, please. Legally. This is a family matter.”

“Which, I feel obliged to point out, has resulted in kidnapping.”

“Hm,” says Aditha, rubbing at his chin and looking down.

“I guess I could see your point of view, Nambi,” allows Vandiyadevan, tilting his head such that his floppy brimmed disguise hat sits at a jaunty angle. He takes another bite from the open aluminum package of Magic Masala Lays. “We’ve got him in a van and everything.”

“Thank you,” says the older man proudly. “It is not often you concede my point.”

“My van is a very nice van,” says Poonguzhali at the same time, sounding somewhat aggrieved.

The young fellow in the trunk of Poonghuzai’s van continues to sit slumped, and unconscious. They observe his slicked back hair, thick with pomade, and his rather inadvisable moustache.

“How hard did we hit him on the head, anyway? Poor guy looks like he won’t wake up for a while.”

Nambi makes a faintly regretful face, eyeing his thick walking stick and rubbing his ample belly.

“It is not my fault God has made me so strong,” he says.

“Be real,” says Vandiyadevan, who must begrudgingly acknowledge that it wasn’t a terrible decision to call up Nambi, after all. “You’re not even the one who knocked him.”

They turn to the willowy figure who stands proudly to the side with her hands clasped tight around Nambi’s co-opted walking stick. Her long silver hair flutters, unbraided and somewhat naiadic, around her face. Her feet are bare, despite the fact that they are standing on paved sidewalk behind a very large and shiny building. She is wearing four bead bracelets on one wrist – there had not been time to distribute them before enacting The Intervention. Mandakini smiles sweetly at them. The lines around her overlarge eyes crease and dance. The head of their kidnapped man lolls downwards a bit.

Aditha returns her smile, awkward but encouraging; Vandiyadevan rubs with consternation at the back of his own neck.

“Madhurantakan will be fine,” Arunmozhi, who has been deep in contemplation (or maybe just a little stunned) til now, decides firmly. “The pomade will have eased the blow. You know what I’ll do? I’ll fetch one of Vanathi’s juice boxes so he’s got something to wake up to.” 

He speaks with such authority that the others cannot help but feel comforted. Vandiyadevan says,

“It’s a good thing Arunmozhi lugs all those juice boxes around for her, isn’t it,” as his friend indeed goes to fetch the refreshment in question, “Madhurantakan doesn’t even have diabetes.”

“Only that terrible moustache,” Poonguzhali agrees. 

“And to think,” sighs Nambi, “when we set out this morning, it was to pimp out our friend Vandiyadevan for the greater good. Truly, Lord Vishnu works great mysteries.”

“I wonder how the girls are doing,” Poonguzhali says pointedly, as, while Aditha groans, Vandiyadevan pours the remainder of the chip bag upon Nambi’s head.

**

It was, in matter of fact, quite early in the morning when the collective began arguing over Vandiyadevan’s virtue. At this point in the day, they had not yet kidnapped anyone.

“It won’t be difficult,” Nandini is saying, with a serene, if perhaps calculated, shrug. “I do it all the time. I have about twelve on rotation just now.”

She is sitting perched, even lounging, against the cramped fabric upholstery of the van’s leftmost window seat, as if it was the chaise of an ancient royal mistress. Vandiyadevan is a clever enough man; he can see where Nandini is going with this. After two weeks on the road, and the transformative power of meeting one’s mother, even the most vindictive of lonely people – Vandiyadevan opines, with great and compassionate wisdom – can thaw out a good deal. He was there (well, trapped in the toilet and unable to emerge lest he ruin the moment) to overhear the quiet tears of relief which Nandini shed against Aditha’s shoulder four nights ago, after everyone else was asleep. Neither of them seem inclined to even remotely acknowledge it in the light of day, but that’s none of Vandiyadevan’s business. What is his business is that Nandini has just declared she will save Chola Incorporated by seducing the siblings’ idiot cousin, and by God, Vandiyadevan can’t say it’s not sort of a good idea.

At the moment, though, he’s quite hungry, and so his nimble intellect is more focused on the possibility of a packet of Blue Lays, which he thinks might be in the glove compartment of the P Investigator, Lady Detective van – just in front of him. It could be his, if only he could get past Poonguzhali’s sharp looks. She is giving quite a few of them today – when she isn’t looking fondly at Arunmozhi, that is. Vandiyadevan sighs. Yes yes, it is her van of course, and therefore her chips, but seeing as they are a reconciled team now, very deep into their quest …

“And they really don’t mind that you never follow up on your promises?”

Vanathi, Kundavai’s sweetly bespectacled personal assistant, asks this in a tremulous voice. She, too, has been looking fondly at Arunmozhi all afternoon, though perhaps more secretively. If you could call her enormous doe-eyes secretive. Vandiyadevan would think it all very silly, but then, Arunmozhi does inspire the fondest of looks on a day to day basis, even when he’s wearing that bucket hat his older sister dislikes so. He’s just that kind of fellow. In answer to Vanathi, Nandini holds out her phone, with the contacts page open, to illustrate her long roster of – rather happily, it seems – strung-along men. They all lean in as one, jostling one another in the cramped confines of the van’s interior, to peruse properly.

“CEO … tech billionaire … Rajinikant?” 

“The superstar?” 

“Thalaiva?” 

Nandini wrinkles her nose, shrugging, and wags one delicate hand back and forth so-so; someone squawks loudly and happily (it must be Poonguzhali), which is a sound loud enough to cover the small pathetic choking noise that seems to come from Aditha’s general direction.

“He’s the one who looks like our treacherous uncle, isn’t he.”

“You just think that because they are both old.” 

“God, he is so bald. Uncle has his hair, at least.”

“Tatta thinks that it is a toupee. He told me so two months ago, at the poetry reading.”

“Hey, be quiet a moment – someone give Aditha a juice box, he looks ill. Is that a sandwich shop owner in there?”

Vanathi had been the helpful soul who wired the crores necessary to Arunmozhi in Thanjai when they needed to bail their previously missing person — Nandini’s long lost mother and Arunmozhi’s enigmatic friend — out of jail. She reads aloud the contact name: “Arjina’s Super Sandwich Speedy Fast N Go”

“I get hungry sometimes,” Nandini says, twirling one lock of glossy raven hair around her finger. Vanathi rubs at her forehead, adjusts her spectacles twice, and shakes her head a little, allowing,

“It must be very nice to have easy access to a good sandwich whenever you like.”

Poonguzhali is by this point wheezing with glee; Vandiyadevan wonders if she is still thinking of Thalaiva’s terribly bald head. Does Nandini’s effortless ruse involve assuring him that it is not, in fact, so hairless?

“Oooh,” snaps Kundavai. Nandini’s chin lifts upward immediately, “Vanathi, we must aspire to be strong and resourceful women. You can make your own sandwiches, can’t you?”

Kundavai began this conference looking as if she may finally be willing to admit she and Nandini’s forced cohabitation of dumpish motel room had not been the end of the world. She looks now as if she has sucked upon a particularly bitter lemon. Vandiyadevan takes a moment to appreciate, absently, the particular radiance with which the corners of her mouth pinch and pucker in judgmental annoyance. Then he remembers between whom he’s sitting, and pulls himself together. Arunmozhi is nodding with philosophical curiosity and pausing every few minutes to sign the newest developments in their consultation to Mandakini, who is sitting in the backseat, making bead bracelets with the craft materials she discovered in Aditha’s messenger bag. Aditha (who, it might be noted, possesses quite an impressive head of hair) does indeed look like he is going to be sick. He does not seem to want to give this fact away, and so persistently looks at the ceiling of the van, and when asked about it, claims in a strained voice that he has spotted a small lizard, which they must immediately expel from the vehicle. No one quite buys this, but no one feels the need to expose him either.

Vanathi must crane her slender neck somewhat painfully so as to properly peruse the details of Nandini’s phone messages. They really are diverting; the girl’s rose coloured lips part in a soft and open oh of morbid curiosity, her luminous brown eyes the size of saucers. One of the text strings promises a Benz sometime in the next week. The other is paying for Nandini’s apartment.

“Isn’t that something,” hums Arunmozhi, with pleasant fascination. Vandiyadevan would be inclined agree if Poonguzhali were not looking so impressed. 

“Isn’t it though,” says Poonguzhali, before the gratified Nandini can reply. “Twelve! I can only scam three men at a time. That’s brilliant, that is.”

“That is not brilliant,” Kundavai disagrees. If Vandiyadevan were not so hungry he’d be able to hear her blood pressure rising, just by listening hard enough. Ah, to bask in the lovely tones of her irritated voice … “It’s not anything. We are not going to stop a few buffoons from usurping our family business via seduction.”

Arunmozhi has been very good at keeping them all working together so far, but he makes a slight error in judgment here (Vandiyadevan privately thinks), by taking a quiet breath and starting, gently to his credit, “Akka, just because you are not skilled at a particular art …”

Kundavai shrills with immediacy.

“Ayyo! How could you say that? It is not a matter of skill, it is a matter of principle! We are not seducing our cousin!”

Ah, yes. At this point in the day, they had not yet put their considerable minds together and determined to distract an Uncle or two; the first idea on the table, given that it was Madhurantakan they needed to waylay on his way to the Very Important Board Meeting, was cousin-seduction.

Aditha, who had been focused on the imaginary lizard’s affairs until this interval, seizes his opportunity.

“We are not seducing our cousin,” he clarifies in gritted, authoritative tones. Which is impressive, given that the contents of Nandini’s contacts app seemed to any rational observer to have had temporarily rendered him mute a moment before. 

“No,” says Kundavai, in a manner so uniquely bitchy that only Nandini could have inspired it (Vandiyadevan thinks this with affection and no small amount of dreamy internal sighing), “clearly we are not.” 

“Mmm,” is all Nandini offers, tilting her head just so.

“Surely there is an alternative, indeed clever solution –”

“Yes,” Aditha barrels forward, rather bravely Vandiyadevan thinks, as if neither girl has spoken, “Nandini may do what she wants, of course —“ (there is a tremendous strain to his voice; Kundavai, who had eagerly looked over at the sound of her brother agreeing with her, rolls her eyes with relish) “But how do we know — really — that Madhurantakan is into women? I think Vandiyadevan should go.”

There’s a prolonged moment of silence. Vandiyadevan hears a small crunch beside him, and realizes to his horror that Poonguzhali has snuck out the Magic Masala Lays.

“Eh!” he whispers. It seems for some reason appropriate to whisper. “You sneaky little imp! Share those, why don’t you?”

This unexpected turn of events was clearly not the solidarity Kundavai had in mind. 

“You want to pimp out Vandiyadevan?” she hisses, horrified.

Even Nandini is displeased by this. “I am more than capable of doing this myself!” she says, irritably. “Just because you are jealous –”

“I am not jealous!” Aditha yells, in the voice of a man very clearly jealous. Nandini has turned pink to match her sari. It really is sort of funny, how swiftly her own efforts turn against her.

“Well – let’s lay out all the possibilities, here,” inserts Arunmozhi, helpfully. With his free hand, he takes the bead bracelet Mandakini hands him – she must reach over Kundavai’s shoulder to do so – before starting on the next one. “If Nandini shouldn’t do it, and Vandiyadevan shouldn’t do it –”

Vandiyadevan, who is in the middle of wrestling with Poonguzhali for the chip bag, says, “Sure, I’m game,” without thinking. Kundavai turns a shade of pink to rival Nandini’s; he course corrects, with swiftness, “Or, I mean, well, it really depends – how do we know I’m his type?”

“Don’t be silly,” Aditha says, “you’re everyone’s type.”

“Absolutely not,” says Poonguzhali.

“Perhaps our clever Madame Detective –” starts Arunmozhi.

“Absolutely not!” says Poonguzhali. 

Mandakini has started humming a girlish tune to herself. It sounds a little bit like the theme song to Robo.

“And as for alternate man –”

“It really is too bad he’s your cousin. Say, we could call Nambi …”

It’s here that Vandiyadevan decides they are in terribly dire straits.

“Who’s Nambi going to seduce?” he yells. “Forget him. Isn’t it Pazhuvettaryer who’s running the meeting, anyway? Someone go and seduce him!”

With a final flourish, he acquires the chips, squashing half of the bag to his chest with tragic finality. Nandini, Kundavai, Aditha, and Arunmozhi blink at each other, then him. Poonguzhali socks him in the shoulder (he just barely stops himself from exclaiming in pain). Mandakini holds out a second completed bead bracelet; this one has little sparkly charms hanging from it.

Nandini, whose face had grown to be just as pinched as Kundavai’s, softens immediately, and says, “Oh – thank you, Amma.”

She looks so tender taking the stupid thing from her mother that the collective ire deflates, little by little, until they are sitting in their cramped seats and back to square one: despairing about how to stop a bloody board meeting from happening. Vandiyadevan quietly crunches on a chip; Poonguzhali socks his arm again.

“If I may,” says Vanathi’s unassuming voice, piping into the chaotic silence before an ow can be uttered. “That is – I was only thinking. What if I went?”

Everyone gaps at her.

She refuses to meet Arunmozhi’s eye, staring instead – determinedly – at the little tiger charm Poonguzhali keeps hanging from her rearview mirror. There’s a quiet frown creasing Arunmozhi’s brow. 

“Wh – what?” asks Nandini. For perhaps the first time since Vandiyadevan has met her, she looks truly speechless. Even when reuniting with her mother, she embodied a tragic sort of blubbering grace. Right now there is not a single sound coming forth, despite the fact that her mouth is open like a fish.

It matches Kundavai’s perfectly.

“Vanathi,” ventures Aditha, before his sister can say anything; this complete change of pace seems to have quelled some of his lizard-adjacent turmoil, and he speaks with a gruff gentleness that doesn’t quite match his unraveling ponytail. “... Where exactly do you mean to go?”

“Oh!” Vanathi shakes her head frantically. “No! I meant – what if I pretended to swoon in front of Pazhuvetteryar?” 

Another round of blinking. “What?” says Nandini again.

Vanathi adjusts her spectacles a second time; her head-shaking has jostled them. “Chola Inc legal policy says that any medical emergency must be attended to by the person most immediately at hand. A-and … well, I’ve gotten a lot of practice in. At … you know.”

“Because of the diabetes,” says Vandiyadevan aloud, before he can stop himself.

Poonguzhali socks his arm a third time.

“Ow!” 

Thankfully, no one really notices this exclamation, as everyone continues to stare at Vanathi in shock. Until,

“Vanathi,” says Arunmozhi finally, into the silence. He is sitting up straight, a look of complete wonder upon his handsome face; very different from the philosophical fascination of before. “That’s perfect. I think you might just be a genius.”

Of course, it is here that – flushing so pink as to rival both Nandini and Kundavai combined – the beaming Vanathi looks very close to fainting dead away.

Good thing they’ve got those juiceboxes on hand.

Until Madhurantakan needs them, anyway.

[gmanwhore]

I have fixed the list of Tumblr Sexyman kids for the Monster High thing. Please note that only the Sexyman parent is listed.

Name: Gigi Starman Parent: G-man Parent’s source: Half Life Pronouns: Any Height: 6’11 Eye colour: Black (glows electric blue) Hair: Black, hair pulled back in a braid over her shoulder, and widow’s peak Usual outfit: Blue pinstriped suit with a knee length skirt, black tights and mary jane heels. Extra design notes: She sometimes has faint eyes all over her. She always carries an umbrella and her briefcase. Personality: Gigi is very sweet, and she is very talkative. She does her best to make friends and believes in everyone, which can sometimes blind her to people’s true intentions. She does carry a massive grudge when she or someone she cares about is hurt, and has a very strong sense of justice. 

Name: B BBBBBBBBBBBBB

Parent: Benrey Parent’s source: Half Life VR but the AI is Self Aware Pronouns: she/her in the same way Benrey uses he/him Height: 4’9 Eye colour: Yellow sclera, navy blue irises Hair: Black, in pigtails that clip through her helmet Usual outfit: Black Mesa security gurd outfit. Yeah the whole thing. Yeah even the bulletproof vest. And the helmet. And a gun, who let her have that in school? Extra design notes: She has sharp teeth and is just generally unsettling. Personality: Silly, but deeply weird and no one really gets her. Monotone and not very expressive but still very. Feeling. 

Name: Naressa Arrator Parent: The Narrator Parent’s source: The Stanley Parable Pronouns: she/her Height: 6’4 Eye colour: Bright yellow. They do glow. Hair: Short brown hair in a bob cut, curls up under her ears. Usual outfit: Soft yellow button up with darker yellow spots, yellow tie, brown vest, knee high brown skirt with ruffles at the bottom, brown argyle socks and sensible brown shoes. Extra design notes: The tie is the Stanley Parable Aventure Line. She also usually carries a bag that looks like a speech bubble. Personality: Narressa in controlling, and very sarcastic. When she feels in control she is slightly cruel but very relaxed, mostly making jokes, and she gets very upset when she feels her control slipping. She can be a bit hard to get along with because she always has to be right. 

Name: Troy/The Announcer [Classified] Parent: The Administrator Parent’s source: TF2 Pronouns: he/him Height: 5’10 Eye colour: Dark brown Hair: Slicked back black hair witha white streak. Think more slicked back Eridan hairstyle. Usual outfit: Solid purple suit with a blue tie and red shirt. Very shiny black shoes. Gold hoop earrings. Extra design notes: He smokes. He also always has a big blocky phone with him. Personality: Troy is only excited by competition. He is often completely cold to people, having no patience for anyone. He is an amazing sports announcer though, he has a sharp eye and keeps an eye on everything. He is also almost on the phone with his mother, though he often seems exasperated by the calls. 

Name: PCRS (Pierce) Parent: GLaDOS Parent’s source: Portal Pronouns: he/her/hers Height: 6’9 Eye colour: Orange (only has one eye) Hair: White, covers where her left eye would be, short and straight. Usual outfit: White button up shirt under an orange argyle sweate rvest, very light grey pants and black shoes. Extra design notes: He has no mouth, and his body actually orients better when he hangs upside down. He also has PCRS written on his neck. Most of his body is white and segmented, but his hands are exposed metal and are black. He has ports in the back of her neck. Personality: PCRS tends to be suprisingly quiet, but he does like talking. He just doesn’t like most people and would rather not force himself to talk to people he doesn’t like, unless he really wants you to talk to her. He’s quietly in control, and needs to be included in things or he’ll freak out. He also can’t tell jokes. 

Name: Willabee Parent: Wheatley Parent’s source: Portal Pronouns: she/her Height: 5’2 Eye colour: Blue (only has one eye) Hair: Blonde and in high pigtails. Someone how hair over where her left eye would be. Usual outfit: White button up under a blue argyle sweater vest with a light grey skirt, blue socks and black shoes. Extra design notes: She is completely grey, just like a core, and she can remove her head fully. She has wires connecting her head to her neck. She’s also very round. Personality: Willabee is full of energy and very friendly! She’s always ready to help but has absolutely no fliter and says whatever comes to mind. She also gets frustrated when she feels she’s left out and likes to have attention on her. 

Name: Burrow Eagle Parent: Warren the Worm Eagle Parent’s source: Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared Pronouns: she/her Height: 

Eye colour: Hair: Shitty blonde wig Usual outfit: Extra design notes: Look man. I gotta be straight with you she looks almost exactly like Warren just with the shitty wig. I dunno what to tell you. Personality: She is toxic positivity personified. She is the kind of person to be happy all the time and all “love each other and be nice!” but can and will talk over people and steamroll through things because she feels they aren’t important. 

Name: Lester Dollhouse Parent: Lesley Parent’s source: Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared Pronouns: he/they Height: 5’6 Eye colour: Brown Hair: Chestnut brown bowlcut Usual outfit: Incredibally crazy coat filled with references to DHMIS, matching pants, white button up and brown shoes. Extra design notes: His skin is paper white and instead of patches he has doodles on his face. Personality: Lester is very sweet but isn’t all that outgoing, preferring to stay in the background and do his own things. He still makes friends quite easily. He’s almost always smiling, but sometimes he will just snap and yell at people. He hasn’t learned how to snap the mask back on quickly yet, though. 

Name: Chrysalis Palmer Parent: Cecil Palmer Parent’s source: Welcome to Nightvale Pronouns: She/it/they Height: 6’10 Eye colour: Purple Hair: Chin length stright silver hair, usually curled in funny ways at the ends Usual outfit: Royal purple buttonup shirt, heather grey vest, heather grey pants and black shoes. Extra design notes: Lots of eyes. They are hidden very well but they are there. She also usually has a microphone in her bag, and has a pocketwatch with an eye in it. Personality: Chrysalis is very open and humorous, a kind of spring breeze kind of person. She somehow knows a bit of everything, and shares as she pleases. She operates on her own rules but is never cruel, her humour is dark but true. She’s very refreshing. 

Name: Doctor Ludwig Parent: Medic Parent’s source: TF2 Pronouns: Any Height: 5’9 Eye colour: Dark brown Hair: Short, very dark brown. Scruffy Usual outfit: Tbh I can’t see her in anything but Medic’s outift. Extra design notes: She doesn’t wear glasses. Also notiable she has a wristwatch on the outside of her left glove. Personality: Completely insane, obviously. She likes to pretend to be a normal person, maybe even a bit stupid and helpless then she steals your oragns when you’re alone with her. I do not trust her she is just like that. 

Name: Shiro Enoshima Parent: Junko Enoshima Parent’s source: Danganronpa Pronouns: he/it Height: 5’6 Eye colour: Blue Hair: Strawberry blonde, low ponytail but very clean, shiny hair. Usual outfit: Red plaid shirt with a black corset worn over it, skinny black jeans with those big spikey boots and a spiked collar. Extra design notes: I think there are monokumsa somewhere in his design but idk lol Personality: He needs things to be happening nearly constantly or he gets bored. He struggles with dealing with his problems and things happening keeps him on his toes. He also struggles with feeling completely empty when he isn’t dealing with something or getting into troule, so he’ll make sure it keeps happening so he doesn’t have to deal with the bad things. 

Name: Tenris Serket Parent: Vriska Serket Parent’s source: Homestuck Pronouns: he/she/it/they/eye/8 Height: 5’10 Eye colour: Yellow Scelera, black eyes with four puils each Hair: Very scruffy black mullet Usual outfit: Blue plaid flannel jacket over a black long sleeved shirt, black jeans patched to hell and back, and doc martens. Extra design notes: Is a scorpio Personality: He has come to win. He loves the spotlight, he loves praise but he’ll look for attention anywhere. He delights in a bit of craziness, just anything to shake off the boredom.

Name: Red The-Other-One Parent: Red Guy Parent’s source: Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared Pronouns: she/her Height: 6’9 Eye colour: Googly eyes Hair: Red and yarn Usual outfit: None Extra design notes: Her yarn is pulled back to show her teeth Personality: She’s quiet and artistic, though she hates talking to people because no one is as eager over the things she is excited about. She is very flat and monotone, but again very creative. 

Name: Serif Sans Undertale Parent: Sans Parent’s source: Undertale Pronouns: Any Height: 4’5 Eye colour: Sans Hair: None Usual outfit: Greasy white undershirt, tie die sweater and sweatpants. Extra design notes: She looks like Sans to the left. Personality: Very chill and casual, everyone is attracted to how relaxed and laid back she is. She tries to stay away from the massive drama at school, she doesn’t have any want to be put into things. She just wants to vibe. 

Name: Doe ??? Parent: Alastor Parent’s source: Hazbin Hotel Pronouns: she/her Height: 5’9 Eye colour: Yellow scelera, black eyes Hair: Curly dark red hair with black at the bottom and black streaks through it Usual outfit: Dark red dress with a lace up back, and black lace up boots. Extra design notes: She is not deer themed sorry guy that was. Not good. She does have a rabbit foot attached to her pocket though. 

Personality: She’s very guarded, hiding everything behind a smile. She is just as ruthless as her father and will do anything to be on top. She carries heavy grudges and never forgets people slightling her ever. She still knows how to deal with people and is a very smooth talker.

Name: Sil Undertale (Sil is short for Shadows into Light) Parent: Papyrus Parent’s source: Undertale Pronouns: she/her Height: 6’0 Eye colour: Papryus Hair: None Usual outfit: Ok you know the cool guy outfit? She wears that. Extra design notes: Skelet Personality: Sil is the most eager, bright eyed young skeleton. She is friends with everyone, or at least she thinks she is. She is a cheerleader type person, both for herself and others. She thinks she’s the bees knees. She does in fact say things like “The bees knees” like she’s just like that. She needs to stop hanging out with Willabee and Burrow.

Name: Kendra Hidgens Parent: Henry Hidgens Parent’s source: The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals Pronouns: it/its Height: 4’10 Eye colour: Blue Hair: None Usual outfit: Dark grey dress with blue trim, with small brown boots. Extra design notes: She is very explicitly a robot. An alexa themed robot. Personality: She’s very simple. She’s helpful and to the point, not nice or rude. If you don't say please or thank you she’ll beat you to death. 

[trash-monkey]

Polychromatic

With hips swagging and heels clicking against the steps the waitress makes her way to the VIP lounge that's overlooking the crowd downstairs where some important men are relaxing, swiftly she hands out the drinks they ordered at the same time a man walks into the nightclub. Wearing a leather jacket and shades inside isn't what caught the attention of the iceberg blue eyes but it's when he sits on a couch in a corner that's been empty for a while only for people to start crowding him once he's comfortable.

"Tell us everything you know about that man." The pink haired man order after pulling the Beta waitress into his lap and points to who he's talking about while catching the others attention.

"That's Vos, he's one of the regular drug dealers though he only shows on Saturdays but still popular with customers for always selling the best." She slips out after hiding her fear quick enough that no one can smell it.

"I don't remember him, how long as he been selling here?" The owner of the nightclub questions her after giving her a blank glance before going back to staring at the dealer.

"Longer then I have so about a year or two." Happy with the information the light purple colored mullet owner slips a bill into her pocket when the other similar hair styled man let her up off his lap.

"Be a sweetheart and bring him to us." She quickly nods before speed walking out of the room.

"What'd you think? Should we hire him to work for us?" The nightclub owner asked his leader that sitting in a dark corner alone and saw everything that happened, his white undercut hair style falls from his face when he tile his head to the ceiling.

"We'll see what he has to offer first." With that the owner turns back to the large window to watch the waitress speck to the dealer before gesturing to the VIP lounge which he can see him nod and followed her back.

"Have a seat" The guy followed the order as soon as he's stand before them and they take notice of the absence of his ABO scent which they can clearly see is hidden by a scent blocker patch over his gland like many others in the lounge.

"Empty your pockets." The pink haired man ordered and not wanting any beef with these guy he does as ordered under the watchful iceberg blue eyes as he plays with a his gun, many small bags falls on the table.

"What's this?" He examine the small black crystal like drug before watching me pull out a small note pad with a pen and quickly write on it.

~Black crystal; made it myself, even though it's high to buy but to some it's worth it to feel great without any major side effects plus everything else I got is the best.~

"Let us figure that out." Sandals slap against the shiny and slick floor as approaches us from his seat in the dark corner.

"Sanzu, you know what to do." He takes the empty seat next to the pink haired man after gesturing to him which he get a nod in return before grabbing all the small bags and left.

"Who's your supplier?" A tall man with light purple and black slick back hair stands behind me and he give me a smile when we connect eyes after his boss asked his question.

~ None, I get everything myself. As the saying goes, do everything yourself~

"Mmmm, if you're as good as people say I might hire you to work for me but that really depends on the quality you sell and if it's not....well I 'kindly' ask you to never show your face around here again, you got that?" I nod in agreement before writing the most obvious question down.

~if I work for you, what's in it for me that I don't already have~

"Anything you can think of really, more money, people, fancy clothes, other things that you might want." The nightclub owner answered my question after standing next to the taller man making me realize that these two are related.

"But you got time to make your mind, come back here next Saturday by then I've made my decision...... don't go running now!" The white hair leader called after me before I could leave the lounge, I just give them nod on my way out and completely left the nightclub with empty pockets of cash I would usual have on Saturdays but I'm not worried about it. With time I return to my flat, after throwing the lather jacket onto the couch and the sunglasses on the counter I pull off the scent blocker patch to throw it away in the trash. Not really like wearing these things in my own home, with a glass of water in hand I stroll to my room where I open a secret door with a fake light switch and softly close it behind me. Taking a sip from the glass before sitting it on the table and sit in the chair, with some concentration I held out my tongue to reveal a pill laying on it where I place it in a jar filled with the same kind of drug.

As long as I can remember I always had this ability to create drugs out of my mouth and no matter it's a pill,powder, liquid, or gas as long as I know the ingredients for it I can create it, it also effected my voice causing me to become a mute or I'll get everyone around me high. I continue on resupply what I lost at the nightclub but luckily that only side effect I get from using it so much is cotton mouth.

_______________________________________________

Vos is an OC of mine that I'm hopping others would come to like! I made him for One Piece but loved him so much that I decided to put him into Tokyo Revengers too.

(A)Vos x (O) Sanzu, (O) Rindou, (O) Ran

[peggyrose19]

o'darwin ballroom dance au thoughts for you all cause i was at competition all weekend and then had a 6 hour car ride home

(basic ballroom info can be found at the end under the cut)

the three of them are all partners together and just switch out depending on the style. nat and alex do rhythm and latin, nat and kasey do standard, and alex and kasey do smooth. but if 3-person ballroom was a thing they'd be excellent at it (a side note - competitions do fun dances after each style and our last one was group latin, so my 3 coaches did it together and gave me this idea cause it was adorable) (want to be clear coaches are platonic friends this specifically was just very o'darwin coded)

alex styles his hair very casually, basically just the way it falls normally but aggressively hair sprayed into place. kasey slicks his back into a neat bun. kasey does nat’s hair for her, pulling it back in a twist back into a fancy ballroom bun with lil sparklies to accessorize

my former coach’s partner has a smooth jacket that’s - well idk if it’s actually velvet cause that’d be quite heavy for dance - but a velvet like texture and it’s subtly shiny under the lights and i imagine alex wearing that for smooth. paired with kasey, in something classic but maybe with some subtle detailing? rip

nat’s latin dress is black with gold detailing. the skirt is a high to low style and it’s super cute and bouncy. her standard dress is long and i wanna go royal blue. maybe red. or green. some bright royal shade. it’s got this beautiful full skirt and she has ribbons on cuffs she attaches to her wrists for certain dances. the dress has silver gemstone detailing on the bodice

they stay in a hotel for competitions and share soft sleepy kisses in the elevator up on the way back, heavy bags hanging off their shoulders. alex insists on carrying nat’s costumes for her (he’d carry her bag too but he doesn’t have enough arms for that)

cheering each other on from the sidelines and the two dancing always smile at their third when they hear/spot them

social dancing and nat is laughing while kasey twirls her all around, alex watching from the side, falling more in love with each laugh and smile from the two of them

falling into bed with each other, all soft hands and quiet giggles. they have passionate and rougher times too but in my head o’darwin are just so somft with each other. alex carefully taking nat’s shirt off and kissing each inch of bare skin he uncovers. kasey standing behind her with gentle hands on her hips, nosing at her neck. alex and kasey taking turns fucking nat and it’s different with both but just as good. alex getting his mouth on kasey and reveling in the sounds he makes

nat steals alex's sweatpants constantly. they fit better than kasey's so she steals his sweatshirts instead. kasey and nat steal each other's hair elastics, one of them always has one on hand

the three of them aren't like all over each other at competition, looking at them you might not guess they were romantically together rather than just dance partners, but you can tell they have a connection with each other through their dancing and know each other well. when partners actually like and know each other it shows and makes it that much better to watch. but if you paid close enough attention (not sure why anyone would but) you'd be able to see the quick kisses and gentle intimate moments between the three of them between rounds

now i'd put them in open, so they wouldn't have to wake up at the crack of dawn like us poor syllabus dancers (rip me), but if they were partners back then:

bb college alex and kasey partnering together kasey's first year (i put alex maybe a year older), and falling for each other towards the end of the year semester. they're never together, not really, but they've kissed and had sex and are close despite the complication of whatever it is their feelings are. kasey transfers schools after his freshman year and they're both devastated but they can't do a whole lot about it. they promise to keep in touch, but it's hard

at his new school, kase meets and partners up with natalie who's a freshman and new to ballroom. he's so shy and awkward around her at first, but he's patient and helps her learn. soon they become good friends and kasey gets less awkward. kasey is terrified to let himself fall for her after falling for alex, but he can't help it; nat is just so bright and delightful, and he finds himself spending hours outside of practice with her, just enjoying each other's company. nat - i don't wanna say wears him down cause that implies she pressured him, it's more she makes her own feelings known, respects his boundaries, and lets kasey sort his own feelings out on his time. together, they eventually decide to start dating, after kasey allows nat to kiss him late one night, saying he just wants to know, but really he's just too scared to say it outright. natalie is the one who asks if he'll be her official boyfriend. he agrees

anyway. back to 5am wake up times. comp starts at 8am, doors open at 7, and if you're in the first few rounds like they would be, that's when you arrive, hair and makeup already mostly ready if you can. nat and kasey staying together for their first competition and it's the first night they've spent together. they're bleary-eyed and exhausted, still new to their relationship, but there's sleepy kisses and gentle touches as they help each other get ready

they compete at bronze and do quite well, especially for natalie's first ever comp. i made my dear newcomer partner dance up to bronze because i've really danced too long to be in newcomer still, and she did great. anyway. it's a smaller comp, only one day. they don't place in anything, but they advance past the first round in every dance they compete, which is still very good

it's a long day for them both, but a fun one. a lot of time spent at ballroom competitions is standing around waiting for results. so there's a lot of that. they sit with the rest of their team ofc. it's a good bonding exercise

i have more thoughts but this is long enough as is so i'll stop for now cause it's nearly 2am and i really need to be asleep. i meant for this to just be headcanons and now it's gaining a plot. ah well

apologies if these don't make sense, i was awake for 20 hours straight sunday and wrote half of them in the car. i've been recovering since. also today i took a 2hr nap at 7pm and now here we are nearing 2am

ballroom basics for those who are very lost

ballroom is split into four styles for competitions:

standard: international waltz, intl tango, intl foxtrot, quickstep, intl viennese waltz

smooth: american waltz, am tango, am foxtrot, am v waltz

latin: intl cha cha, intl rumba, samba, jive, paso doble

rhythm: am cha cha, am rumba, east coast swing, mambo, bolero

in the international dances, you aren't allowed to separate from your partner. you stay in frame - hands clasped basically - the whole time. in american style, you are allowed to separate. there's other differences to some, but that's the major one. rumba, foxtrot, and tango are the ones that are most different.

collegiate competitions have two levels: syllabus and open

syllabus: there's a specific list of moves you are allowed to do at each level. the levels go newcomer, bronze, silver, gold.

open: you can basically do what you want. there are no specific guidelines to the steps you can do. within reason, i mean, you can't just start doing an entirely separate dance. this is when it gets really fun to watch. the levels go novice, pre-champ, champ.

some competitions will let you cross-register, which basically means you can compete at multiple levels. many also compete different styles at different levels, allowed at all competitions, because learning that many dances well is quite difficult and takes a lot of time.

after newcomer dances will start being paired. so if you compete one, you must compete the other. common ones at bronze are intl waltz/quickstep, am waltz/tango, and cha cha/rumba. those were all paired at my competition this past weekend. starting in gold, they'll put three or four dances paired. at open, all dances are paired. so for example, a standard event in all open levels would include intl waltz, tango, foxtrot, and quickstep. each couple would have to dance all four. then separately they would have a syllabus v waltz event, which is open to anyone.

though hosted and mostly attended by college teams, anyone is allowed to enter a collegiate competition. once you get to the higher levels, especially open, most dancers are not still college students. you can't get that good in four years, so if they are college-age they would've had to start beforehand. those who don't register with a team are generally just put in as unaffiliated. schools are registered under the school. coaches can register through the school they coach for as well, if they register together. my coaches have done both. this doesn't really make a difference. mostly just a way of organization more than anything. we still claim my former coach as our own despite her now living and working in a different state and coaching a different team with her partner. we don't like him. i digress.

i hope this helped anyone if you bothered to read it

[unknownjpegs]

water

There is a nymph in the river. 

Or, at least, he thinks it must be one. She faces away, baring to him a regal, pale back. Angular shoulders, the hint of a curved breast when her arms lift. Not as big as he’d like, but decent enough handfuls. What he’s most struck by, embarrassingly, is her hair. It’s a strange color. Red the color of drying blood, wet darkened it further. It sticks to her skin in snake-like coils, swirls in the current. 

Suddenly, his head wrenched back. He sees the sky instead of pale flesh, a rushing current. Pain at his throat, a straight lick of a blade across the curve.

“Please,” the man says, holding his hands up. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m sure you don’t want to hurt me. Please. I’m a father.”

The small hooded figure smiles, but he cannot see it. If he could, he would piss himself at the unnatural shade offered by the hood. Like gazing into the deep, dark night. “And I a mother.” 

Terror rips through him at the coldness of that statement, a sting just as sweet as the thing across his throat. “Listen. T-then you’ll want to see your child again. If you’re lost, I can take you to the road.” 

The blade presses down. In. He tries to bolster himself, tries to rise from his knees and stand. Imagines spinning and knocking it away, saving himself. Finds that he cannot move. 

He cannot move.

His limbs are heavy and cold. Like the chill river water has crept upwards -- defied the forces of nature and gravity, slid through the bank. Breached his skin. Coiled into his veins. 

“Fool,” the woman sneers. He hears the sharpness of that smile now, worse than the weapon wielded. “These woods are my own. And it is my child you gaze upon.”

What a strange sensation it is, to gulp as the knife glides gently across his throat. It is the last sensation he feels before he slumps forward to the ground, dead.

Jacqueline watches the red tide spill forth. The soil is already healthy — a dark, nutrient-rich brown. And yet the blood melts into it, moisture sucked and drank down, down, down into the earth. A bird chirps overhead. 

“Be quick about it, Til.” She calls down to the river. Begins to strip the man of his clothes, his armor, his weapon. Pockets what she finds interesting within his bag. “We’ve breakfast waiting.”

“Yes, mother.”

*

They come together because her mother owes his father a favor. Of what sort, Matilda cannot fathom. Her mother has spoken of debt for all of her days. Said it is not something to offer yourself up to, if you can help it. 

But she greets the greyed man with familiarity. Opens her arms for a hug. Matilda is dismissed while they talk, and then when she returns, her mother says only: 

“You are to see the world.”

And that is how she meets him. The man that will become one of her dearest friends. The man who, were she much more inclined towards the arts of an oracle, she would see even now as king. 

He just looks, she thinks, sad. And angry. There is a great weight in his shoulders, something a hair wicked under the surface. Even when he beams at his father, even when his eyes fill with tears as they part and hug and whisper assurances to each other. 

There is a great weight, and he carries it with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they must do to alleviate it.

*

Her hand hovers an inch over brown skin, slicked by the water. It glances over the wound, dripping off. Tides over the red ooze leaking from the gash into a shiny pearl-pink. She dries it, presses down with her palm until the bleeding ebbs mostly away. Dips it under the cool stream and watches the coagulating blood catch in the current, carried off the slope.

There is a little pond below the tiny waterfall they have crouched next to so his injury might be tended to. The soft burble of it, the pit-pat of the water, makes her homesick. 

Perhaps she is not the only one. Benji stares down at his lap. There is a tiny square of fabric in his fingers. During the scuffle, it’d been soaked near-through with his own blood. What was once a charming little embroidered duck sporting a crown, a design fit for a child’s tunic, now is obscured by thick red. 

There are tears in his dark, cow-like eyes that make her pause. A bit shocking from such a tough, silent type. But she knows — quite personally — that sentimentality makes fools of even the most frigid. A throwing knife tucked into her boot, stolen while its owner slept soundly, attests.

In case my magic fails. In case I must resort to such measures. It had been impossible to convince herself. Instead: in case we do not meet again.

“Look. It is not so bad.” Twists his leg so he can see the shallow parting of flesh where the knife had swiped. She is so poor at comfort. A little better a healer, but not by a terrible margin. 

“You’ll have another scar, my friend, but it will fade in time. Shake your troubles off.” 

But she knows that isn’t what twists at his throat. The tiny duck does.

“Do you miss your mother?” Benji asks, his lilting common accent quiet with despair.

Matilda doesn’t have to for the magic to work, but she presses her warming hand to his leg. So poor at comfort. 

“No,” she says, waiting for the wound to pulse at her enough, enough, I am mended. It does after a very long moment. And only then she offers, “Yes. Like there is a void in me. My brothers too, but they are much further than the forest.”

“And your father?”

Her smile is sharp, eyes flashing wide and cruel. “No. I wish him rot. Do you miss yours?”

“Rot. One of them.” Benji grins back with an angry fierceness that she recognizes from within. 

She reaches out and takes the fabric square from him. Presses her palm to the ground, where the grass brittles and dies in the shape of it. Then, with a care to the age of Benji’s little duck, she dunks it into the stream. 

“Wash clean,” she intones, “And always go unstained.”

The duck is pristine. She can feel the love stitched into its little wings, the glimmering gold crown. Stronger and more potent than the magic she’d just blessed it with.

Benji takes it from her, squeezing out some of the water into the edge of his cloak. His eyes look no less dry. His face is dirty from their travels. When he blinks, a tear rolls off his cheek and cleans some of the grime. 

 Matilda shrugs. “There is power in water. Power in all things, of course, but water is where it begins.” She reaches out and taps his chest, flattens her palm over her own. “It flows in us as blood. Water knows it all.”

“All of it?” He wrinkles his nose. He’s spoken a little about his adoptive father, his trinkets and charms that hung from the rafters of their farmhouse, the barn, the fence. Anything that needed blessed, anything that a wandering traveler might find use and buy from him. Not simple magic, by any means, but clearly the only sort Benji had ever known. 

“All of it.” 

*

Later, he comes to her. There is another bundle of cloth in his hands. 

And so they sit by the singing stream, which flows across the earth cornflower blue and shiny in the moonlight. 

“You will not get it back,” Matilda says, her arm over his wrist. “To work, the magic will take it.”

Benji hesitates. His thumb brushes over the bundle; simple brown canvas. Then he pulls it back. She thinks for a moment it is his own hair, sticky-red like the duck had been. Or hers, even, it is that vibrant a color. But no, it’s a little more burnished. Tinged orange like flame, wound together in a braid that has started to flay apart at the edges.

It is so old. Matilda thinks. How long has he held onto this?

Benji touches it with three fingers, rubs down the curves of the braid with such intimacy that Matilda feels the need to avert her eyes.

“I need to know.”

And so she lights one of the tall candles her mother packed. The nice one, dyed a striking, mysterious color from nightshade blossoms. Benji’s hand in hers, the lock of hair in the other, she murmurs a spell. When her hand dips into the water, it doesn’t so much unspool and drift away as it…shimmers. Disappears. Gone wherever things go when they dip beneath the surface.

Her stomach turns when no image springs forth in the water. No glimmer of a room, of this braid-bearer’s face. Just cloudy, obscured. Nothing. She has never had that happen before.

Benji makes a sound that she’s only ever heard from mourners in private. One that she herself, companioned only by grief, has made.

 To offer him privacy, she pretends she does not hear it.

“They could be shrouded, perhaps.” Matilda offers softly. “Some strange energy or protective spell?” But she knows she does not sound confident in that. She is not.

They are both quiet for an incredible time. Night-forest sounds around them, the calls of cicadas and distant beasts.

Benji finally pushes himself to his feet. Stands above the stream, gazing into it. Stares for as long as they’ve sat there. 

And then, starling her, he reaches down and pries a smooth stone from its depths. Throws it, sailing through the air like a weapon, with a bellow. It land far in the distance into the pond below. Plonks quite satisfactorily and sinks to the bottom. Matilda supposes it is not so satisfactory an emotion.

She has naught an idea of reassurance to offer — so poor with comfort. She has only ever felt her own grief. Knows well that it goes forever, aches always, but this the worst part. The beginning. There is no comfort no healing no promise of unstained that she or anyone could offer to make it hurt less. 

“We’ll be off by sunrise,” Benji whispers, barely audible over the stream. His voice is as wet-sounding, but sure. Confident. “And remember to refill your canteen. We have places to be and not much time.”

[corvus-rose]

The Wolf And The Woodsy Witch: Chapter 5

[A/N: For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Can't Go Home. The bingo can be found at the end. Content warnings for this chapter are a brief description of game animal corpses in a hunting context. Also mob mentality/witch hunting.]

By the next day, Eden had both the ability and the desire to get out of bed and stay out. What they still lacked was the desire to leave the house. At one point, before the sun rose, they stood in front of the door outside, staring at it as though it might open itself in response to their desires if they just decided on it. It never did. They sat down at the kitchen table instead. 

The sunrise tinted the sky outside the kitchen window in reds, pinks, and purples. Eden watched the sky slowly turn blue through the forest leaves, whose edges were starting to turn orange and brown. 

When they touched their face and skin, they felt bark where cuts and punctures used to be. 

The front door creaked open, and they turned their head. Vayu pushed open the door, black hair shiny and slick, water stains on the shoulder and collar of his coat. Before he closed the door, Eden saw a glimpse of deer cadavers, skinned and cleaned, hanging outside. So, that’s what the lines outside were for. 

“I hope you don’t use the same lines for drying clothes,” Eden remarked, as Vayu approached them. 

He tilted his head. “Why would I do that? That’d be unhygienic,” he stated. 

“I was joking,” they mumbled as they glanced away.

“Oh.” 

Vayu took his gloves, bloodied and dirt-spotted, out of his bag and laid them on the counter. Eden’s eyes shifted to the side, just enough to see his hands. Again, his nails looked arched, sharp… claw-like. They thought such a shape was a drowsy hallucination, but apparently not. 

He took a new pair of gloves from one of the cabinets, and slipped them over his hands. Eden quickly looked the other way as he turned back towards them. 

“...do you need anything?” he asked. Eden’s breath caught. He saw them looking, didn’t he? 

They looked down at the table, and locked their fingers together. From the edge of their vision, they saw Vayu walk over to the other side of the table. In truth, they did have a question. “Um… how long am I allowed to stay?”

Immediately, “As long as you want.”

Eden’s eyes widened, and they looked up. Their mouth hung open slightly, but they said nothing. 

Vayu nodded at them, looking out the window, eyes unfocused, separating wet strands of hair with his fingers. “Yeah. If you’re feeling okay, you can leave whenever. But I won’t make you leave. Does that make sense?”

Eden gulped, and nodded their head, though it felt more like a jitter. “Yeah. Yeah.”

The two of them were silent for a while, leading Eden’s gaze to sink back down. A veena collected dust in the corner of the kitchen, would it be too much to ask Vayu about it? Now that they had the energy to do something other than lie down in a haze, it felt like torture to not do anything with it, but it felt more horrifying still to think of walking out of the front door. 

Vayu spoke haltingly, through the silence. “Um, I… hope it’s not prying to ask, but, uh… do you have somewhere to go after this?”

Here were Eden’s options for “after this”:

Going back to the village would mean certain death. They’d scream “witch! The witch has returned!” and if the mob didn’t beat them to death right then and there, the Baron’s men would ensure such work would be done. 

They might go south into the mangrove, and look for their mother. Eden had only fleeting memories of her though, and only second-hand descriptions to supplement it. And, just because they were the mangrove’s child, did not mean the mangrove would be kind to them. Even if they managed to not get lost or drown, what would Eden’s mother even say to them? 

They might go right up to the top of the hierarchy and seek out their father at the royal court. Of course, that would require stepping into a harsh and heavy limelight. The Baron would hear about it, as would all the monsters of the mangrove. If there were daggers pointed at her now, they would become nothing compared to what they’d face in front of an entire kingdom. It wasn’t worth the risk, especially not for the protection of someone who might not even know they existed. 

They could leave the country perhaps. They didn’t know anyone outside the country, though. Hell, they barely knew anyone outside that village that was content with their death sentence. Besides - they touched their face again, feeling the bark-scabs - they heard other countries were far, far less kind to those with even a little monstrous heritage. 

“Eden?”

They stayed silent for one more moment, then shook their head. 

“...I see…” Vayu murmured. He pulled up a chair, and took a seat at the other side of the table. “...I’m guessing your village kicked you out, huh.”

Eden sighed, and leaned their head on their palm. “How’d you guess.” 

Vayu answered as though it were a question. “The night I found you, I heard the Baron’s men making a commotion. When I found you, I realized it was one of their fucked up executions. So…”

“Don’t remind me.” Eden raised a hand, and Vayu closed his mouth. They lowered their hand, folded their arms on the table and lay down their head. 

Vayu lingered for a few more moments, before getting up. Eden’s heart wanted to raise their head, say wait, don’t go. Their head told them they weren’t exactly entitled to such a thing. So, they watched him leave the kitchen. 

He looked tired anyway. 

---

[lifesliced-a]

ren introducing inuyasha

[solarmorrigan]

See, just because Steve lets Eddie and the kids play D&D at his house now doesn't mean he's really interested in the game, just the same as even though El and Max sometimes tag along, they're really there to hang out, not play. They each bring their own things to do, and one night El brings a ball of yarn and a shiny little metal hook and a vaguely rectangular yarn-thing that she focuses very hard on while the boys shout in the background.

Steve has no idea what she's doing; he'd say she's knitting, except he's almost certain that involves some kind of sticks, not a hook. But since he's not really doing anything himself, he sits down next to her and asks what she's up to.

"Joyce has been teaching me how to crochet. She says it will help with my hand-eye coordination." El holds up her project with a proud smile. "I am starting with a scarf."

It's not the world's most attractive scarf, but it's not like Steve could do better. He's still not entirely sure what crocheting is, to be perfectly honest. "Is that different from knitting?" he asks.

El nods gravely. "It is," she says, and takes to showing him how she loops the yarn over the hook and pulls it through the stitches in her scarf and adds a few more inches to the row she's working on.

When Steve's attention doesn't completely wane during her demonstration, she pulls a second ball of yarn out of her bag and presents it to Steve.

"Oh, I don't–" Steve tries to demur, but El is determined, and Steve has seen entire dimensions pale in the face of her determination.

This is how he finds himself crocheting a little chain of stitches with just his fingers, the same way Joyce had apparently started El off. El beams at him and returns to her own project, occasionally checking on his progress. The chain is a few feet long by the time everyone needs to be driven home, and Steve decides it actually hadn't been a bad way to pass the time. Kind of relaxing.

The next time everyone is over, El sits down with her scarf, and after a short while, Steve sits down next to her. He compliments how much longer the scarf has gotten (and it does seem like the shape has evened out a bit as she's been going along). She smiles and pulls another ball of yarn out of her bag. This time, she has an extra hook and seems intent on showing Steve what to do with it.

Almost involuntarily, Steve's attention flashes to the group clustered around the table, hesitating to take the yarn from El, and she frowns.

"Joyce says these types of skills are important for everyone to have," El says firmly, and, well– Steve's not really going to argue.

He learns how to crochet a chain with the hook. It feels odd in his hands at first—the shape too small, the metal a little too slick, the yarn not wrapping naturally around his fingers the way it does El's—but he gets the hang of it. When El is pleased with his progress, she shows him the stitch she's been using: a simple single crochet. It's tougher than it looks, and Steve understands immediately why El's scarf is so uneven; neither of them have ever done anything like this before.

Still, he doesn't hate it.

In fact, he really kind of enjoys it.

He enjoys it enough that he asks El to show him more the next time she's over. She's still new herself and is really only working with pretty much the same couple of stitches, but she proudly teaches him what she knows, and Steve picks it up as fast as she's able to lay it down.

Steve goes out and buys his own supplies, no longer content with mooching off of El's. He hadn't realized there were so many different kinds of yarn, and resigns himself to awkwardly asking one of the craft store employees what type might be best for beginners.

The employee—a woman about his mother’s age with a much warmer smile and far less judgement in her eyes—explains with great enthusiasm what all those different types of yarn might be used for, and how the size of the hook affects the outcome of the project, and shows him so many different pattern books his head spins. He realizes that she probably upsells him on a lot of shit, but he leaves with a few different sizes of hooks, some new yarn, and more excitement for a hobby than he's felt probably since high school.

El and Robin are the only ones who know about his new hobby, of course. It's not really that he's ashamed to tell the others, he just knows how teenage boys work and he's not keen on giving a bunch of fifteen-year-olds another reason to bully him. Maybe in a few months. In the meantime, he crochets at home while he's listening to the radio or watching TV, and he crochets at work during down times. Robin finds his newfound hobby morbidly fascinating, but vehemently denies any and all offers to teach her.

("I will find a way to damage myself with that hook and I think we both know that," she says. "It's just kind of wild to see you with a grandma hobby."

Steve threatens to tell El she called it that, and Robin shortly finds a new label for it.)

Fall rolls around and the air acquires a chill sometime in mid-October. Steve's been making practice scarves for a little while now (largely because he really only knows how to make rectangles at this point, but he doesn’t have the attention span for a whole blanket just yet), and he even considers wearing his least heinous attempt despite the fact he's never really wanted for good winter clothes. Then he notices Eddie.

Most of their little group has begun dressing appropriately for the weather, but Eddie doesn't do much more than add a pair of fingerless black gloves and maybe a heavier leather jacket to his ensemble. Steve's not even sure it's because he can't afford it – he's pretty sure it's because Eddie is committed to his aesthetic. Nancy had tried to force an extra scarf on him one day after a little cold snap, when they'd woken to frost on the ground (the scarf is blue, patterned with white snowflakes; it's actually Mike’s, but Mike is also refusing to wear it and Steve suspects Nancy doesn’t want to hold it, but also doesn’t want to get in trouble for letting Mike lose it), but Eddie had declined, insisting it doesn't match his vibe.

Steve can respect this. He himself has a certain aesthetic going on. However, he can also see that Eddie is definitely cold, and that just won't do.

He picks through the scarves and other various wooly things he's accumulated so far, but decides none of them would suit Eddie and, besides that, none of them are really warm enough. If he's going to make Eddie a scarf, it ought to be a good one.

So Steve sucks it up and heads into Melvald's one day when he knows Joyce will be on shift, hoping she won't be too busy for a quick chat.

When he catches her, Steve explains that El had shown him the basics of crocheting but that his ambitions have outgrown his skills and maybe if she isn't too busy sometime, Joyce would be willing to show him a little more?

Joyce, because she’s a saint, says she would be delighted, and invites Steve to come over on their next shared day off.

When he gets there, she tries to ask him who he's making the scarf for, and the best he manages is, "...someone."

Joyce bites down on a smile. "Someone?"

"It's a surprise," Steve finally declares.

"For everyone?"

"Yes."

Joyce bravely manages to not laugh at Steve and instead asks him what kind of scarf he thinks Someone would like.

Steve decides that it needs to be thick, but it should also be soft. It should also be textured, because Ed– because Someone really likes fiddling with things. He can't get too ambitious with colors or patterns, but he decides that black and grey stripes will be perfectly suitable.

(He doesn't kid himself into thinking that by the time their brainstorming session is over, Joyce hasn't figured out exactly who he's talking about, but she's kind enough not to say it out loud.)

Steve's always been good with repetition and patterns—it's probably one of the reasons he’d found crocheting so relaxing in the first place—and he picks up the new stitches with ease under Joyce's deft instruction. She sends him home with the practice piece he'd made with some of her scrap yarn, and after a quick stopover at the craft store on his way home (he briefly gets stuck between shades of grey, but eventually decides on the silvery one over the steely one), he's ready to begin.

He expects making the scarf to be tougher, but once he gets into the rhythm of it, he sails right through. It takes him less than a week (albeit devoting a few solid hours to it every day, possibly more on his days off) to end up with what is, if he may say so himself, a pretty fine scarf.

The challenge comes in actually giving it to Eddie.

Christmas would be an excellent excuse for presenting it to him, except that's a little over a month away, and Steve doesn't want Eddie to go cold until then. Instead, he takes to keeping the scarf in his glove compartment just in case the perfect occasion for giving Eddie a scarf arises.

And much to Steve's surprise, one actually does.

It's right after the first real snow, and Steve has insisted on driving to pick Eddie up so they can hang out (Steve has nightmares about Eddie's driving when road conditions are optimal, never mind when the roads may be icy). He can see Eddie shivering under his jacket, blowing warm air into his cupped hands (Steve wonders if he could learn how to crochet gloves at some point, too. Ones with full fingers), so he ever-so-casually gestures to the glove box and tells Eddie, "Hey, if you're cold, I've got an extra scarf in there."

He's possibly not as casual as he hopes he is (or maybe Eddie just sees through him, like he always seems to), because Eddie gives him a look. "You do, huh?"

"Yep."

Steve concentrates very hard on the road in order to avoid Eddie's eyes. It doesn't stop him from hearing the little laugh Eddie lets out before popping open the glove compartment.

"Oh," Eddie says quietly as he pulls the scarf out, likely having been expecting another castoff piece of outerwear. "This is... actually really nice."

For a moment, Steve can't help but glance over to see the way Eddie is fingering the crocheted ridges of the scarf, running a thumb over the bright silver stripes picked out of the black, and he immediately looks back up at the road.

"Yeah. You should– you can, uh. Keep it. If you want," he says, and wonders what happened to the days when he was smooth.

"No, man, this is, like, for real nice. I couldn't take this," Eddie says, though he's still holding the scarf in his lap.

Steve draws a breath in. "I mean, I was kind of hoping you would, since it's for you."

"Seriously?"

They have unfortunately arrived at Steve's house at this point, and there will be no avoiding the conversation now.

"Yeah," Steve says. "I, uh. Made it for you. So you should take it. Don't let my hard work go to waste, yeah?"

"You're shitting me," Eddie unfolds the scarf and holds it up in delighted scrutiny. "You made this?"

(Distantly, Steve appreciates that the emphasis isn't on "you made this?" Like Eddie doesn't immediately doubt he's capable, only that he's holding a handmade item at all.)

"Yeah. No big deal." Steve shrugs.

"You made this for me." Eddie looks at Steve, and it sounds like that had been meant as a question, though it comes out in flat uncertainty.

"Yeah. Just noticed you were cold, but you won't wear anything that doesn't match your aesthetic," Steve tries to tease, wiggling his fingers at Eddie's outfit, but Eddie doesn't say anything in return.

He doesn't say anything for just long enough that Steve gets insecure all over again, reaching hesitantly for the scarf.

"But, I mean, if that's weird, or whatever, you don't have to-"

"Nope. Fuck off, I'm wearing this forever." Eddie loops the scarf quickly around his neck and squeezes the ends in his hands. "Jesus, this is soft."

Steve grins. "I'm not sure it'll last forever, but I can make you another after than one wears out."

"You'd better," Eddie says, and he's grinning too. "So, what, you knit?"

Steve points a very serious finger into Eddie's face. "Crochet. There's a difference," he says sternly.

Then, because he can't help it, he bops the end of Eddie's nose before getting out of the car, leaving Eddie to scramble out behind him, laughing and calling him a dork as he goes.

(The kids, incidentally, don't tease Steve nearly as much as he'd thought they would when they find out.

This is possibly because they're more mature than he gave them credit for, but more likely it’s because El is standing beside him and daring them to say anything unfavorable about their shared hobby.

Mostly they just let it slide, though Dustin demands to know why Eddie got a scarf and he didn't. Then Lucas wants one, too, because Mike and Max have already received various bits of outerwear from El, and he's not about to be left out. And then Robin, of course, will want to know why Steve hasn’t made her anything, once she finds out that he’s making things for the kids.

Steve resigns himself to a busy winter spent under a pile of yarn.

It's not really a hardship.)

[Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue | Ao3]

[punk-in-docs]

Oooh and just thinking about detective Quinn laughing during sex, but maybe that’s just me

‼️Hold the Bourbon‼️Detective Quinn x Reader

TW: uhm filthy slutty sex, PIV, doggy, pretty damn lot of dirty talk. Just man slut behaviour- my brain is broken. This is all I’ll be thinking about for the next 3-5 working days.

He’s such a whirlwind. That doesn’t skip any damn thing when it comes to sex; he’s flippant. Dominant and he will take what he wants from you, with zero seconds notice and the biggest knife edge grin-

Grin so cunning sharp you could cut yourself on it.

The confidence this guy has? Yeah, it’s totally unmatched and he’s down for anything. He’s done it all. It’s LA man. He’s with it.

Sex is a second nature to him. The well learned back of his hand by now. He’s had partners of either gender. He knows how to touch, how to caress, to flirt and squeeze, kiss, and certainly how to fuck them.

He knows how to make the person in his bed cum like a fucking faucet and still be trembling out moans for more. He’s good that way.

Honey his dick is a solid fat ten, and he fucks like a porn star with it.

Honestly, there’s no guy you’ve ever met that’s like him. Mercurial, switchy, a changing writhing ball of slutty and well dressed energy. He’s here, there and everywhere. A storm. He’s a tropical energetic pumped storm that smells like Pour Homme.

Gold medallion swinging slamming his neck. Rattling loud. Chopping a couple lines of coke (one time, birdie, he’d winked) joint tucked in his pocket. Dancing in his kitchen mixing you a Cosmo in a cocktail shaker, in his shiny new Gucci shoes and a striped Versace silk shirt. Red cherry gum and sweet chapstick. Kissing your waxy lipstick away and mumbling how strawberry sweet you taste.

Just when he’s got you thinking you have him pegged, he’s wriggled free and a new facet of his character is ready to stun. He cancels a date, with apologies and a huge huge bouquet of yellow flowers enough for a small Italian wedding, and a handwritten card. Work took him elsewhere.

Sorry Birdie, x. Always with a kiss.

And then a night later, he’s knocking at your door. Dressed in a slutty open necked black shirt and bright pink bell bottoms. Golden Saint chain. Tilts his head at you with a smirk that’s right off some terrifying horror film. Something with teeth and predator instincts. Whiskey eyes warm you and he makes your pussy damp.

He’s got a brown paper bag in his hands. Bottle of Bourbon. Bulleit.

“I want a bourbon with ice.” He greets you with that confusing sentence.

He smiles and licks his lips when you answer the door in a scratchy old aqua blue towel. He scoffs. And then adds;

“And then I wanna fuck you, hard, doggystyle.” He announces. Eyes never leaving yours. Your heart quivers.

Such a mouth on him.

He dances inside. All intent stares and throwing his jacket in the vague direction of your coatrack. He stalks you backwards and doesn’t even look to slam the bottle down on your kitchen table.

He’s stalking you backwards. Two steps become three. Three melt to four. Backs of your knees hit bed.

Now you’re treading the worn old patchy carpet of your bedroom. Peach satin sheets all tumbled and messy behind you. Hands at your side, heart ramming as he reaches for your waist over that crappy old towel.

“On second thoughts. Hold the bourbon. Pass the pussy.” He smiles. Full with pride at his own dirty joke.

“Real nice.” You smart at him. Made you sound like a joint he could just share around.

His hands zip to the front of your makeshift towel dress. Right over your tits. He takes both sides and peels them away.

His smile curls on one side when he watches that aqua blue swim away to gone. Dropped to the floor as a damp scrap of nothing.

“She’s real nice.” He promises you. Standing toe to toe and rubbing his thumb right through the slick mess of your cunt. You watch as he pops that thumb right in his mouth and sucks-

He hums. Slipping his thumb free. You lay thick on his tongue like molasses. Only ten times sweeter. Saltier.

“I think she’s missed me. Birdie. Look how wet she’s getting.” He laughs.

His fingers are back to slipping through your cunt. Parting lips. Coaxing out more of that delightful sticky mess he always drives out of you. Drives you wild-

“She’s a filthy girl isn’t she. Just can’t help getting so slick and creamy when I’m around right?” He grins. Tongue tipped pink between his teeth.

You can’t even get a word in edgeways and he’s already shoving you back to the bed.

He’s taking off his shirt and undoing his Prada belt. Waft of cologne comes your way. “I got something for her baby. I know she must be hungry.” He winks.

Shamefully, that makes you clench. Filthy man.

And there, sprawled in your bed, you stay for a good long while-

Once he gets going you’re not entirely sure your legs will work anymore. sweat-licked skin all over, love bites on your shoulders, and he’s well on the way to fucking your brains right the hell out.

He gets his wish and does you doggystyle.

Your hips cradled snug in his hands, hurting where they’re wedged wide to make room for the drive of his cock. Bottoming out ands scraping tenderly at the warm satin depths of your cunt.

Your knees shiver into the peachy sheets. You’re drooling - it drips slick down your chin and you’re so lost in pleasure you can’t count the amount of times he’s made you cum.

A throat screaming raw amount. Enough that you know it’a not just that silky lube you use rolling in drips down your sticky thighs. Pattering to the bed.

Your hands knock onto your headboard, slamming the wall like thumps. Your palms clammy. Hair wet on the back of your neck and all clumped together thick with sweat. Stuck to your cheeks.

He stops suddenly - sits back on his heels and reaches for the bedside, lights up a cigarette. Your body bows.

“Keep that ass up.” He warns as you stay there in the dark orange wet patch. A small pinch on your thigh to enforce the lesson.

You huff for breath with the small slither of a reprieve he gives you. You hear his cig packet. The flick and burn of a lighter. The slow cloud roll of silver smoke.

He slaps his wet-smeared cock to your ass. And then your clit. Rubbing and taunting.

Drags a bone wracking shiver out of you with the sudden sensation. Then he lines his head up and slips right back on in with a slick squelch.

Moaning from deep within in his carnal chest on an exhale, puffing out smoke as he does. Holds it in his lips. Slips out the cracks of his straight white teeth.

Watching below as one hand palms open your ass and gazes at how he pushes inside you. Girth stretch stretch stretching that pretty pussy so wide. Watching the push and tug of his meaty dick slapping balls deep to your ass. Closes his eyes and savours for a second-

“This pussy has definitely missed me, Birdie. She’s swallowing me whole. Fuckkkk. Look at her go.” He starts his deep strokes again. Deep, unyielding g-spot fucking.

“I’m gonna finish in that mouth tonight baby. Fuck that throat deep and fill you with my cum. Alright?” He says like it’s an afterthought.

You barely had the energy to sob. Or nod.

He’s stroking your hip and ass. Hand slowly crawling up your spine to feel the slam of his hips rippling through you. Your ass was so fucking round and nice. Every part of you is exquisite and he wants overdose on you like bad cocaine.

Another deep drag of his cigarette. He slows. He thinks. Devours you in your post orgasm gaze with those killer eyes. He rambled on.

“Then, I’m gonna eat her for a little bit.” He pauses to lick his lips. “Oh. She’ll be so nice and juicy for me by the time I’m done. Melting into my mouth.” He decided as his thrusts picked up speed and punching ferocity.

“Then-“ He huffs as he really starts to ram you up the bed. Smacks it to the wall. Wants to wake up some of your asshole neighbours. Anger some folks.

“I might have my Bourbon.” He finishes his words with a gasp that morphs into another laugh.

Your pussy choked down clamping on his dick. He hisses through his teeth.

“Or I might lick it off your tits. Haven’t made my mind up yet.” He sighs. Smiles and smokes some more. Pounds away.

You just lay there and take it- this man in all his filthy fleeting bliss. And you wouldn’t change it for a thing- you couldn’t even if you wanted too.

~

[aerequets]

out sick

a/n: obligatory sick fic that turned into a big heaping pile of pining and conflicted loid. i am a Sucker for a good sick fic. in that chapter in the manga where yuri suddenly falls sick, i thought yor would probably be the same way where she abruptly gets sick out of nowhere. and also i just want loid to care and simp for yor so here we are

posted on ao3

...

After eight consecutive late shifts, it seemed like Yor would be on her 9th one tonight. 

Loid, Anya and Bond sat around the dinner table, Yor’s empty seat glaring despite being such a frequent occurrence as of recent. Loid had just set down the dish of food and had been hoping that, against all odds, Yor would somehow be able to make it back early tonight. But no such luck.

“I miss Mama,” Anya whined, looking at her empty seat with a frown. Dinner had been an uncharacteristically quiet affair for the past week. Talkative as she was, Anya didn’t seem keen on chattering away when her Mama wasn’t there to listen along. “I only get to see her in the mornings.”

“She’s very busy at her job,” Loid offered. It didn’t really work as consolation, not that he was expecting it to—he was also a little miffed at how City Hall seemed to be running her ragged these days. Her workload seemed to be rivalling his own, and he was a spy in an understaffed agency. Every morning she would apologetically mention yet another late shift, weary with bags under her eyes, yet she never failed to set off without a bright smile and her best wishes. He really hoped she would be able to get some rest soon. 

“So many bad guys to get rid of,” Anya sighed.

“What?”

“N-nothing!” Anya hastily clambered onto her seat and snatched up her fork. “Let’s eat, I’m hungry!” 

Loid relented, deciding to let her odd comment slip, and had begun to dish out some pasta for Anya when there was a telltale clinking at the door. He froze, fork in hand. Anya gasped and jumped out of her chair, running to the door with Bond close at her heels. “MAMA!” 

Sure enough, the door swung open and Yor stood there, eyes bright. She laughed as Anya barreled into her legs and gave an excited Bond a pat on the head. When Loid came to the doorway, she grinned at him, cheeks flushed. “I’m home.”

Loid found himself smiling without meaning to. “Just in time for dinner. How does pasta sound?”

“Amazing,” Yor sighed as she took her coat off. He noticed her forehead was shiny.

“Is it hot out?” 

“Huh? Oh.” Yor wiped her forehead and found her hand slick with sweat. “A little, I guess. I was also in a rush to get home.” She smiled again before heading inside to set her things down, Anya and Bond trailing behind.

They sat down again, this time Yor occupying her seat, and it seemed like a switch turned on within Anya. She began eagerly babbling about a hundred different topics and events in a jumbled fashion as food was dished out, only taking pause when she began to eat. Loid took her pause as an opportunity to talk.

“I’m glad your work finally let you off a little earlier,” he said. “They’ve certainly been...liberal with assigning late shifts, to say the least.”

“Oh, yes,” Yor agreed, her voice airy. “It...has to do with the recent emigrations to Westalis, I think.”

“Ah.” That made sense. Recently, especially in the last week, Ostanians had been moving to Westalis in droves. The reason wasn’t what mattered much to Loid—people would move wherever, whenever they pleased for whatever reason—but rather, the outcome. Radicals and pro-war Ostanians began spreading nationalistic rhetoric, insisting that “deserters” should be treated like traitors. Fights had broken up across the border. People were injured and killed. WISE had been looking into any particular driving force behind the surge in anti-Westalian rhetoric, but they had yet to pinpoint any one source. There were too many people making lofty claims in too little days. Yor, working in City Hall, would definitely have more on her plate. “Hopefully things calm down soon before they get any more out of control.” 

Yor hummed in agreement, lifting her fork to her mouth. Her movements were slow and languid. Tiredness, perhaps? But something seemed off. Anya was blinking up at her Mama, and Bond began to whine. An unsettling pit formed in Loid’s stomach. Something was very wrong. 

“Mama,” Anya started, pulling at her sleeve with a little hand, “why’s your head so slow—”

Yor’s fork clattered out of her hand and her chin dropped. If Loid hadn’t shot to his feet and caught her head in a hand, she would have faceplanted into her plate.

Her forehead was hot and sweaty under his touch. She wasn’t just flushed like usual when she’d greeted him at the door—she was burning. And her eyes, which he’d thought were just shining before, were glazed upon closer inspection.

He wanted to kick himself. All the signs had been there in his face, yet he’d failed to notice any of them right away. What kind of spy did that? What kind of husband does that? 

She was sick.

“Mama is poisoned?” Anya asked frantically. He had no idea where she got that notion from. “Is she gonna die?!”

“She’ll be fine,” Loid assured her, though the feeling of her scalding forehead under his hand wasn’t helping. He needed to get her to bed. “Would you mind opening her bedroom door? I’m going to bring her in.” No sooner than he’d finished speaking had Anya shot off, dutifully heeding his words for once. He gingerly made his way around the dinner table, lifting Yor’s head before hefting her out of her seat. She was solid and still in his arms. Knowing the inhuman displays of strength she was capable of made her limp arms and shallow breathing feel even worse. He hurried to her bedroom, where Anya and Bond stood guard at the door, and laid her down.

Anya struggled onto the bed with Bond’s help and crawled over to Yor’s side. Her lip wobbled. “Papa, she’s going to be fine, right?” 

“Yes. I’m a doctor, remember? We’ll make her better,” he said, ignoring the fact that his occupation was not only psychiatry, but also fake. “Wait here. I’m going to bring some things.” He left and returned with some cool water, washcloths, a thermometer, and various other items. Anya hadn’t moved from her position except to wrap an arm around Bond’s neck. She was whispering to the dog—something about telling her something?—that Loid didn’t really pick up on. 

The thermometer read 38.8 degrees. Loid slipped Yor’s headband off so her bun wouldn’t get in the way of the pillows before looking at her work uniform. He wouldn’t undress her yet, just take off the outer layers and unbutton her cuffs and the top buttons of her shirt to wipe down her wrists and neck. If the fever persisted for a few more days without seeming to get better...

He’d deal with that then. 

“Can you put these in the kitchen?” Loid asked Anya, handing her the tray of items. She took them gingerly, showing more caution than with anything he’d seen her handle. “And please wait outside. I’m going to take care of Yor and then come out.”

Anya looked like she wanted to argue, but after one more glance at her Mama’s still form and the tray in her hands, she gave one jerky nod before descending from the bed and running outside. Loid got to work, sliding Yor’s work vest off of her and rolling her sleeves up. It was when he was wiping her neck that he noticed it. 

It was small, almost imperceptibly so. He could have even mistaken it for a mole if he hadn’t already known that Yor’s neck, ever exposed in her usual red sweater, was free of any marks. But it was there, a small, dark red spot on a slightly raised bump of skin, and he knew what it was from firsthand experience.

A track mark. Something—someone—had injected a syringe into Yor’s neck. 

...

Handler appeared at his door around noon the next day. He knew why: he’d been summoned via cipher placed in the morning paper, and failed to show up at the meeting spot. She was tapping one heeled foot, arms tightly crossed, when he opened the door. 

“Dr. Forger,” she greeted. Her clipped tone was one that agent recruits at WISE saw as a signal to run away. Loid couldn’t find it in himself to be scared. “I wasn’t aware you were taking a day off from work today.” 

“My wife’s sick,” was all Loid offered as explanation. It was short, frankly lacking in the etiquette typically required when speaking to one’s superior, but Handler must have seen something in his face because her foot paused in its drumming and her arms loosened slightly.

“...what happened?” She peered around his frame as though she might be able to see into Yor’s bedroom. “Is she alright?”

“Better than last night,” Loid replied. He’d stayed by her side throughout most of the night, monitoring her condition. Her breathing got slightly deeper as he switched out her washcloths and her temperature went down a bit, which was good, but she hadn’t woken up once. 

Though, he couldn’t have slept even if he’d tried. There was the issue of the syringe mark. Loid knew he wasn’t mistaken, and it was driving him just a little insane as he came up with countless possibilities behind it.  Anya’s odd remark kept resurfacing in his mind, too. Mama is poisoned? But if so, why? How? And most importantly, who? Who dared do such a thing to Yor and expect to come out of it unscathed?  

It was then that Anya slipped into the room and sidled up next to Loid, peeking out from behind his legs. “Boss la—er, are you Papa’s boss?” 

An instinctive smile found its way onto Handler’s face as she squatted, waving to Anya. “Hello there. Anya, was it?” 

“Yup.”

“You were right, I am your papa’s boss. I heard your mama’s sick.” Handler had a naturally soft cadence while speaking to Anya, something which would otherwise be unbelievable coming out of her mouth. “But she’ll get better soon, won’t she?” 

Anya nodded fast. “Yes. Mama is strong.”

“All mamas are.” Handler patted Anya’s head before getting up. “I believe there are some patient files to be looked over. Good thing I brought them with me,” she said, while her lips mouthed the words, I know you’re busy, but let me at least brief you. 

“That’s quite confidential matter to just be carrying around, is it not?” Loid asked, glancing down at Anya. How will you brief me without Anya hearing?

At that moment, Anya jumped. “Um, Papa! I want to sit with Mama. I’ll be quiet, I promise. Can I? Pleeease?” 

Loid blinked. “Oh, uh, sure. Make sure not to jostle her, okay? And come tell me if anything happens.”

“Yup!” Anya saluted before running off into Yor’s bedroom. Handler watched her go with a fond expression. 

“She certainly has good timing.”

“Right...” Loid said, a little bewildered. He shook his head and headed to the living room, sinking into his seat with a groan. He hadn’t realized how stiff his muscles felt. Handler followed and perched on the sofa, crossing her legs. 

“I’ll get straight to the point. It’s about the border scuffles that have been happening all week,” she said in a low voice. The same issue that had overworked Yor, then. 

“Did we find a source?”

“Well... it’s complicated.” Handler sighed and adjusted her skirt. “That’s what we were looking for at the start, but we ended up finding something else. Something unexpected.”

Unexpected was never good in a spy’s line of work. “What is it?”

“A lot of the bigger figures promoting a war and encouraging the border fights were killed. They had hits put on them.”

“That works out for us, though.”

“It does,” Handler agreed. “The unexpected arose when we traced all of their financial transactions and found that each one of them was secretly sponsoring the same underground research facility. So we looked into it.”

“And?”

“New forms of warfare,” she said. “Biological. New poisons, acids, gases. It seems like there’s some breakthrough scientific research happening underground to develop these kinds of things. And they’re more lethal than anything we’ve encountered before.” A frown twisted Handler’s painted lips. “We’ve connected them to whole families that were murdered because they were planning to move. All it takes is one shot to kill a fully grown adult within minutes.”

Loid felt nausea brewing in his gut. “One shot?”

“Half a milliliter, give or take.” 

It might have been a stretch to connect what Handler was saying to Yor, but the situation seemed too unlikely to just be a coincidence. A typical shot administered via syringe was half a milliliter. Yor worked at City Hall, which was loosely connected to the border situation, but how would she have come in contact with someone possessing that kind of poison? And why would they give the shot to her, when she wasn’t planning on moving to Westalis? On top of all that, Handler said one shot could kill an adult within minutes, but Yor was alive, if not feverish. All the new information was making his head spin with more questions than answers. No amount of critical thinking was helping him draw conclusions—he was missing a piece to the puzzle. A big one.

Handler cocked her head. “Is something the matter?”

He knew better than to lie to his Handler. She’d trained him; she knew all of his tells. Yet when he tried opening his mouth to tell her about the syringe mark on Yor’s neck, nothing would come out. For whatever reason, he couldn’t tell her. Not when he didn’t know the missing puzzle piece himself. 

“It’s just a worrying situation in general,” he said lamely. He fully expected her to flip his seat over for daring to lie, but instead, she softened again. 

“Your wife will be fine,” she assured. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I-I was talking about the research!” Loid sputtered. Handler rolled her eyes. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she muttered before getting up and dusting herself off. “Do keep me updated on your wife’s condition. I’m leaving now.”

Handler’s unexpected softness thoroughly unsettled him. He was on his guard ten minutes after she left, expecting her to pop in the window and clip the back of his head for insubordination. When he was sure she was gone, he began heading to Yor’s room. Just then, Anya dashed out, head wildly swinging until she saw him. 

“Papa! Mama is trying to leave!” Anya cried. Loid ran into the bedroom, where Yor was staggering on her feet, trying to pull on her coat over the work clothes she’d slept in. 

“Yor! You need to rest!” 

She didn’t seem to hear him. With a grunt, she pulled the coat on, creases bunching up around her shoulders, and grabbed for her keys. They slid off her dresser and landed on the ground with a thump.

“Yor.” Loid stepped forward and gently grabbed her by the shoulders before she could lurch down to pick them up. “Yor, can you hear me?”

She looked up into his face, but her expression seemed far away, eyes unfocused. “I need to get to work.”

“You need to rest,” he repeated.

“I have to go,” she insisted, fighting against his hold. It was a mere iota of her usual strength, which was the only reason why Loid was able to hold onto her. “I can’t miss work.”

“You’re sick,” Loid said. He moved one hand up to her head to feel. Less hot than before, but still warm. “And it’s Saturday. Don’t worry about work and focus on getting better.”

She was still struggling. “I have to go... Yuri...” Loid’s eyes widened. “I need money for Yuri’s school.”

Oh. He knew Yor had raised Yuri from a young age. That probably meant that she had never allowed herself to rest. When was the last time she’d gotten sick? When was the last time anyone had cared for her while she was sick? Had she always tried fighting through it by herself, not letting anyone know until the last moment when her body gave up? The thought of her, young and alone and feverish, made his heart twist in a way he couldn’t quite justify. You aren’t her real husband, he reminded himself. There’s no reason to be hung up over it. 

But he still brushed her hair out of her eyes, letting his hand linger on the side of her face probably longer than was strictly necessary. “Yuri is doing well,” he said softly. 

She blinked, lethargic. “What?”

“Thanks to you, he graduated top of his class and has a good job now.” He slipped the wrinkled coat off of her shoulders. “You can rest, Yor. You already did everything you had to do for Yuri.” 

“Everything I had to do...” She echoed. Loid’s eyes strayed unbidden to the mark on her neck. “Oh. Right. How could I forget?” With a soft laugh, she flopped back onto the mattress, arms splayed out. Within seconds, her breathing had slowed.

Anya had been peeking out from behind the doorway the whole time. “Does Mama not remember things?”

“It’s the fever. Once it dies down a little she’ll be back to her usual self,” he explained. “It seems like she’ll be up later. I’m going to go make some soup. Want to help out?” 

“Ooh, yes!” Anya cheered and ran out to the kitchen. “Can I do the chopping?!”

“Absolutely not.” 

...

The soup had been made a couple hours ago and sat on the stovetop to stay warm. Anya, who’d tired herself out from the very strenuous job of peeling 3 cloves of garlic, had napped, woken up, and was now watching cartoons. Loid had taken Bond for his walk before sitting down to aimlessly flip through the paper. 

Yor still slept. 

He glanced at the clock. It was nearing dinnertime. Maybe he’d been wrong about Yor waking up today—she’d probably be up tomorrow. They’d save the soup for her and order takeout for dinner. 

It was while he was deliberating this that Anya suddenly straightened in her spot by the television and turned her head as if listening to something. Then, she shot up and ran into the kitchen. 

“Anya?” The sound of the tap filling a glass reached his ears, followed by her pattering shoes. “Where are you going with that?” 

She ran into Yor’s bedroom, the glass sloshing. He was just opening his mouth to chide her for running with a full glass when he pushed the bedroom door fully open and saw Yor, sitting up in bed. 

“You’re awake,” he said, too surprised to say anything less obvious. Yor opened her mouth to respond but coughed instead.

“Oh, you must be parched.” He hurried forward and helped Anya deliver the glass to Yor spill free. She drank slowly and deeply until the glass was empty. 

“...thank you,” she finally managed, voice a little hoarse. She smiled at Anya. “Thank you for the water.” 

Anya stared at Yor for a total of one second before bursting into tears. She shoved her face into Yor’s lap, still bawling, while her parents exchanged a startled glance above her head.

“You were sleeping for so long,” Anya hiccupped. “An-and your face was always hot! I haven’t gotten to play with you in forever!” 

Yor looked like she was holding back tears as she stroked Anya’s head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.” She looked up at Loid. “How long has it been?”

“Just a day. You got back after work last night and fainted during dinner.”

Yor’s eyes widened and a hand twitched. Loid thought she might have raised it to her neck. “I...I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“What are you apologizing for? You’re better now, and that’s what matters.” Loid leaned forward and felt her forehead again. “How do you feel?”

“Um—ah, good,” Yor stammered. Loid thought her face was awfully red again, but she seemed clear-minded, so he slipped his hand off. 

“That’s good. I made soup—”

“I helped,” Anya said, her voice muffled. She’d stopped crying.

“We made soup,” Loid amended with a smile. “Do you feel like you can eat?”

“Oh... thank you so much. Yes, I think I’ll have some,” Yor said. “Er... I’ll wash up first, though. I feel a bit gross.”

After Yor showered and changed, the family had a late dinner in her room, a tray balanced on her lap as she sat in bed. After their meal, Anya quickly began nodding off, so Loid helped her get ready for bed. It was after he was sure Anya had fallen asleep that he exited her bedroom and turned around, knocking on Yor’s door. 

“Come in.”

Loid entered and quietly shut the door before sitting at the edge of the bed. “I didn’t really get to ask you before, but are you sure you’re fine? There’s some more of the painkillers I gave you before. I could also get soreness patches if—”

“I’m fine,” Yor cut in with a laugh. Her eyes, he noted with relief, were shining like usual, none of the disconcerting glaze from the night before. “You and Anya took really good care of me.” She cleared her throat. “Um, speaking of... did I say anything while I was feverish? O-or do anything?” 

He looked at her neck. Her hair, damp and faintly smelling of lavender shampoo, was hanging down and covering the mark he knew was there. “Not really,” he replied. “You mentioned Yuri once, but that was it."

"Ah, okay. That's a relief." She fidgeted with the sheets, seeming like she wanted to say something more.

"What is it?"

Her fingers twisted for a few more seconds before she sighed and stopped. "It's just...I feel awful. I worried Anya and was a burden on you both."

"You were sick, not a burden," Loid said. "Everyone gets sick."

"Not me," she mumbled. He felt like he wasn't meant to hear that.

"Actually, Yor..." She looked up at him. He took a deep breath. "I noticed something while I was wiping your neck down. It looked like a mark from a needle."

Yor wore her heart on her sleeve. She was perhaps the most candid person he knew. So when the color drained from her face and her hand flitted to her neck, right where the mark was, he knew it wasn't for show. "I-I... that's..." she stammered.

It was clear from her reaction that the mark was something significant. Perhaps Loid's far-fetched conclusions were even correct, and Yor had somehow fallen on the wrong end of a syringe filled with newly developed poison. But that still didn't answer all his questions. For instance, who gave it to her. Why they gave it to her. And most importantly, what she was doing in order to be close to poisons like that in the first place.

Twilight would coax answers out of her one way or another. That was what spies did—they dug out information from every last crevice and acted as they saw best fit. Twilight would guilt her, maybe, using her urge to act as a good wife against her in order to get her to fess up. Or maybe Twilight would seduce her, tuck a maddeningly lavender-scented lock of hair behind her ear, letting his hand drop to her neck. He'd trace the syringe mark with a thumb before kissing it and whispering a request for the truth against her skin.

"You don't need to tell me," Loid said. Yor froze, eyes impossibly wide. "I won't ask if you can't tell."

"But-but how can you..."

He could finish her sentence without having to hear it. How can you trust me?

"We all have our secrets," he said. Inside his head, Twilight was banging at the walls, screaming his idiocy. He ignored that. "That includes me, too."

Yor shrunk in on herself. "But I caused so much trouble. If I... if only I'd been more careful, I wouldn't have had to drag you both into my mess."

He took one of her hands between his own. "I meant it when I said you weren't a burden, Yor," he said, his eyes flicking between both of hers. "You don't have to bear every burden alone. I..." He thought back to her in the throes of the fever, trying to stagger to work for Yuri. "I know you're strong and capable. I know you've shouldered things alone your whole life. But you're allowed to be weak sometimes—that's what family is for."

It was rich of him to be talking about what family was when he'd built this fake one for the purpose of his mission. But more and more often, he'd forget that their family was fake. More and more often, he'd find himself in moments of weakness, too. That's what family is for.

Why else was he failing to draw the truth out of Yor? Because, loathe as he was to admit, she—along with Anya—was his greatest weakness. It was the reason why he hadn't been able to tell Handler the truth about the mark on Yor's neck. Some selfish part of him knew that WISE would be able to dig up the truth and he might have to let go of Yor. He wasn't ready for that yet. He wasn't sure he ever would be.

So even though he was directly going against every principle that had been drilled into him for over a decade, he didn't ask.

"Besides," he continued, "it was in our vows, right? In sickness and in health."

That drew a watery smile out of Yor, a sight Loid gladly drank in. She looked down at their hands and he jolted, realizing he'd been holding on for way too long. But before he could pull back, she clasped his hands with her other one. In a distant corner of his mind, he noted how small her hands were compared to his.

"I want to tell you," she admitted quietly. "I can't right now, but I want to. When I tell you, would you..." she trailed off.

"I'd stay," he said without a second thought. At her shocked look, he repeated, "I'd stay, because I know the kind of person you are, Yor. Whatever it is you can't tell me, you must have a good reason."

Selfishly, he wanted to ask if she'd stay for him, too. It would be both ridiculous and hypocritical to do so because 1) he was the one planning on erasing Loid Forger once necessary, and 2) she wasn't suspicious of him in the first place. But the urge to hear her reassurance was almost overwhelming. Tell me you trust me, too. Even though I have a thousand lying faces I've told you more truths than I ever should have. Tell me you'd stay even if you knew my truth.

"It's the same for you," she said. This time his eyebrows were the ones raising in shock. "You said you have your own secrets too. But I know that whatever they are, you're still a good person."

It was then that he realized how close they were. He was perched on the edge of her bed. Their hands were clasped together, and at some point they'd leaned in far enough that he could see the shadows cast by her lashes onto her cheeks. The lavender scent was wrapping around him now, filling him up with every inhale.

He could feel himself close to doing something stupid. Like threading his hands through her dizzying lavender hair, or touching the pulse under her jaw. So he wrenched himself back with more difficulty than he'd anticipated and gestured to some used washcloths on her dresser.

"I'll—" Why was his voice so hoarse? He cleared his throat. "I'll put those away. You should rest."

"Right. Yes." She nodded so vigorously that he was afraid she'd give herself a headache. "I will. And, um, thanks for the soup. And the medicine. And, well, everything."

"Anytime," he smiled, before swiftly walking out of her room. He shook his head once he was out, taking deep breaths of—thankfully lavender free—air. That scent must have been driving him crazy.

A few days later, when Yor was feeling better (and promised a tearful Anya that she'd hold off on late shifts no matter what), Loid sent Handler a message that he was ready to get on with the mission. He found himself quite eager this time around.

He was going to give some underground researchers and whoever had used their creations pure hell.

[sainadazai]

This is a preview to a longer story I'm working on. Enjoyyh

Brent Faiyaz quotes as MHA characters relationships

"I remember when you couldn't tell me a thing, now you talk so much it drives me insane."

With Bakugou Katsuki

When Bakugou first spoke to you, it was in the support course lab. You were biting your lip as you scribbled notes into your journal. So annoying. You were always biting your lip.

He noticed over the many times he'd walk past the large glass walls just to peer in at you. Also annoying. He could never just walk by, he had to check if you were there. And if you weren't he developed a small sinking feeling in his tummy. As though he wanted to see you.

He had, however, finally decided to actually join you in the lab one day in the middle of your second year. Apparently he deduced that if he just spoke to you once, he'd realize how dumb you are, and never again feel the need to stare at you as you work, or take in your plush lips being furrowed in concentration.

So he creaked the door open and entered the lab with an uncertain frown on his face.

When you heard someone enter you were expecting it to be one of your classmates, probably trying to get extra time on an assignment or help out a hero course friend. Your eyes flickered up, prepared to display a polite smile, but no words. You really weren't one for casual banter, and no one in your class spoke to you all that much anyway.

So you were fairly startled to see a large, muscular, and disgruntled hero course student stomping into your lab. His eyes were pricing as though he intended to speak to you and it made you quickly avert your own.

You'd only met a few hero course students in your time at UA, mostly in the regard of upgrading their suits and gear. They weren't the easiest bunch to be quiet around.

Generally full of energy and words spilling out their mouths like vomit, it was hard to keep up with them.

"Hey." The blonde grunted out, huffing as you simply gave a head nod and returned to your microscope. He was now finally able to see your full face. It was structured and pure, eyes glistening with curiosity for a second before retreating and your hair was kept nicely out of the way with a very large clip. Half up, half down. He could see your neck all the way down to where you lab coat came into view and was for some reason enticed to stare more.

"Uhm, I need to fix these." He gestured to hit gauntlets, hoping to catch your eyes again.

When you heard him speak yet again you let out a frustrated sigh, and extended your arm. Signaling him to hand over the weapons.

He took a glance to either side of the room in confusion before walking further towards you. Were you really not gonna say a thing?

He watched as you examined his equipment, soft fingers smoothing over the burn marks and cracks that littered them before opening you control latch on the inside. You moved them underneath a magnifying glass and began looking as wires and circuits that he didn't even know could fit in there.

After further inspection tough you noticed it was just a leak in his collection pouch that seemed to the problem. And you spoke back to him for the very first time. He'll never forget it. "I'll return them tomorrow."

Before you set them to the side and continued to ignore Bakugou's presence, he stood there dumbfounded.

Why did your voice sound so quiet and calm? Unbothered even. And why did his heart rate pick up so much?

_

The next morning, when he walked into Mr.Aizawas classroom he found a slick leather bag on his desk, finished with a small sticky note that read.

Don't go easy on them - y/n

Ps. They needed a new paint job

And when he opens the bag he sees a slick and shiny coat of black line with one orange stripe across the bottom of each gauntlet. A smirk rests on his face. He's excited to see how he can overuse them, so that maybe he can go back to have to fix them again.

_

Six months later he gets the nerve to touch you for the first time. Bakugou Katsuki has come in to sit and watch you work. It's a new habit he's aquired. He realized overtime that even tough you really didn't speak all that much, you never told him to leave. And so he would just stare, watching as you added and refined his own gear.

Today is the first time he's seen you in two weeks. To you, this felt quite nice, you had grown so used to the large boys intense presence that you forgot how peaceful your work could be. Still, when he walked in today you felt your heart rate pick up, and noticed your own lips curl into a small smile.

You had been listening to a boy who usually worked with Hatsume rant on and on about his suit material and how you could theoretically enhance it. It had actually made you miss your blonde buddy from the hero course. He was always respectful of the quiet. His stare was brooding and intimidating, sure, but he never spoke more than a few words every now and then. Usually complaints that you learned to just roll your eyes at.

The boy in front of you was overwhelming. He had a very strong build but round cheeks and freckles. Very cute, but so energetic right off the bat. Usually it took you quite some time to speak your rants out loud to someone.

"Izuku." You wanted to startle him out of his rant by using his first name.

What Bakugou saw though, was his rival speaking to you. And then you using his first name. And gripping his wrist, a small smile on your face. And for some reason his chest began to ache. Stupid Deku.