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egoistars · 2 years ago

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TALKING TO MY GHOST AT NIGHT reo

theres a ghost in the blue lock facility, reo and bachira are sure of it. they also aren't the most reliable sources out there but it was funny, nagi can humor them for a little longer if it means reo will finally get a partner and set him free ( wc : 2.1k+ )

warnings : crack, angst if u blink slowly, reader is a slut for money and so am i, reo is into some weird shit but it's ok they're into each other i promise

“Yo! Yo! Sei-shi-ro!” Bachira called out, once again with glittering stars in his eyes as Reo’s face pales every passing second. “You will never guess what Reo and I found!”

“Nagi, there’s a ghost,” Bachira’s accomplice muttered. “We saw them when we went to eat dinner.”

“You guys are delusional,” the white-haired boy sweatdropped, were they getting enough sleep? Probably not. Ego was absolutely insane and for the first few days Nagi was in the Blue Lock facility, he swore he was losing his five senses ( he was better when he got his phone back but that’s not important ^ _ – ). “Are you guys sure it wasn’t a janitor or cook?”

“We swear!” The dumbass duo retaliated, each one taking hold of one of Nagi’s arms. “They looked like they were our age and they even had the same really ugly dark circles and eyebags as you! There’s no other explanation.”

Nagi was too tired for this shit he just wanted to lie in bed and play mobile games like an elementary school kid. “Well, leave me out of this you guys can get haunted for all I care.”

“What the fuck, Nagi?! Even after all we’ve been through? I’m like the second coming of Jesus to you! I introduced you to the art of playing with balls!” Maybe he could have worded that better but Reo was too deep in the blistering sorrow of betrayal to care about his relationship with the Japanese language.

“Yeah! Listen to Reo! You’re one of us and plus, you and the ghost look equally exhausted so that means you should be the one to talk to them!” Bachira innocently giggled as if he didn’t just set Nagi up for a demonic ritual or whatever the fuck they were planning.

“Can we at least wait until tomorrow?” Nagi whined, his eyelids felt heavy and there was too much stupidity in the room for his brain to handle in a day. His brain was swelling and any more that came out of Bachira or Reo’s mouth would cause it to explode and somehow, his batshit insane rivals teammates will find a way to bring him back to life ( maybe even with the ghost ) and beat the shit out of him for abandoning them ( Reo ).

—

It was getting late and most of the Egoists had gone to their rooms to do whatever was on their schedule next. The reasonable ones went to rest, the weird ones went to train, and then there was the demon named Rin Itoshi who went to follow his yoga routine. Ew, that name sent shivers down Nagi’s spine. He wants to see that guy trip and fall on his ass sometime, that’d be pretty funny, he thinks. It would be even better if his brother did the same. But for Nagi, instead of playing his first-person shooters like how he would like to, the boy was being shushed by Meguru Bachira who was accompanied by an oddly serious looking Reo Mikage.

“Ghost… ghost…” Reo began making different “oOOOoO” noises to mimic ghost sounds from a badly produced Halloween movie. “We come in peace. We don’t plan to hurt you.”

“Yeah! We’re totally cool, you should hang out with us! Look! We even have some random dude who’s like the same breed of human as you! Er… as you were.”

“Bachira I didn’t agree on being a human sacrifice,” Nagi tried saying, but was quickly cut off.

“Shhh! You’re gonna scare it away! No one cares~!”

“Are you mentally well?”

Bachira and Reo let out loud ear-shattering screams, each going straight into Nagi’s head and giving him the most painful migraine he’s ever experienced, so painful that he almost did not realize it was an unfamiliar voice talking to Bachira instead of one of their own. Looking up at whoever it was, it happened to be another teenager who looked relatively normal with no seemingly ghostly features at all.

“Aren’t you guys soccer players? What the fuck are you doing out here ghost hunting?”

“Wait so you aren’t a ghost?” Bachira tilted his head and asked, his eyes blank in confusion while Reo looked like he was short-circuiting.

“No…?” You replied, pinching your skin. “I’m like ninety-nine percent sure I’m alive and well. You guys are hallucinating or something if you think I’m a ghost.”

“T-then why are you here?!” Reo pointed at you and demanded, suddenly thinking you were some intruder or hitman that was hired by one of his family’s rival companies, out to kill him while he happens to be away from home.

“‘Cause I’m that freak Jinpachi’s cousin. I need volunteer hours to graduate so I came here and honestly, I regret it. Nepotism sucks—well, at least this kind. I should’ve been born as some major actor’s kid.”

“Woah! So you aren’t here to kill me, that’s great!” Reo beamed, suddenly very giddy that a cute intern the same age as him would not be an absolute danger to his well-being. It had been years since he felt this electricity in his chest, the last time being when he met Nagi, who had been stuck with him ever since that day on. The purple-haired boy was unsure of whether the pleasure he felt from meeting you was due to a new challenge, or the fact he was genuinely interested in you. After all, he thought you were a ghost the first time he saw you.

“What—huh?! Why would I kill you? What kind of unresolved trauma do you have? Was this Jinpachi’s fault? That man is fucked in the head but he has money so don’t tell anyone about it until he dies and I get all his inheritance, ‘kay?”

Nagi did not know if you morbid words went one of Reo’s ears and out the other or if Reo was weirdly into whatever fantasies you had. Rich people. Bachira, though, was giggling like a devious troll, making squelching kissy noises in Reo’s ear as you went on and on about your plan to save yourself from the world of middle-class living and kick your cousin out of the economic elites so that you could replace him, knowing damn well that Ego could hear you.

And, he did.

A large television screen mounted to the front wall of the Blue Lock Facility cafeteria turned on almost immediately after you stopped talking, displaying a far from happy Jinpachi Ego in all of his bowl-cut glory. The man’s permanent frown was even more of a frown than what Nagi thought was humanly possible, another ew in his book. Man, his coach was depressingly ugly.

Jinpachi Ego was a tired man whose tiredness plummeted into exhaustion every time he had to interact with his hellspawn of a cousin, you. “[name], cut it out and get to cleaning. You aren’t going to get any credits or paychecks if you continue standing there wasting all our time telling people your empty plans of ‘plotting my downfall’,” Ego spoke with his monotone voice, making faux quotes with his hands.

“Oh, shut up old man. You’re literally decaying compared to me. Get to bed, grandpa,” You restored, visibly pissed off but immediately switching your facial expression to a cheery one like a lightswitch as you bid goodbye to the three teenage boys before you and running off to “beat that bowl-cut’s ass”, as you put it.

“Dude, you look like you just met an angel and fell in love!” Bachira laughed in Reo’s face, doubling over and rolling on the floor.

“I think… that’s because I just did,” Reo mumbled, awe still on his face as he blankly stared at the television screen Ego was just on.

—

Once again, Nagi just wanted to go to bed but had his plans interrupted by a very desperate Reo Mikage.

“Come on! Nagi, you just don’t get it. They’re my soulmate, I’m sure of it!”

“Why can't you go alone? Why do you have to drag me into you trying to ask them out? Aren't I just gonna be in the way?”

“Nagi,” Reo whined, pathetically dragging out his name. “I need you there for moral support. I'll piss myself otherwise, you know that.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be sure to laugh at you too when they reject you.”

“I'm gonna punch you.”

“Whatever, just this once, you hear me?”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Reo saluted his closest friend, skipping to the cafeteria to find you. To be honest, he was unsure of whether or not you’d be there but considering the fact you’ve been cleaning the cafeteria at the same times for two days in a row, Reo thought he had a pretty good chance. But of course, luck wouldn't always be on the side of the rich and famous.

Nagi and Reo walked into the large, open room only to find the lights completely out, without a single sound echoing throughout the cold. An eerie feeling took over the previous excitement that Reo felt that evening, accompanying it with a chill down both of their spines.

“They aren't here, let's go back,” Nagi urged. He would never admit it to anyone's face, but the cafeteria was starting to give him the creeps. “Bring Bachira with you next time, he’d be over the moon to help you.”

“No! Wait! This place is creepy as fuck but we haven't even looked yet! Let me just turn on the lights—”

“See? You should be more like your friend here. Why are you in such a hurry to leave? I don't bite!” A voice popped out from right behind Nagi, causing him to physically jump into the air and trip over and onto his knees before violently whipping around, coming face to face with you manically cackling at his reaction. “Man, you're easy to scare!”

“Hi! You're er— [name], right? That's what Ego called you last night,” Reo greeted, “I'm Reo Mikage.”

“Yeah,” Nagi chimed in from on the floor. “He's Reo Mikage.” Reo really wished he followed through with punching Nagi in the face. “He's the heir of the Mikage Corp.”

“Mikage… Mikage… Mikage…” You muttered, trying to remember why that name sounded so oddly familiar to you. Is it the name of a restaurant you went to? No, he said ‘Corp’, that wouldn't make any sense.

“That means he's super rich by the way,” Nagi added one last time before ditching his awestruck friend in the otherwise empty cafeteria that he doubted anyone would go to anytime soon; it was almost nine in the evening.

“Oh my God, you're rich?” You gushed, suddenly very interested in what Reo had to say for himself—well, even more interested. It was like a dream for you; some really pretty dude coming in looking for you specifically, ignoring the part where he thought you were a ghost, of course. But having this same pretty boy turn out to be a super mega rich heir and also be super mega athletic? Jackpot. You won in life. It's God’s apology for making you be related to that bastard Jinpachi Ego. This is your main character moment and you will make sure that boy will be yours before any other trashy gold digger other than you picks him up and takes him away. “That's like, the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“That's not the only thing you're after, right?” Reo cautiously asked. It slightly hurt knowing that you might not actually be interested in him, but only after his wallet instead. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened, but it would be the first time it's happened with someone he was genuinely interested in.

“No, no! Of course not! You're pretty funny and well uh, really cute so even if you were broke I’d shoot my shot.”

If you spoke any more, Reo thought that his cheeks would fucking burst from how hot they felt and he was more than sure his face was a burning crimson red. It was suddenly as hot as a midsummer's day with the sun shining right above his brushed, violet hair, causing his entire body to sweat. “Holy shit I could marry you right now.”

“Hell yeah, let's get married, Reo!” You exclaimed with the same ecstatic eagerness as the boy whose hands you were grabbing onto while jumping up and down.

“[name], get to cleaning. You are not getting married anytime soon.” Before you could start making up your vows on the spot, a shart voice cut through the moment with the click of a button as the television in the cafeteria turned on once again, displaying a displeased, disturbed, and beyond annoyed Jinpachi Ego who was most definitely not pissed off because he can't get himself a partner like how his cousin can.

#reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #mikage reo x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock reo #bllk reo #blue lock #reo mikage #mikage reo #bllk #bllk manga #bllk bachira #bllk nagi

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possibilistfanfiction · 2 years ago

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conservationist au already!? you write so fast dang (what are your secrets) (also it's okay if you want to keep them secret) (mostly i am excite for frog)

here she is! frog au! lol [ao3]

to see us blossom (while the green spreads like wings)

only our feet have been here, that i'm aware of. it's wild and remote and beautiful as can be. i just want to be quiet and love it. let it sink in. i'll be leaving the planet, sometime. and i'll miss it.

— dr. bruce means

'dr. silva,' diego bursts into your office, his hair fluffed and messy, 'i found someone for the expedition!'

'did you... run here?'

'yeah, from the lab.' he gulps a breath. 'i got excited.'

it's fucking awesome that diego, your favorite grad student, is coming on this expedition, but it's becoming a huge pain in the ass to plan — you try your hardest not to feel guilty about why, but it is mostly because of you — and is starting to feel more and more impossible by the day. you don't want to get your hopes up: you don't have that much funding, and it's starting to seem a little bit impossible logistically, even with dr. superion's help. but you'll humor him: 'so who are we taking with us?'

he waits a breath, practically bursting at the seams. 'beatrice zhang.'

'the photographer?'

'she's an experienced climber! you follow her on instagram, right?'

you have gratuitously followed beatrice zhang on instagram for the last four years — for her photography, because it is some of the most beautiful and thoughtful you've ever seen, regardless of the subject matter, but also for the occasional photo of herself, surfing or climbing or behind the camera, particularly delightful if it features her arms in a tank — but diego doesn't need to know that part. 'yes, her work is wonderful for lots of conservationist efforts.' diplomatic, you think, mentally patting yourself on the back.

'and she's hot.'

'i didn't say that.'

diego rolls his eyes.

'anyway, how would we even get her to come with us?'

diego grins. 'i emailed her.'

'what?'

he takes out his phone and shows you her instagram, which, indeed, does have an ‘email’ button, which, obviously, you've never paid attention to before. 'she hasn't responded yet, or her team or whatever, i guess, but i only sent it ten minutes ago. and it went to a legit address and hasn't bounced back, so, i just figured, why not?'

even though, last year, you had had a successful time in guyana, finding and recording a few new species, there are a lot of why not's, really: your GA probably shouldn’t be making these choices without consulting you first, but you don’t really care about that so much as your mobility is more limited than ever lately. the weather probably won't hold so who the fuck knows if it'll even be possible to reach to spot at all. and, plus, it's for a frog. one tiny frog, that may or may not exist — (you're sure it does) — in the middle of a jungle on the top of a tepui that's never been climbed. it's... a little crazy, when you think through it now, way crazier than it had seemed when you wrote the grant for funding last year. most people, even world renowned war-turned-wildlife photographers with insane biceps — especially them, probably — aren't interested in a project like this.

'well, the least that will happen is she doesn't respond,' you figure; you don't believe in any religion and life had dealt you quite the shitty hand for a long time, so if there's any balancing it out, maybe this will be a strike in the good column for you. so, 'yeah, you're right. why not?'

it's two days later when your phone vibrates about seven times; you roll over in... some girl's bed? okay, solid night, then, and when you look over at her, she's beautiful and fast asleep. you remember your fifth shot of tequila and vaguely how great riding her dick had been; you find your phone graciously plugged into a charger on the nightstand on your side of the bed, and when you go to the bathroom you see condoms in the small trash can — so, all in all, a success. your back is sore but not terrible and you groan when you see it's only six am, but there's texts from diego and you have a policy not to ignore those, no matter how stupid they occasionally can be.

these are unequivocally not stupid, though, because they start with dr. silva! and then ava!!!!! ava! and devolve into some emojis and then omg oh my god and finally check your email, which is really the only helpful part of that — but they're not stupid because when you do check your email, you see a forwarded message from diego first. it's a cordial reply to the email he had sent to beatrice zhang, from her, it seems, asking politely to be put in touch with the lead biologist on the expedition if possible. which, you remember with the tiniest bit of a happy jolt, is you. you open the newest email, which is, in fact, connecting you and beatrice. she’s already responded, and it’s kind of wild because, from the three short sentences asking if you could set up a video chat to talk more about the expedition or, if she happened to be close to where you were in the world, even meet near your office or lab for coffee, she sounds, well, at least interested. you don't think someone like her — someone who has photographed war, and famine, and wildfires, and, miraculously last year, a snow leopard and her cub — would even respond to something she didn't care at all about.

holy shit, you text diego. you need a cup of coffee, or, like, maybe three cups of coffee, and a breakfast sandwich before you can respond to that email, so you decide to get a move on. plus, it feels unhinged to respond to it from your phone, so you need to go home anyway. you should also maybe definitely shower, you think, as you look at yourself in the mirror: your makeup is a little smudged and your hair is an unrepentant mess. still hot though, you think when you quietly find your clothes and put your bra on, a deep teal that makes your boobs look awesome. thankfully, you were just in high-waisted, loose jeans and a cropped sweater last night, so after you wash your face and get dressed, it's not really giving walk of shame — walk of pride, thank you very much.

you google maps where you are and, thankfully, it's a nice enough morning and a short enough distance that you can walk to your favorite cafe and then to your apartment without having to call an uber. you grab your cane from where you'd left it propped up by the wall near the bed, and then, because you're definitely not an asshole, gently shake your, well, one night stand's shoulder. her eyes are green, and you do remember that much.

'i gotta go do some work, sorry.'

she nods. 'right. doctor.'

well, maybe you're a little bit of an asshole, but it's not your fault that people think you're a very important neurosurgeon or something. you are very important in cataloguing biodiversity, so you just roll with it. 'thanks for a great time.'

she nods with a soft smile, and it's nice to kiss her, gently, goodbye.

'wait, you're meeting with her? here?'

'yes,' you say, mostly annoyed at camila's vaguely unhinged energy. 'she's close by train, so it's better to meet in person.'

'oh my god,' camila says. she's one of your best friends and probably the smartest, most tech-savvy person you know. when you figured out how helpful it would be to have someone operate drones for you on this expedition, you hadn't even bothered to ask anyone else.

'don't you know her?'

'well, sure,' camila confirms. 'i did some drone work for her a few months ago in the bahamas when she was photographing sharks. but, like, she's amazing, ava.'

'well, hopefully she'll say yes.'

'you'll have to charm her.'

'i'm very good at charming hot women.'

camila rolls her eyes.

'i'm also very good at charming people to go find frogs with me.'

she waits for a beat and then relents. 'well, i suppose that's true.'

'come on,' you say, 'help me make a slide deck. i feel like she'd think that's sexy or something.'

'you're ridiculous.'

'it'll work, i'm telling you.'

beatrice zhang in soft wool pants and closed-toed birkenstocks and a crewneck sweater sitting ramrod straight at the decent cafe just off campus near your office is, quite honestly, not a sight you'd ever expected to see, but it is kind of a miracle. or, at least that's what it had felt like, when she had emailed that she was, actually, a few hours away by train and wouldn't mind a day trip to meet in person. you're glad that you wore your best professor outfit today, flared navy slacks that make your ass look divine, and a crisp white button up that you tucked in tight and rolled up at the sleeves, a camel peacoat and expensive loafers that dr. salvius had gotten you when you passed your dissertation two years ago. you usually wear... well, not this — you reserve this for conferences and presentations — but, if looking professional helps beatrice sign onto this project, so be it.

and, well, maybe it's not strictly professional to undo another button as you had walked to the cafe, and, like, you don't actually know if beatrice is gay or not, but you spot her and smile and wave and her eyes get big for a moment, and you’re afraid you’ve got it all wrong: you’re small and young and pretty and, sometimes, people think that disqualifies you from being smart. but then her eyes rake over you and linger, for just a moment, on your chest, so you're probably right. if this helps too, so be it.

you wave and she stands very formally; she clearly recognizes you, which makes you feel a small thrill of satisfaction. 'hey, glad you found it okay.'

'i've had much more difficult locations to navigate before, although the freshman can be a bit scary.'

it's deadpan, so it takes you a split second, but then you laugh and offer your hand. 'i'm dr. silva.' you want to roll your eyes at your title, which you normally feel quite proud of, all of a sudden. 'ava, any pronouns.'

'dr. silva,' she says anyway, and shakes your hand firmly. 'it's a pleasure. i'm beatrice, she/her.'

only after do you sit, a little sprawled, and prop your cane up on the table, does she sit too, and then looks down at the menu. 'do you recommend anything? i haven't had lunch yet.'

'well, if you're like, uh... —' falling prey to diet culture, you think, but you don't know beatrice at all, so — 'wanting a vegetable forward option, their salads and quinoa bowls are okay.'

she wrinkles her nose. you hide a smile in the collar of your coat.

'but their kimchi fried chicken sandwich is my favorite.'

'and the slaw?'

'well, i'm a fries girl.'

she smiles over the top of her menu, just slightly.

'but my friend likes the slaw, and i trust her.'

she nods and sets her menu down, her wrists resting on the edge of the table, her hands clasped. a practical smart watch, no wedding band. her full attention is on you and it makes you feel a little breathless.

you're saved from saying something incredibly dumb — you're very, very smart, and you're actually very good at flirting, but beatrice zhang is hot as hell and a certified badass and you also really want her to be, like, your colleague — when your server comes to your table. you both order, and you get the fried chicken sandwich too, even though you already ate lunch an hour ago — diego's always happy to eat your leftovers out of the fridge in the lab anyway.

you're not saved from saying something marginally dumb, though, because beatrice kindly thanks your server and hands over her menu and then looks at you again, fully focused.

'i like your hair,’ you say, instead of, well, anything else. you want to groan and slam your head down into the table, or something, because beatrice's brows knit together and she brings one hand to run through her floppy middle part, short in the back and on the sides, pushing it out of her eyes.

'oh,' she says, softly and definitely confused. 'thank you.'

you're sure you're blushing. 'sorry, i just, like, the last time you posted — you had long hair.'

it's mortifying, the moment you say it, because you can mentally calculate the last time beatrice posted a picture of herself on her instagram, and it was definitely over a year ago.

she also seems to realize this, because her confusion turns to a smug little smile that could probably eat you alive. you'd definitely let it.

'i read about the last species of frog you discovered, when the article came out.'

that was also over a year ago, and you laugh, tension releasing from your shoulders. 'so that’s how you knew what i looked like.’

‘sure.’

to be fair, the article did include a picture of you, muddy and sweaty and overjoyed, holding a tiny frog in the palm of your hand, but, ‘did you google me?’

‘i only take on projects, at this point, that i find interesting.’

‘so you think i’m interesting.’

she raises a brow, a scar that also wasn’t there over a year ago running an inch above it and then straight through, cleanly healed but not faded yet, stopping right on the top of her cheek — thankfully your brain didn't comment on that, even though it's kind of hot too. ‘i think that fact that you've already identified six new species of frog two years into an assistant professorship is interesting.’

'so that's a yes.' you grin. ‘want me to tell you about the project, then?'

she thanks your server when he brings her water and your lemonade of the day, and a coffee, and then leans forward in her seat. ‘yes,' she says. 'i do.’

you tell her about it as coherently as you can: you're sure there's a brand new species of frog — maybe more than one, if you're lucky — on the top of a land mass deep in the forest in guyana. you've secured enough funding to make it happen; bare bones, but still. you have diego and yasmine, your grad students, and michael, another assistant professor in your apartment who's helped you on expeditions before, mostly by carrying a bunch of shit. you've gotten camila — who beatrice is also very excited to work with again — to sign on to do tech work for you. dr. superion and dr. salvius are helping from here.

'so, anyway, i need you to climb the tepui.'

beatrice sits back when you're done, flicks through a few slides on your laptop that you'd handed to her with pictures of the jungle, the cliff face, the budget outlines and logistics and equipment you anticipate you'll need.

'do you know a lot about climbing?'

it's kind — to not assume that you don't; to not expect you to either. you shake your head no.

'i'm an alpinist, for the most part,' she says, 'which means that i climb, well —' she pauses.

'no need to be modest for me.'

she offers a small smile. 'i've climbed eight of the ten tallest mountains in the world.'

hot, you think, but you take a deep breath instead and say, 'that's impressive.' nailed it.

'yes, well.' she blushes. 'thank you. but this kind of climbing is traditional climbing — big wall climbing.'

'oh.' you frown. 'so, you can't do it?'

'i can,' she says, 'and i'd like to. i think i know enough of biology to be marginally helpful, and i can certainly photograph the expedition.'

your heart soars, warming your whole body, and you take a bite of your lukewarm sandwich to hide your smile.

'but i'll need a team. i'm confident that i'll be able to get up the wall, but i'm not experienced enough at this kind of climbing to lead on all of these passes.'

'we might not have the funds to pay much, if you bring on more people.'

she shakes her head. 'i have access to plenty of discretionary funds, so that shouldn't be a problem.'

'that's hot.' well, you tried.

she laughs, thank god. 'i just wanted to make sure that you and your team are okay with me bringing other people on.'

'as long as they aren't, like, shitty, you know. racist, homophobic, ableist. all that stuff.'

she nods, very seriously. 'i can assure you that, while one of my climbing partners is inclined to be an asshole, it's always done with respect toward important identities. she's more annoying than anything. and my other partner is the best person i know.'

'well, other than me, now.'

you can tell beatrice is torn between smiling and rolling her eyes; she does a bit of both. 'and, as far as logistics go, i could easily provide a helicopter to get us in as far as possible. less of a hike.'

it's impossible that beatrice didn't see your cane. 'i have adaptive equipment for myself. i can do the hike.'

but her brows knit together. 'yes, i assumed so: you're leading the expedition. i just meant, for my team at least, the fewer miles we have to bring photography and climbing gear in a jungle, the better. it's heavy, and then we have to do a major climb.'

'oh.' you bite your bottom lip. 'that makes sense. sorry, people suck sometimes.'

'i imagine so.' she looks at you very sincerely. 'i'm sorry.'

you wave her off. 'thanks. it is what it is, though.'

beatrice doesn't try to argue, although you can tell that maybe she wants to. 'anyway, whatever you think will help your team, and whatever will help mine, that falls outside of your grant funds, i can cover.'

'that's — are you sure?'

she nods. 'quite.'

'where did you get these discretionary funds?' you can't help asking.

'a bad man,' she says, leaning forward and whispering dramatically. it makes you laugh.

'ooh, did you kill him? warlord?'

'alas, no. my father, and he's already dead.'

'ah.' you snap your fingers. 'well, if another opportunity comes up, you just let me know. i have tons of lethal neurotoxins in my lab. i'm always down to... you know — murder —' you whisper — 'a billionaire. long haul ethics, you know?'

she nods very solemnly, fighting a smile. 'i'll keep that under advisement.'

you fight the urge to ask her for a drink, and you definitely stare at her mouth a little too long, but then you get it together and offer your hand. 'well, partners?'

she shakes it, hers strong and rough with callouses. the thought sends a little shiver up your spine, but you valiantly ignore it. 'partners.'

beatrice invites you, after a few days of emailing back and forth to create an updated budget and logistics plan, to meet at a climbing gym. it's to meet her other two team members first. before you all get together with your main crew for dinner afterward. she'd given you their names, headshots, and very formal bios, which you had kind of loved: lilith, who, according to beatrice's bio, will be the lead climber. when you google her, you find out that she's, like, a world champion big wall climber, so that bodes well. and then mary, another photographer and world class marksman — I know this isn't particularly relevant, beatrice had included as a footnote, but it is quite impressive — and avid climber too.

you're hopeful about it all, and you're hopeful that tonight maybe she just wants to see you alone, and to have you watch her climb. there's, like, a two percent chance you'll physically be able to climb, really, but that's fine. she'd texted you about it, far less formal than her perfectly punctuated emails, so that's a good sign. and she'd posted a recent picture someone took of her — a candid, petting the trunk of an elephant peacefully — on her instagram too. maybe that was scheduled — beatrice seems like the kind of person who would schedule instagram posts — but a girl can hope, you know? you liked it one hour and fourteen minutes after she posted, from the lab's social media account and not your personal one, so you figure you've handled this all perfectly. you're great, beatrice is a colleague, and you've got this.

you're stressed about what to wear to a climbing gym and then to get dinner afterward, although there's probably a locker room or something, but it's fine. you're hot in anything. (or nothing. not that the night is going to go there.) you settle on tight leggings you wear to the gym and a sports bra, a cropped jacket on over. it's, like, cute and femme, but also practical. you brush on some mascara and put part of your hair into a little bun so it won't fall into your eyes, and you pack a spare change of clothes in a canvas tote — slacks and a nice bra and a t-shirt that hugs your body perfectly along with a pair of platform converse and an army-green overshirt — in case everyone else changes before going to dinner.

you grab your cane and head out the door.

if you fall to your death, it's definitely not going to be because of your back or legs. it's going to be because beatrice is in loose pants that seem comfortable for climbing and a tight racerback tank, and when you walk in, she's hanging by one arm on a short wall, just chilling out there, before she seems to decide what she wants to do. she brings her legs up to find footholds and then she's almost upside down, holding onto the wall with both hands calmly and moving so fluidly — a leg stretching out, her chalked fingers grasping onto a tiny hold. there's a delicate tattoo along her right forearm, all linework, and there are scars all over her left shoulder, running down to her elbow from what you can see: some are jagged and some are clean, neat, like surgical incisions. they don't seem to be limiting her progress at all, because she moves over the outhanging ledge easily and then to the top before just letting go and calmly rolling to her feet after she lands without a sound.

the — very hot — woman, lilith, you know from the headshot, sitting on the floor next to the wall, legs outstretched, leaning back on her palms set flat on the ground behind, and looking impossibly graceful while doing it, groans.

'getting stuck that long on a soft V8? come on, beatrice.'

beatrice, to her credit, just shrugs.

'shoulder?' the other woman asks.

'it's fine,' beatrice says. 'just getting back into the groove of your tiny walls.'

'oh, ha ha.'

'8091 meters will really change your perspective. you should try it sometime.'

'no thanks, i'll stick to my world records, thank you very much.'

they seem like they might physically fight, but then they both start laughing. weird, but you fuck with it.

beatrice turns, her hands on her hips, and, like, whew, god fucking bless, and then waves with a smile when she sees you. she walks over. 'hello ava.'

'hey,' you say, suddenly feeling a little awkward: you have not a single idea what you're doing. 'that was pretty impressive.'

'it was not,' the lilith says.

beatrice heads toward her anyway, and you follow. 'you can ignore her most of the time,' she says. 'dr. silva, this is lilith. lilith, dr. silva.'

'just ava.' you look at beatrice with a raised brow. 'please.'

lilith lazily salutes. 'ava, then. our illustrious leader, i hear. beatrice is making me lead a 1000 foot first ascent for a frog?'

'i'm not making you do anything,' beatrice says, and lilith grumbles like a teenager. it's funny, and you decide that you like her then and there, even if she scares you a little. she scares you a little more when she gracefully gets to her feet. she's tall and imposing, with a sharp face and long hair braided back, more wiry than beatrice's bigger muscles, but — you're sure — just as strong.

she offers her hand, which you shake. 'in my defense,' you say, 'it is a very cool frog. we can even name it after you, if you want.'

this seems to amuse her, because there's a hint of a smile on her face. 'i do like first ascents anyway.'

'see,' you say, 'that's the spirit.'

'ava,' beatrice says, 'no pressure, but i thought you might find it fun to try climbing. only if you'd like.'

'i'm, uh —' you gesture a little clumsily with your cane, the tips of your ears turning red. 'not sure that i can?'

'mary is an adaptive climbing instructor,' beatrice says, gesturing over to the taller wall with ropes connected through pulleys at the top, where a strong Black woman with perfectly neat braids and a dark outfit on is sorting through a few harnesses on the ground. 'but if you'd rather not climb, lilith and i are just finishing up. we can show you a few things we've been practicing in anticipation for the route, and then change and go to dinner.'

beatrice doesn't say either choice with any more or less merit, or worth, or importance: they're choices, and they're yours, and they won't affect how much she trusts you or believes in the expedition. lilith is checking her phone, uninterested at this point, and you decide, as you always have, to try.

'yeah, sure. i have no idea what adaptive climbing is, though.'

beatrice smiles and lilith stays on her phone, texting. 'that's fine. i have no idea about ninety percent of what you study.'

'i find that hard to believe. you're a wildlife photographer.'

she hums, softly touching your elbow and then walking toward mary. 'conservationist photography, sure. but i'm not a biologist.'

you make a note that beatrice doesn't really like wildlife photographer as a job title, although she was polite enough to not outright tell you so. 'well, i'm not a climber, so, quid pro quo?'

'ah, but you will be after tonight,' mary says, standing with a smile and offering her hand. 'dr. silva, right?'

'just ava,' you tell her, endeared by the fact that beatrice had probably been very formally saying dr. silva to her team this entire time. you shake mary's hand as firmly as you can and feel immediately a little more relaxed with the confident, easy way she holds her shoulders, her kind smile, her bright eyes.

'beatrice and i go way back,' she says. 'this project of yours sounds amazing. i was excited when she asked if i wanted in.'

'of course i'd ask,' beatrice says, bumping mary in the shoulder, who rolls her eyes fondly.

'well, beatrice said you were promised an adaptive climbing lesson.'

'if you're still in,' beatrice says, 'mary can show you the ropes.' she laughs at herself. 'literally.'

mary groans, but you're delighted. 'well, don't leave me hanging.'

'no. not another bad pun aficionado. please.'

beatrice grins and you sling an arm over her slightly sweaty and delightfully strong shoulders. she stiffens a little, and mary looks to her for a moment, and you're worried you've overstepped, and fast. but then beatrice relaxes.

you step back and gesture between the two of you happily. 'is this our thing now?'

'if trading terrible puns is wrong, then i don't want to be right.'

mary groans. 'not sure why i agreed to this trip after all.'

'we can name a frog after you, if you want,' you offer.

mary perks up. 'really?'

'yeah,' you say, 'sure. i've already named one after myself and given five others the dumbest, gayest names i could think of.'

'i'm back in, then.'

you laugh. 'well, let's rock and try not to roll.'

mary sighs, but beatrice's muffled laugh into your shoulder is way worth it.

Hi Ava, I'll be in town today to get some equipment squared away. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner if you're free. No shop talk, unless you want

you read and reread the text. you'd gone over shitty — expected, but still shitty — test results from an mri at your neurologist's earlier today, and, even though your team seemed to gel the other night, and all of your logistics are much less daunting now that beatrice has covered some of them financially, you had planned to stay home in your favorite boxers and most comfortable hoodie and wallow with a mediocre bottle of wine and good pizza and great reality tv.

but — hey, that sounds sweet. any places in mind?

beatrice texts back almost immediately. I don't know the area too well. You can pick, if you'd like

like, you're colleagues. you're about to be in one of the most remote parts of the world together in five days, with just a handful of other people, for weeks, maybe longer. you're the leader of the expedition but beatrice is, in important ways, a leader too. she's smart and beautiful and handsome and focused. if it's a date, incredible; if it's not, you still want to know her, you still want to spend time in her gentle warmth.

any food allergies/hatred?

she responds, No, I'm pretty adventurous

still, no clarity, but you set a place and time — one of your favorite tapas restaurants with a great little bar and, if it gets late enough, a good dance floor — and then set about getting ready. you eat a banana and take ibuprofen, which hopefully will help you be able to dance without much pain, and then get as pretty as you deem not desperate for a normal dinner with a colleague to be. which, it's you, so you're still very, very pretty, including one of your very best cleavage tanks. you finish your eyeliner perfectly and blow yourself a little kiss in the mirror. for good luck, or whatever. it's science.

'i got tired of it,' beatrice says. 'war photography is...' she pauses, and shakes her head, like she doesn't quite know what to tell you. you're totally sure she's not telling the truth, not really, but you know not to push, to spook her away. 'i could leave,' she settles on. 'as much as i hate the west, as much as i hate american and european, especially british, foreign policy, and its destruction of the world — i got to take pictures, and leave. at first, i thought it was something important i could do, to record the truth. political inherently, anti-imperialist, without being in politics. but, i was in occupied palestine, and, then, after —' she clears her throat, brings her fingers up to ghost over the scar through her brow — 'after. i couldn't do it. they're wars because of my history — our collective history — but they weren't my wars. they aren’t my wars. i can’t photograph them, at least right now. because i got to leave.'

you're horrified that she might start to cry — which isn't horrifying, not at all, you cry all the time, but you're supposed to be having a nice meal with your colleague and you had asked what you thought was an innocuous question about how she got into her more recent conservationist work, but clearly, not innocuous. you're starting to think, with a kind of clarity you very rarely have about anyone, that nothing about beatrice herself is innocuous. even her collarless button down and loose pants cuffed at the ankles — and the way all of her clothes, ever practical, drape with a tailored casualness on her small, strong frame — her easy hair that’s always actually perfectly trimmed and styled, the pattern of callouses on her hands: everything about her is intentioned. she means what she says. she means what she does. she means who she is.

'i started studying frogs with my mom,' you offer. it's true, and you mean who you are too.

she takes a sip of her water and nods in what you can tell is a quiet relief.

'my family is from manaus. my mom wasn't a scientist or anything, she was a bank teller, but when i was little, we'd go out often. she loved the rainforest, so, you know, i loved the rainforest.'

beatrice smiles gently. 'that sounds beautiful.'

you stare down at a croqueta and tear a small piece of it off, let the old ache fill your chest. 'she died, when i was seven.'

'oh,' beatrice says, 'i —'

'— it was a long time ago,' you say.

'sometimes that doesn't make it hurt any less.'

it's permission, to feel how you need to. most people accept when you tell them that and move on in relief, unwilling or unable to give you the space. but beatrice sits steadily. 'i broke my back, during the car accident we were in; we were visiting spain and, well. i had to relearn to walk. it took a really long time, and the orphanage i grew up in wasn't big on good physical therapy or really any care, so i taught myself what i could outside of school, got into university, got good medical care for the first time, like, ever. and i started studying biology. i went back to the rainforest as soon as i could, as a research assistant, and guyana was ... it's mind-blowing, bea.'

she weighs it all in contemplative silence for a moment, trying to decide what you need; what relief she can give. ‘i can't wait to see. i've always wanted to go.'

it is relief, what you feel, to be so immediately seen and understood. 'well, it's not just anyone i'd want to bring to the rainforest. my mom's favorites were always frogs, so —' you shrug, suddenly a little at a loss.

'so here we are, about to go find another.'

you pop the croqueta into your mouth, feel the dull pain in your chest dissipate when you realize you're close enough to beatrice's face to see her freckles. 'i have spinal stenosis, from the accident. it's progressing pretty fast, even with the best medical team, tech, surgeries, all that.'

she nods, like she understands what you mean without making you have to say it. it's a gift, bigger than she probably knows.

'i really want to find that fucking frog.'

'well,' she says, and lifts her glass, 'to finding our frog.'

'you know, it's bad luck to toast with water.'

she frowns. 'i don't usually drink.'

'you're very... controlled.'

she waits a beat and then grins. 'okay, one beer.'

'fuck yeah!'

'one, ava.'

'mhm. whatever you say, bea.'

'i have to take the train back,' beatrice argues — or, at least, tries to argue, because her eyes drift down to your boobs when you take your sweater off. success.

'you can just stay at my place. i have a mediocre ikea couch.'

'i can't let you sleep on your own couch.'

you laugh. 'oh, you definitely get the couch. i need all the good mattress support i can get before i sleep in a tent for a month.'

she smiles, gently and a little sad, but then the moment passes, a kind of grace. 'fine.'

'really?'

the set of her shoulders is looser but still sure, still so, so certain. 'yes.'

'hell yeah!' she laughs. 'shots?'

beatrice pulls a face but you order lemon drops anyway, mostly because vodka seems neutral and they're a good shot for people who don't drink often, sweet and tangy and fun. beatrice sniffs hers first — bold move, big mistake most of the time — but then nods in approval.

'to our frog,' you say, and she clinks her glass with yours. you touch it to the bartop and she follows suit, and then take it as smoothly as you can. it's an easy drink, so you don't have any problems, and she swallows without too much of a grimace. 'okay?'

'it's not bad,' she says, and your whole body hums, probably because of the two margaritas you had with dinner and this shot now, but also because there are freckles stretching across her cheeks and gold flecks in her brown eyes and if you let yourself look closely a tiny split on her lip, probably from the dry, cool air recently.

you shake yourself out of... whatever that was, and you order two more shots; she takes hers without hesitation this time, laughing when you spill a little down your cheek. she reaches a hand and wipes with her strong hand, tender, over the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, and then clears her throat, takes her hand back quickly, although you want to ask for her to stay. but instead, 'come on, bea,' you say, 'let's dance!'

she only groans in a show of protest for posterity, you're sure, because she's very strong and you're very small and when you tug on her wrists she follows you easily.

you love to dance; you have always loved to dance: what little you remember of your mom is full of green, the rainforest and the wall of your living room. she would push back all the furniture to the edges, just the two of you in a small apartment, where you slept in the same bed and ate fruit from the trees outside. she would put on britney spears and jump around with you; she would put on stevie nicks and hold you in her arms, swaying around. she was full of light, from what you remember, always ready to read to you, in portugese and in english; to help you with your math and your handwriting. she cut your food for you and bought you new shoes when yours wore through the soles. she had been a good mom in the way good moms are: happy to hold your hand, to rub her nose against yours, to let you eat the batter off the spoon. you don't remember much, not before the accident, but it had been easy, and beautiful — the mist and orchids and green, all around.

beatrice is a little stiff until you start jumping around, fully out of time with the music, just to make her laugh. and she does, a smile lighting up her whole face. her body is graceful like this too, like it's always somehow known exactly how to move. you wonder, fleetingly between songs, what she was like as a child, if she was as sure and smart and kind as she is now. someone crowds into her space from behind and then you're not thinking of anything other than the tickle of her hair against your cheek as she presses into you, the lilt of her laugh into your ear, the hard muscles of her shoulders and the soft, small swell of her hips when you bring your palms to rest there. you're drunk and she's beautiful, and you've kissed lots of beautiful people when you've been drunk. but she closes her eyes and sways to the beat and it's like the rest of the world falls away. it's like there's only you and beatrice and the cloud forest, above anything else that has harmed and will harm again. there's her gold skin and scars and tattoos hidden under her shirt, the healed slices down your spine, the air between your bodies: sweaty, sticky with spilled drinks, thumping bass, everyone else in this bar. there's only the two of you, and it's a little like you've been punched in the gut: you're falling in love with her. it's easy, right now, to put a name to it all, when you can look at her jaw without reproach.

she opens her eyes and looks at you, a smile on her face, and leans in your direction. it's easy, to bring your hand to touch where you had been staring, to say, 'bea,' as she laughs into your neck, says, 'this is so fun, thank you.' it's hard to not kiss her, but she's ... extraordinary, and you don't want your first kiss to be in the middle of a mid-at-best dance floor after a few shots. you want it to be somewhere beautiful. somewhere you already know; somewhere you're certain she'll love.

'let's go home,' you say, because you had done another round somewhere between songs and she's slightly unsteady on her feet. she nods into your neck and you take her hand.

you walk back to your apartment with her, one arm looped through hers — 'very gallant,' you'd said when she'd offered, and even in the dim light from the moon and streetlamps you had seen her blush — and your other hand using your cane. she had found it for you, tucked behind where you had been sitting at the bar; she hadn't asked anything about why you didn't use it when you were dancing, or why you need it now. you know so many good people and you organize a lot with some of your other friends who work with the disability center at the university, but there is some kind of a revelation about being seen so wholly.

but maybe you're also just a little drunk, because she sways a bit as you walk and her accent is lilting, tender, her hair messy in her eyes. it's probably as soft as it looks; you had lost your hair tie somewhere between shots two and three and you tuck yours behind your ear. you have so many questions you want to ask her but you hold them in because she looks up at the moon and the stars and it's enough, to be here with her. to know her laugh, now, and the way she has hurt too.

it's enough to just walk.

it hadn't actually taken too much convincing — after you unlocked the door and gave her some choices in pajamas, soft sleep shorts and a big cotton crew her eventual choices, and gotten her a glass of water and a few cheddar crackers — to get her to agree to sleep in your bed with you. perhaps it had been because your couch is ... an unknown number of years old — 'listen, bea, phd students make, like, no money, and it was twenty bucks on craigslist three years go' — or maybe, maybe, it's because she just wants to.

you settle in first, listen to her brush her teeth with a spare toothbrush you'd given her, and wash her face with your facewash — that she had frowned at, accidentally rude but pretty funny and, like, fair, you got it from the drug store on the corner and you're sure she has a whole understated fancy little routine when she's not out in the field — and then wash her hands after going to the bathroom. you love sex, so you sleep with people often. you've had a boyfriend before, that you cared about deeply, so there's some parts of intimacy that are familiar to you, of course. but this, beatrice carefully climbing into bed next to you, with her freckles and her eyelashes and the pink of her lips, is different: you're not going to kiss her, not right now. you're not going to reach out and put your palm on her jaw like you want to, or feel the warm skin of her ribs, the goosebumps that would inevitably rise there if you raked your nails across the ridges. you're not going to because, you know, somewhere elemental in you, that you want to know her, and love her, for a long time. you want to take her to the rainforest.

'where's your favorite place in the world?' you ask instead, whisper it into the dark, the soft outline of her face.

she's turned toward you, her hands tucked carefully under her chin; it makes her look younger. 'tibet. the himalayas.'

'makes sense. you and your big mountains.'

'what's the last mountain you... summited?'

'annapurna. it's the tenth tallest in the world.' she pauses, considering. 'are we playing twenty questions?'

her eyelids are drooping. 'i don't think you're going to be awake for twenty questions.'

she laughs softly. 'i want to ask you one, though.'

'hmm. sure. two to four questions, then.'

'do you... uh, well, okay. do you like women?'

it's so awkward, so out of place for someone so sure, that you have to fight the urge to burst out in laughter. but it's also soft, and nervous, her eyes wide. it makes you feel sixteen again, full of possibility. 'yeah, bea. i'm bi. i love women.'

she nods, tucks her hands even tighter under her chin, lets a big relieved breath out. 'cool.'

'yeah?'

'mhm. i'm a lesbian, if you didn't know.'

you want to say you're the gayest looking person i've ever met but you refrain. for the romance of it all. 'good to know.'

she tries hard to wink and fails miserably. you let yourself, just once, just for a moment, reach out and run your hand through her hair. she leans into your touch, relaxes under it, before you fold yourself back onto your side of the bed. 'you have one more question.'

'so do you.'

'okay. hmm. favorite ice cream flavor?'

she laughs. 'that's what you want to know.'

you nod. 'it's very important information.'

'okay.' she thinks hard about it, genuinely. 'mint chocolate chip?'

'that's so boring, jeez.'

'oh, i'm sorry. simple combinations of dynamic tastes is probably too sophisticated for you to understand.'

'okay, ratatouille.'

she tries, a valiant effort, to not crack a smile, but she eventually does. 'okay, my turn. favorite color?'

you let your eyes fall closed and imagine it all, the sharp thorns and the torrential rain and the chirp of the neon blue frog you'd found last time. you think about taking her there. 'green, of course,' you tell her, a promise, a future in the clouds. 'green.'

#conservationist au #conservationist au 🐸#ft butch bea but we gotta have different tags lol but she's here #just ch1 but ch2 is the expedition!#avatrice #avatrice fic #wn #wn fic #frog au #i guess bc y’all love that lol

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dumbsoftboi · 2 years ago

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#we’re stress testing babes #they should take away my ability to make polls #sorry did I say polls #I meant post #just delete my account while you’re at it #anyway #I love y’all and I hope you have a wonderful night <3 #god help you if you see this post it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done #hmm… I wonder if there’s a limit on the amount of tags a post can have?#a smart man would just look that up #but I am not a smart man #…however that is a test for another day #skate fast and eat ass folks

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eirinstiva · 3 months ago

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"It came on me like a flash".

Halloa! I finally have time to read the second part of "The Inferiority Complex of Old Sippy" and honestly, this felt like being hitted by a train. Too many surprises!!!

So this marital boss-employee discussion evolved into a war between generals. Bertie with the (not so good, in my opinion) idea of using a bag of flour versus Jeeves with (totally criminal!) idea of provoking an accident to Sippy. I was expecting to Jeeves coming with a more carefully detailed plan, or at least something not so risky and Bertie doing something dangereous but sometimes the switch places naturally.

“Jeeves,” I said, “I would be the last man to accuse you of dithering, but this is not like you. It is not the old form, Jeeves. You are losing your grip. It might be years before Mr. Sipperley had a serious injury.” “There is that to be considered, sir.”

I can't believe I'm writing this but, Bertie is right. Let's see how work each plan.

Now, setting a booby-trap for a respectable citizen like a head master (even of an inferior school to your own) is not a matter to be approached lightly and without careful preparation. I don’t suppose I’ve ever selected a lunch with more thought than I did that day. And after a nicely-balanced meal, preceded by a couple of dry Martinis, washed down with a half bot. of a nice light, dry champagne, and followed by a spot of brandy, I could have set a booby-trap for a bishop.

Bertie is 70% alcohol and 30% food. No neurons working there. Maybe that's why his idea didn't worked.

I was amazed. The last time I had seen old Sippy, you must remember, he had had all the appearance of a man who didn’t know it was loaded. Haggard. Drawn face. Circles under the eyes. All that sort of thing. And now, not much more than twenty-four hours later, he was simply radiant. His eyes sparkled. His mobile lips were curved in a happy smile. He looked as if he had been taking as much as will cover a sixpence every morning before breakfast for years.

Let me guess, Jeeves plan worked.

Wait, did it worked? What the hell?!?!?

“Eh? What? Can’t stop, Bertie, can’t stop. Only looked in to tell you the news. I’m taking Gwendolen to tea at the Carlton. I’m the happiest man in the world, Bertie. Engaged, you know. Betrothed. All washed up and signed on the dotted line. Wedding, June the first, at eleven a.m. sharp, at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square. Presents should be delivered before the end of May.”

Congrats, Sippy!!!! In another question, are you ok?

“Well, it’s a long story. Much too long to tell you now. Ask Jeeves. He came along with me, and is waiting outside. But when I found her bending over me, weeping, I knew that a word from me was all that was needed. I took her little hand in mine and⁠—” “What do you mean, bending over you? Where?” “In your sitting-room.” “Why?” “Why what?” “Why was she bending over you?” “Because I was on the floor, ass. Naturally a girl would bend over a fellow who was on the floor. Goodbye, Bertie. I must rush.”

[swears in chilean] What the fuck did you do, Jeeves? Did you strike him with the vase? Or it was an accident?

“Not altogether, sir. Before telephoning to Miss Moon, I took the further liberty of striking Mr. Sipperley a sharp blow on the head with one of your golf-clubs, which was fortunately lying in a corner of the room. The putter, I believe, sir. If you recollect, you were practising with it this morning before you left.”

THIS MAN IS A PUBLIC DANGER!!!

Bertie, I don't know how can you live with him, I knew Jeeves had all the potencial to be a villain and this story is my proof. It's fun to see Jeeves doing the dangerous stuff while Bertie is the one with a bit o common sense. They share one neuron and usually Jeeves is the one that keeps it most of the time.

“I informed him that your new vase had fallen on him, sir.” “Why on earth would he believe that? The vase would have been smashed.” “The vase was smashed, sir.” “What!” “In order to achieve verisimilitude, I was reluctantly compelled to break it, sir. And in my excitement, sir, I am sorry to say I broke it beyond repair.”

That was so clever! He could make something like Bertie and use the vase to strike Sippy, but there was a chance that the vase fell over another person or break it is bigger pieces that could be glued together. Reginald Jeeves won this match. And Bertie's plan?

I galloped up the stairs and dashed in at the door. And something squashy fell on my neck, and the next minute the whole world was a solid mass of flour. In the agitation of the moment I had gone in at the wrong door; and what it all boils down to is that, if any more of my pals get inferiority complexes, they can jolly well get rid of them for themselves. Bertram is through.

Jeeves is the MVP!

Pip pip~

#letters regarding jeeves #the inferiority complex of old sippy #SIPP #jeeves and wooster #reginald jeeves #bertie wooster #bertram wooster #letters in the underground

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kikithedeceiver · 1 year ago

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For the Milgram ask game. How about question 2, 7, 12, 18, 21 for Mikoto :3

milgram character ask game !

I SHOULDN'T HAVE RAMBLED TO YOU ABOUT MILGRAM! DAMMIT, LIZ!

Fine my next fav, Mikoto...and John because you can't really talk about one without the other.

Also disclaimer: I'm a singlet. Just saying in case I offend anyone and feel free to correct me on anything I say wrong. Last question sort of get personal as well, so adding a read more.

2. favorite mv moment/frame?

Can't really choose because:

Mikoto looked so damn at peace here since he's finally able to catch a break

The devastation John felt when he finally realised he screwed Mikoto over big time for what he thought was good for him still hurts me every time I see this scene

7. favorite relationships with another character if they weren't in milgram, the way you'd imagine or would like them to be?

I do have this whole ass AU living in my head where no one is a murderer and living a healthier life, but still coping with their trauma of what could have led them to murder. Also it's more Amane-centred but ANYWAYS.

In that AU, where Mikoto isn't working in an exploitative asf company, yet still enjoys his line of work and can support his fam, I can see him trying to hang out with the rest of the cast from Milgram. Just anytime when he's off work, he'll catch up with whoever wants to chat for a bit. He'll go out with anyone! Maybe with Mahiru as she chats away about what's happening in her life, with Fuuta to just let him vent and maybe watch him play some arcade/mobile games, with Kotoko to just chill. Oh, there's still the smoking group! Night out drinking (Mikoto just gets non-alcoholic drinks tho).

As for Mikoto with John, I guess he'd try to come to terms that he basically has a headmate living inside him, but still try to stay optimistic about it. He knows John is looking out for him (no murder in this AU here), and he's working on communicating better with him too. Mikoto tries contacting him by writing stuff in a journal, and after a while, John also writes back. He also leaves sticky notes around their home to remind Mikoto to take care of himself.

Also also, John is here to listen to whatever is upsetting Mikoto, which he refuses to show anyone. Only John knows, and he comforts him as best as he can. Making sure Mikoto is tucked in, doing the chores around their home as Mikoto rest, etc.

12. what do you wish would be discussed more often about them in the fandom?

I really hope I'm not saying anything wrong here, but here goes...

It's mentioned a lot by fans already that they wished John wasn't the stereotypical bad alter that's always shown in media, but hey, he has layers and more personality than just assumed to be a cold, ruthless murderer, so we got that! I guess what I wish talked about more is how stress from work is a factor in why John committed the murder for Mikoto's sake. There are reasons behind why the murder happened, and honestly, I think it's the company Mikoto worked at that caused this whole thing to spiral out of control for them. Doesn't justify murder, but I can see why John did what he did when he believed what he did was to relieve Mikoto's stress, thus saving him.

18. which non-deco vocaloid songs do you think suit them?

I'm still thinking, but I think Lost One's Weeping fits Mikoto well. Mikoto tried so hard to do well and please everyone, but he is finally cracking since what he tried to pursue wasn't what he thought it would be, and now he's lost. However, I thought of The Servant of Evil fits John as well since he's willing to die for Mikoto if it meant no further harm would come to him.

21. do you have any similarities with them/relate to something in them?

...You're really asking me this.

*inhales*

In a sense, yes. It's very personal and I don't want to get into too much of it here, but I just want to protect whatever goodness I have in myself while continuing to exist. I want that part of me to be happy, that's all.

#milgram #kayano mikoto #john milgram #double (milgram)#lizardsaur #0909 #0909_m #I'm tagging that just in case because i do like their dynamic even tho it's tragic asf

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allsadnshit · 2 years ago

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As someone with chronic stomach problems, I absolutely love how clean and carefully you eat. I always get talked to about my grocery choices and I have to explain how much bad food can really break me, but I'm glad there's someone who understands the struggle of taking care of your body by what you put into it. <333

lol yes everyone I know definitely rolls their eyes at me behind my back because I am so serious and meticulous about food but that's just typical able bodied perception of food and diet thinking it's "boujee" like I'm a Whole Foods wellness mom but I'm literally out here trying to save my own life because I experience chronic illness that has no management protocol or cure besides repeated surgery and other medically invasive options that cause other harm to me and I am not able bodied so I can't just ignore it or let it keep progressing if I want my body to work well enough to hold a job and have a life!

People don't see that getting to choose how you spend your money whether you have a lot of it or not is ultimately a privilege and a luxury! Of course I've come to love food and find many different meaningful connections to it in my life like culture, heritage, sustainability, etc but to be real if I don't care what I eat and if I don't care where my food is sourced or what pesticides it's covered in my body won't be able to function and my illness spreads faster and harder and I will lose more mobility and that means I can't work and can't live.

There's times where I truly do NOT have the funds to spare and I STILL buy only the best quality food I can because 1.my body responds extremely negatively to chemically processed foods especially when it's dairy and meat products 2. I care about workers rights and I don't buy food that was farmed through inhuman labor wages and practices 3.I just on a personal note not only related to health, have no desire to eat super processed non food edible items i grew up on because they aren't real food and I have a bad history with them?Dyes and gums and additives are gross even if you don't have health issues, you just might not learn about it unless out of necessity like how I did.

So yeah, people can roll their eyes at what butters milks and meats I buy and how specific I am but guess what? I don't get to have a fat ass savings account because of my health, that money has to go to every little detail of what I eat so what they are really mocking is disability, allergies, and illness that many people who have to spend all their money on specific diets. They just don't know cause they don't live it! And I forgive that, but they can eat ass if they want to tell someone with chronic pain so debilitating they've had eating disorders and surgeries trying to resolve it how they should spend their money. Modern western medicine doesn't treat everyone equally, not everyone has resources beyond their personal means to reach for. Some of us have illness that doesn't have billion dollar funding and we do what we have to! And for lots of people all they can control is what they eat.

That's the reality! Food is beautiful medicine, and if you never have to learn that good for you! But it's my life and I have decided to love it loudly and take pride in what's it's done for me.

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self-loathing-angel-of-thursday2 · 1 year ago

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Beautiful Spouse’s Rewatch Thoughts SPN 09x10 Road Trip

“I was probably right to be skeptical that he’s not dead, but I think they’re trying to tell us that Kevin Tran is dead” “If you stand any closer, you’ll fkn burn yourself” “They just did that to light up his face and ear” “is the ear part of the face?” “crust” “What did Dean like about Kevin Tran so much?” Dean feels responsible

“I got that” Dean isn’t emoting healthily

“I think he realized that only after he destroyed $10K of lamps” “what the fuck? That was so weird” “maybe should have called security” “what’s the bottle next to the gun? Oh it’s table salt!” “It’s salt” “the pretty gun is purty expensive” “where was Cas at that time?” Cas was freshly human

“The lighting is fkn delicious” “well let’s start with torture and needles and other creepy shit” “or we can go to Crowley. That makes more sense” “I’m right up there with Crowley’s ask” “wouldn’t that imply that Plan B is better? I know he’s trying to convey his plan is better” “Way to show all your cards man” “inexplicably” “Does he not know he needs to put gas in it?” “oh it’s the pimp mobile” laughter

“He fkn said it” “I said the same thing”

“Did he think the gas goes in the butt like Dean’s car?” “Why are they both in the back?” “Oh yeah bud” “Hell yeah” “who did he kill?” He was the only who let the snake in the garden “I already forgot” “Is this how all cults get started? Jesus fkn Christ” “yes muffins” “bloody muffins” laughter

“Well shit” “This was Plan A, for real?” “When was Dr. Sexy?” Idk. Like S4

“Phallus on wheels?”

Laughter “what” “that’s such a canned thing” “he’s fkn killing people” “gotta kill an asshole” “oh never mind” “what?” “Is he not a wise man? Is he one of the 3 dwarves?” NO, he’s not a wiseman who visited Jesus LMAO

“If this guy stabs his friend, all angels are shit.” “Except for Cas I guess” “I shouldn’t generalize, but a lot of them are shitty” “I hate those light switches. Those half-cocked sideways things’

“That’s a lot of jello powder” “with the fist thing” “why would you ever tell your boss that?” “Sorry ma’am. Just playing both sides” “some fkn party” “ghouls and cheerleaders? I want that episode” “That would have been a good episode. They realize they’re in the angel dream. That would have been a better way to write that. Would have been so badass” “Is this just brain damage that the angels can fix?” “just gotta lobotomize him no worries” laughter

“Small talk” “you split up and didn’t work together so….” “he made some ass joke” “you damn sonuvabitch” laughter

“Dean wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Gadreel so idk” “can’t or won’t?” “not even king of hell would do this without getting paid first” laughter “what the hell man. He’s so good with the words. It’s crazy” “just a weird thing” “it is a bad joke.” “can’t he just say the word again?” “I need a go word” “We don’t have a go word” We can come up with one “Isn’t it Gadreel’s dream that he invented?” “gulp” “That’ll leave him all in one piece no problem” “oh yes the Lincoln” “Is’nt that brand dead now?” “the goodest guy” “he planned that out” “that was good though” laughter

“They don’t have him miked up very well so it sounds funny. That’s what I’m laughing about” “they must not believe in lawyers and health care directives” laughter

“How many sons of bitches are there?” “the fkn lighting man is so good” “so fkn good” “like in some shows, it doesn’t feel intentional but this one feels like a paintbrush”

#beautifulspouserewatchesspn #supernatural rewatch #supernatural #supernatural s9

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broteinshake69 · 2 years ago

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Medical discussion and analysis on Ruben

@seradyn Since Shinji Mikami and the team at Tango did such a piss poor job on covering the plight of burn survivors in a game that dehumanizes one - Ruben - based on his (untreatable, let’s be honest) mental illness and actions as a serial killer, I’m going to attempt to shed some light on some details that they tried and failed to explain through vague ass flashbacks and Ruben’s character design/appearance/disfigured posture. We’re not here to pat Ruben on the back and say he’s a good person, he isn’t, but what we are doing is acknowledging that Ruben never had a fair chance at a normal, productive life, and stability, and that his disfigurement was the symptom and reason - aside from Laura’s death - for why he spiraled. It was the reason his father rejected him and locked him up, it was the reason he hid himself from the rest of society once free after almost a full decade of abuse and neglect, and it was the reason his mental health deteriorated when he was isolated. I apologize if my tone is patronizing and rude in this discussion, I’ve had to swallow so much hateful, opinionated idiocy and bullshit from the people I’ve roleplayed with (and even just new and old fans in general) over the years, and yeah. It’s made me a bit bitter and I now realize how ableist people are about Ruben. People are horrible and shallow - surprise! Medical analysis and explanation starts below.

I may also cover the damaging psychological effects that long-term solitary confinement cause in adults in another post. I doubt I’ll be able to find much literature on children, since Ruben was 10 years old when he was forced to live alone, so we can just assume that in children, it’s even more devastating. There are so many things that go wrong internally from massive burn injuries like Ruben’s, and there’s too many to cover, but I’ll try my best... We already know that Ruben has chronic migraines, seizures, thermoregulation issues, and nerve loss, which are all the caused by burn injuries, but things like muscle growth, bone density, and hair growth, are all effected, as well as the development of nervous system disorders (seizures, headaches), impaired digestion (metabolic issues), recurrent infections, and loss of mobility to name a few, and the list goes on. Ruben has them all and the fact that it doesn’t get discussed anymore tells me that people don’t know or care. But I guess it’s easier (and more appealing) for some people to dumb him down and look at him as just a homicidal ghost...but anyway. Before I really get into it, it’s also important to consider that in the 1980′s, the time when Ruben would’ve been “treated”, that medical technologies and therapies for burn wounds would’ve been lacking compared to now. Ruben also lived rurally, and in the middle of nowhere, which would’ve created even more complications. So, one of the most notable things about Ruben’s appearance next to the massive patches of burn scarring will no doubt be his hair loss. His eyebrow hair, which was sparse to begin with if you note his child model, is completely gone. His scalp hair is gone, also. Since Ruben was a child when he was burned, the changes to his hormones were drastic, and though it would appear he did develop, physically, as well as his voice getting deeper as he aged, in my understanding his situation is different from adults who are burned. Children who are still developing will obviously have a different physiological response to severe burn scars. I did some reading on burn alopecia and it does seem to affect hair regrowth.

There’s a lot of literature available on this topic, including alopecia in children, not just related to burn injuries. According to some articles I read, PTSD and trauma can cause alopecia. I would say that such is the case for Ruben, and that he suffers alopecia as a result of extensive burn injuries, and that due to being a child, his system was effected and the stress placed on his body and system from massive injuries, Laura’s death, and the psychological trauma of disfigurement are the reasons for his baldness/inability to grow hair. The other notable thing about Ruben is his poor posture—WHICH IS NOT HIS FAULT, don’t get mad at me, guys. But your neck is not supposed to slope down and forward like that, there’s a medical reason for this. He always has his head bowed, his neck is usually lowered in an unhealthy position. In burn survivors, this is caused by burn contractures (a medical term used in diagnosing burn injuries) which is when the burned area tightens up, loses elasticity and becomes hardened, thusly putting strain on the surrounding healthy skin, and making natural movement difficult and sometimes impossible depending on where the scar contracture occurred and how the burned flesh fused. For example, if Ruben’s chin was against his collarbone during the burn injury, he would’ve fused to his collarbone, creating a fused burn contracture. I’m sorry for that description, but it’s either that or I post a picture, which I’m not going to be doing on here for obvious reasons. In general, Ruben’s posture is called “forward head posture”:

You can see where the skin under Ruben’s chin has become warped and has fused with his neck, and how the skin appears thicker and swollen, which is what happens with burn injuries unfortunately. Luckily, his skin isn’t fused in a problematic position for him, but he still suffers from burn contractures and this position causes strain, too, but perhaps not as much as fighting it would. Continuing on the topic of burn contractures, they’re a problem around the major joint areas (ankles, knees, pelvis, wrists, fingers, elbows, neck) and a reason why Ruben needed the aid of a wheelchair. Contractures also impede fine motor skills such as writing and something as simple as holding a fork to eat. If you look at his hands, you can see that writing and using his hands would’ve been difficult for him. Keratin loss (responsible for toe/fingernail growth) is also a side effect of burn injury and in Ruben’s appearance, you can see that he lacks toe nails and doesn’t have much left of his fingernails as a result of his burns.

Alright...I think that concludes the discussion, but if guys can think of anything else or just feel like chiming in with your own thoughts, please, feel free to do so! I might even repost this and make it shorter, or go more in depth. The physiological ramifications of burn injuries are huge and varied, especially considering childhood development, and I think that should say enough, too, but I know it really doesn’t. That’s why I thought I would go over some of the physical evidence of Ruben’s issues. Thanks for reading, guys, and take care!

#The Evil Within #Ruben Victoriano #Ruvik #triggering subject matter #ableist language cw #burn survivor #medical analysis that is probably incorrect but also correct in the context that Ruben fits the criteria of every problem as a burn survivor #I did my best y'all #some of this stuff is based on Ruben's age when he was burned #adults are no longer developing #children are and they deal with more issues with recovery #those problems are permanent and Ruben had to live with them #I'm not saying that adult burn survivors don't go through hell as well #they do #I'm just saying that children are more vulnerable and the effects are more damaging developmentally #Yeah I had no idea what ableism was y'all #medical analysis

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ziggyplayedguitar96 · 1 year ago

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I feel like you, @chasethemad, @tumblingxelian, and a lot of others who are inevitably going to respond to this apparently controversial/ unpopular opinion haven’t thought about this the same way that I did. First of all I wouldn’t have cared that they never met if they didn’t reveal the branding. If he didn’t have the branding he wouldn’t really have a connection to the SDC/Weiss. We all know he’s obsessed with Blake that’s nothing new. Now let’s assume that the SDC branding had been an idea that CRWBY had since the very beginning and just kind of ignore the rest of canon for a bit.

Adam’s main goal was to hurt Blake, not just physically, but also emotionally and mentally. He knew Blake was at Beacon either by watching her or through Cinder (it doesn’t really matter how he knew it just matters that he knew). Before making his move when Beacon fell he would’ve had to watch her for some significant amount of time. He want to know who she’s around, how often she’d be around them, how much of a threat these people would be, would they get in the way of his plan, when she’d be alone, when would be the best possible time to strike, etc (he could’ve chosen to go after her at any time but I guess the Fall of Beacon was just easier/more convenient for him because it would be easier to get Blake alone).

We know that he hurt Yang because he knew they had some sort of connection. He saw and heard Yang looking for Blake. He saw that Yang wanted to help her. Yang came in at the perfect time for him. He literally just told Blake at that exact moment he wanted to destroy everything that she loves. Yang was a good starting point for that. He stabbed Blake and then cut off Yang’s arm. Now Blake was physically and emotionally. She’s been stabbed and she also believes that Yang got hurt because of her.

This is where Weiss comes in (and where we need to ignore canon). If he observed Blake he’d know who the members of team RWBY were at the very least. She’s around them the most. He would’ve learned the names of the other members somehow (doesn’t matter how) in order to asses them. He’d learn that Weiss is a Schnee and it’d be easy to look her up and see if she’s a part of the infamous Schnee family or just someone with the same name who looks like she could be in the family. This is now his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Hurt Blake and get back at the Schnee’s while he’s at it. In his mind Blake abandoned him and the cause. And Weiss is a member of the family that owns a company that has treated faunus as subhuman. The same company that branded his face. The brand that (most likely) caused him to become half blind. Blake and Weiss have a connection. They’re friends, they’re teammates. If he was watching Blake for a good amount of time he’d know this. Hurting Weiss would hurt Blake the same way hurting Yang or Ruby would. Weiss being hurt by Adam could affect her in many different ways but this post isn’t about that. Also in Volumes 1-3 Blake interacted with Weiss interacted more than she did with Yang. She didn’t even seem that connected to Yang tbh.

If we imagine that Weiss was the one to come looking for Blake obviously they both would’ve been hurt but imagine how interesting Weiss’s storyline would be in Volume 4. She’d’ve been directly affected by her family’s shitty business practices regarding faunus.

There’s also the route that Adam and Weiss meet like once, acknowledge each other’s existences, have a little moment about the brand, and never interact again which would still be fine.

I mean I don’t think Adam would abandon his damage with Blake but it is ridiculous that Adam and Weiss had such a huge connection and it was pointless. Why have the SDC brand if it was never important to the story? That’s just bad writing and character design.

(I’m on mobile so if there’s any spelling mistakes just ignore them it’s already late and I don’t want to proofread)

I still believe that Weiss never meeting Adam before he died was a huge missed opportunity in RWBY especially after they revealed the SDC branding on his eye. He even had easy access to Weiss through Blake. Like why obsess over some girl who left you instead of trying to get to the (former) heiress of the Schnee Dust Company??? It doesn’t make sense to me.

#RWBY #crwby #rwby critique #rwby criticism #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake bellodona #yang xaio long #team rwby #adam taurus #cinder fall

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bloominstorm · 3 years ago

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I don’t care I’m absolutely here for Deku vs. Class 1A

#my messy ass is LIVINGGGGG #LIKE YES BRING THIS DRAMA #talking bout some ‘let’s bring him back’ my boy is too far gone #he literally turned his back on all might…what makes you think he’s gonna listen to yall 😭#don’t get me wrong I want deku to be healthy and to finally rest but it literally will be such a setback in development if he just goes back #like he’s been developing so much and he’s finally breaking out of his idealistic mindset which needed to happen #if they bring him back now it’s gonna be all for nothing honestly #he needs to find a good balance - he needs to understand the realities of the world & handle them but he also needs to rely on others #also horikoshi kinda disappointed me Bc I really thought we were gonna learn about the 2nd users quirk since he hinted at it last chpt #I thought he might’ve had some type of telepathy or honing quirk since he alluded tht he sent bakugou to find deku #whole time it was endeavor..like ok lmao tht was nice I guess Bc it shows tht endeavor actually care for deku and what not I guess #also bakugou putting on his bravado & being snarky as if he wasn’t the main one frantically mobilizing everyone to find deku 🤔💀#‘out of everyone I know deku the best�� ‘he’s insane you don’t know anything about deku’ like relax lol #I like how they’re highlighting uraraka and iida tho like yes cmon I want them to have a bigger role it’s always todoroki and bakugou #also todoroki calling deku ‘deku’ was so weird but I digres #anyway I’m looking forward to this fight but I KNOW horikoshi is gonna annoy me Bc we all know deku can fold the class at this point #he literally has multiple quirks and has mastered a lot of them to a degree where he can take out high level assassins with ease &l #& he literally knows all of their quirks they don’t have a clue about all of his but they have the advantage Bc he’s fucking tired it’s so #annoying like this ain’t bouta be fair 🙄#I just want him to go off like cmon deku go all out #anyway this was a good chapter #bnha 319 #bnha manga spoilers

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seafoodsoda · 3 years ago

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Has a reverse AU Already been done? Probably, yeah. Has a specific reverse AU been done where their personalities stay the same and are extrapolated to make them their best/worst? Also probably but a hell of a lot less likely. I’ll explain:

OKAY SO I TRIED WRITNG THIS ONCE AND IT WAS GOING WELL BUT THEN TUMBLR MOBILE WANTED TO BE AN ASS SO WE’RE DOING IT OVER FROM SCRATCH. TAKE TWO.

So what do we know about our lads? Sun is energetic, fun loving, boisterous, and cares about the rules of the daycare, to some extent, but much more forgiving than his counterpart, Good ol Moony. He on the other hand is quiet, off putting, and a gremlin that will chase you down to exact punishment for any foul play when it come to Rules. Naughty Naughty.

What I suggest is that, hey, Sun is still a loud and energetic friend, but fly too close to the sun? Get burned. Our OG Sun was still obviously concerned about getting in trouble, but this sun? You’re a friend until you’re not. Friendship has it conditions, and there will be no fun if there isn’t order to the madness.

Like let’s say being in the pizzaplex after hours. OG Sunny is totally cool with the fact that there is a LOST CHILD in the PIZZAPLEX at like MIDNIGHT. All fine and good, guess it’s a slumber party, he’ll get the soda and games. Sunburn, not so much. Gregory even being here is going AGAINST A LOT OF REGULATIONS, and he’s a lot less understanding of the situation.

NEVERMIND that you’ll be out of his hair in just a second, you just need this security badge, behind this security desk, NO. THAT IS COMPANY PROPERTY, AND THAT IS THEFT. boy if he was allowed to operate a phone, he would be making so many strongly worded calls right now, that is how much trouble you are in mister. Guess he’ll have to settle on apprehending you. (Y’know I thought about it, and thought it would actually be extremely ironic and funny that we can use the same daycare gameplay, but in reverse. Turn OFF the generators in the play structures. I also imagine “LIGHTS OFF” is still a major rule for sun, but it’s more something he personally imposes instead of a company rule, “BUT ITS STILL PROHIBITED AND VERY BAD TO BREAK, TROUBLERMAKER.”)

So then, what about Moony. So my idea of events is also a bit of dramatic irony where Sun Literally Repeats The Exact Same Lines With The Same Urgency, “LIGHTS ON, LIGHTS ON! I WARNED YOU, I W A R N E D Y O U (DEMONIC SCREECHING)” and then he just dramatically falls over and instead of Moon lurking creepily over the desk, he just. Sits up and goes. “Oh boy. Hello. You’re the boy from earlier aren’t you. This is. Embarrassing. Um. Terribly sorry.” And is just SO SINCERE. It’s almost jarring how easy it is for you to have him hand over the security badge, it would probably, appropriately, make anyone suspicious.

I guess what I want to get across is everyone in this AU who isn’t Sun or Moon are operating off of the assumption that they’re in the canon timeline, Sun is a Great Guy, he’s So Friendly, and super Great With The Kids. Moon? Moon is stand-offish, very quiet, maybe even still creepy to people, he just doesn’t seem that friendly or fun compared to his sunny counterpart. Truth is, Sun is picky with who can be his friend, and if you’re breaking a rule, you’re not a friend. Moon is just happy to make a friend. I mean for goodness sakes, he works with young children they make MISTAKES. He can afford to be a little lenient. Lenient does not exist in Sun’s vocabulary.

I imagine he’ll make sure Gregory is okay, situated, and then instead of LOUDLY kicking him out of the daycare and throwing him to the wolves, just. Hands him off the Freddy who’s right outside. He’s not banned either. He’ll just softly suggest that it’s probably not the best idea to return anytime after closing in the future, but he hopes they can meet again and wishes him well.

And then I thought, well what if he got a bigger role maybe as a treat, so like, low power mode every hour, amiright.

So every hour that passes, animatronic in the pizzeria need time to recharge, and that counts for Best Dad Freddy. But like, this time around, Moon still gets free reign to roam around as he pleases, but he spots Gregory, and he feels bad for Sun having terrorized him earlier, and he’s alone, so he’s like “guess I’m helping this child now”. Am I saying you NEED a second whole companion animatronic? No, but I DO think it would be cool if Moon assisted Gregory, he’s a great climber, and very sneaky, he can grab and go, avoid enemy animatronics, and he probably has good little short cut knowledge from his time being at the pizzaplex, so he can get Greg where he needs to go just as well as Freddy. (This is purely self indulgent though, feel free to disregard this last part.)

OKAY THAT WAS A LOT TO WRITE TWICE I’m not sure if I did as good of a job as the first time, so like, feel free to shoot me any idea you have as well. Thanks for reading.

#fnaf sb #fnaf security breach #fnaf sun and moon #fnaf moon #fnaf sun #fnaf gregory #fnaf glamrock freddy #moondrop #sundrop #fnaf daycare attendant #the daycare attendant #Sunburn AU #doodles #my art

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miekasa · 4 years ago

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call me (levi ackerman)

↯ pairing: levi ackerman x (fem) reader

↯ genres and warnings: fluff, humor? you can be the judge of that i suppose, levi is quiet and often practical, but you cannot convince that there’s not a small part of him that doesn’t enjoy having shit to hold over people lol

↯ notes: this is also cross-posted from another blog, but i tweaked it a bit to fit levi and rewrote/edited parts i wish the world had never seen </3 also i’m reposting bc i was an idiot who accidentally deleted it on mobile rip

↯ word count: 1.3k

↯ summary: drunk you is not amused by the man who keeps trying to coerce you into his apartment; even if that man is your boyfriend and that apartment is his apartment.

“Alright mister, I’m trusting you for now because you’re Erwinnie’s friend, and Erwinnie is my best friend,” you hiccup, wagging your pointer finger as threateningly as you can in your current state, “So if he says you’re a good person, you’re probably a good person. Or good enough.”

Levi holds back a knowing smirk, and loops his arm through yours to steady your balance. He doesn’t know how or why Erwin let you get this drunk, but he’s at least glad the blonde was sober enough to call him to pick you up instead of letting you get in a cab; or worse, attempt to take the bus.

“I’m so very glad you trust me,” he says, voice flat as your wrap your other arm around his bicep. You hum back, a little spacey and like you maybe didn’t hear what he said.

You’re honestly pretty cute when you’re drunk. It’s not something he gets to see often, as you don’t allow yourself to let go frequently; nor do you usually have the time to. And it’s not that he particularly wishes for you to be drunk to the point where you can barely stand, or remember his name, but all things considered, Levi is happy that your general drunk disposition is happy, too.

He waves Mike goodbye as he wrangles Erwin into his car, not holding back his smile this time as you wave over-excitedly at the blonde in the passenger seat, calling his name loudly to tell him goodnight and that you’ll miss him, like you hadn’t already told him goodnight three minutes ago, or spent the last three hours with him drinking. Yeah, you’re cute.

Thankfully, Levi doesn’t live too far from the restaurant you and Erwin were at, so the both of you are home after a twenty minute walk—what should have been fifteen minutes, but was prolonged by your drunken fascination with a squirrel on a public bench.

You start to wobble more when Levi unlaces your arms to get his keys out of his pocket, and he moves his right hand to rest against the small of your back so you don’t fall. However, drunk you is not so entertained by the idea of his hands anywhere near your waist as sober you would have been.

“Hey, hey, hey—hold it right there, mister!” you stutter, words a bit too loud for the confined space of Levi’s hallway at three in the morning, “I am not going in—into that suspicious apartment with you.”

You stumble as you try to remove Levi’s hand from your waist, and he tries to steady your balance again, but push him away more forcefully, staggering into the wall behind you.

“Ah, bitch,” you curse, holding your head and groaning. The pain clearly isn’t enough to stop your accusations against Levi, as you’re back to wagging your finger at him, even hunched over from your drunken stupor, “See, this is your fault.”

Levi sighs. He doesn’t know why you’re holding your head, because you hit your back, and from what he can tell, you shouldn’t have hurt yourself that badly. He’ll take a closer look at you once you’re inside. That’s if he could get you inside to begin with.

He can’t wrangle you and open the door at the same time, so he goes for the latter, finally pulling his keys from his pocket to unlock his apartment door, then attempts to move you inside. Keyword: attempts; because anytime he puts his hands remotely near you, you slap them away.

“Come on, we have to go inside,” he grunts, trying again to get a hold of your arm, but you whack him away harshly. For a drunk person, you seem to have the strength and dexterity of a pro-athlete all of a sudden. Where was all this coordination when he was trying to get you up the stairs five minutes ago?

“No!” you growl—once again, too loudly for the time and place. “Haven’t you heard of the saying no means no, mister? I might be drunk, but this is not my apartment, and I am not going in there to have sex with you!”

“I’m trying to help you go to bed. I’m not going to try and have sex with you.” Levi takes a deep breath. This could sound really bad if anyone else woke up and heard the two of you.

But you’re not having it, crossing your arms and turning your body so that you’re now facing the wall, your back towards a less-than-impressed Levi. “Well, I don’t believe you. I’m going to call Erwinnie tell him you’re being a bad friend, and then Erwinnie is going to call my boyfriend and he’s going to come and pick me up.”

“Oh yeah?” Levi drawls, leaning against his door frame, watching your silhouette as you clumsily search for your phone in your pockets, “Why don’t you just call your boyfriend then?”

You turn on your heels as best you can, and muster up your most menacing glare. It’s not menacing in the slightest, and it actually makes Levi crack a smile, which you do not take lightly; but that only makes him smile further, because sober you doesn’t like it when he’s not fazed by your self-proclaimed intimidation tactics, either.

“Fine,” you huff, finally putting your phone to your ear, “But you’re going to be sorry, because Levi is going to come here and kick your ass.”

Levi chuckles, feeling his own phone ring in his back pocket, “I bet he is.”

“He is,” you insist, stomping your foot for dramatic effect, “He might not be that tall, but he’s strong as hell, plus he’s handsome, and he doesn’t let people fuck around with me, so say your prayers, mister.”

The following afternoon is far less than pleasant. You feel groggy, tired, and like everything is moving in slow motion. Piece by piece, your memories of your night out with Erwin start to come back to you, but you can’t seem to recall anything beyond your fifth margarita.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Levi calls, sarcastically, upon entering the bedroom.

His voice and presence surprises you, but then the realization washes over you that you’re in his apartment and not your own. You’re not sure why yet, but you could probably take a guess.

“Did you take me home last night?”

Levi hums in acknowledgement, nodding his head towards the bedside table, where you find a bottle of water. Levi watches you as you move to hang your legs off the side of the bed and reach for the bottle, groaning in the process. He mentally notes that he should make you breakfast—or, well, at this point, brunch—after you go shower, so that you can take an Advil for the pain.

He moves across the room to sit beside you on the bed, careful to not disrupt too much as to make you spill the water on the sheets. “You know, for someone who’s so happy-go-lucky when they’re drunk, you put up quite the fight yesterday.”

“I did?” you turn to him, capping the bottle, eyes wide with surprise, “You were probably sleeping and you had wake up and come deal with me, I’m sorry, Levi.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures you, an almost uncharacteristic and sly smile playing on his lips, “You always say something interesting that keeps me entertained. It makes up for it.”

“Dear god, what was it this time?” you groan, throwing your head back, “I didn’t confess my feelings for you again did I? This is, what, like the sixth time since we’ve been dating? I’m such an embarrassing drunk.”

“Not a confession this time,” he chuckles, “The opposite. Maybe worse.”

Levi fishes his phone from his pocket, and pulls up his voicemails before handing it to you. Curious—and a little bit scared—to find out what could possibly be worse than confessing to your boyfriend of almost four years that you’re in love with him and sad that you’re not dating him? You’re not sure that it could get more embarrassing than that until you click on Levi’s most recent voicemail and hear your own voice crackling through the speaker of his phone.

“—What, hey, fuck off, mister! I don’t want to go into your scrubby apartment! I am happily dating Levi Ackerman, and when he gets here he is going to grand slam your sorry ass into the ground!”

#aot x reader #snk x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #aot imagines #snk imagines #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman smut #eren x reader

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hoe-doroki · 4 years ago

Text

steel and lace

minors do not interact

warnings: 18+, anal play, sex toys, voyeuristic fantasy, scratching, creampie

pairing: bakugou x fem!reader

wc: 3.8k

summary: The only one who manages to get Bakugou’s birthday right is you.

a/n: This is my addition to the Bakugou Birthday Bash collab (masterlist). Many thanks to @lady-bakuhoe for helping me flesh out the ideas with this story!! You were integral to this idea, love! And additional thanks to @whats-her-quirk and @therealvalkyrie for beta reading <333

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

Bakugou never took work off on his birthday.

Never. Why would he? Villains didn’t give a shit that this was the day the old hag had unceremoniously had him evacuated into a hospital room however many years ago. They didn’t give a shit that his friends—who were also heroes who should be fucking working, by the way—wanna come over to his house and surprise him. As though his reconnaissance-trained ears weren’t as fucking fine tuned at hearing idiots on the other side of the door as theirs.

What villains should care about was that he was a year older, wiser, and fucking stronger, and he was going to kick all their asses. That was what he told all his idiot friends every year when they asked him if he was going to take off work.

Every year he regretted it.

The idiots he works with really must not care about hero work, because every year they want to send him out on a field post sugar crash from some store-bought cake with his name on it. Or buy him gifts that he’ll probably toss in the trash on the way home. He’s not being rude; he just doesn’t need junk that he never would have bought himself in the first place.

Everyone is always grinning at him, wishing him a happy birthday—as though he’s any goddamn happier to see their ugly mugs flapping their lips at him—and trying to start stupid-ass conversations. If he doesn’t like small talk normally, why would he want it on his birthday?

And the singing.

If people really wanted to wish him a happy birthday, they’d find a way to do it silently while doing some respectable fucking hero work. Make his day easier.

But no, none of that was what happened. So he should have just stayed home. Let the villains have a fucking field day on April 20th, and he could have his real gift killing them all tomorrow on the 21st.

But, unfortunately, he was a dumbass and had gone to work anyway, like he’d learned nothing from the last many years of antics. And the continued antics had got him a little pissy. And when he was pissed off, his heart rate increased, his breathing grew heavier, and, of course, he sweat.

Well. Guess what happened?

“Bakugou, I am currently paying to treat burns and fractures on three villains. Care to explain?”

Best Jeanist was sitting in his office chair, blinding sunlight streaming in behind him. Late afternoon sun—darker in color but way more resentful towards human eyes, apparently. It was reflecting off of all of the neighboring glass corporate buildings, making Bakugou squint behind his mask.

Bakugou shrugged, petulant as he stood behind his chair instead of sitting in it. “Overkill.”

Best Jeanist nodded. “Did you…lose control?”

“Tch,” Bakugou scoffed. As if he ever lost control. “Villains were weaker than I thought.”

Bakugou felt the stare of that one fucking eye and stood firm. He knew he was looking at a suspension, hopefully just for a day or two. It wasn’t like he’d done anything terrible. Villains got hurt sometimes, just like pros did, and they got their care and then they got their justice. It’s not like Bakugou was violent on purpose. Anymore. And Jeanist sure as hell knew that, so it wouldn’t take Bakugou off the field for more than a slap on the wrist. He probably wouldn’t even be technically suspended. Just chained by the fucking dick to his desk with some paperwork.

“Just…” Bakugou braced for it, narrowing his eyes but keeping his snarl to a minimum. “Just be more careful next time. Shower and go home—see you tomorrow.”

Bakugou’s jaw dropped. He closed it quickly, trying not to look like Dunce Face in front of his boss, but in all that was real and true what? He was just about to say something—he didn’t know what, probably something insubordinate—when Best Jeanist took out his own paperwork and waved him away.

“Happy birthday, Bakugou.”

Oh. So that was it.

Bakugou grit his teeth. Happy fucking birthday indeed.

It was nothing. His brain told him over and over again that it was fucking nothing. He hadn’t been punished, he hadn’t even really done anything wrong; he just hadn’t been squeaky clean up to fucking code. He could still show up for work tomorrow, business as usual. He should be tickled fucking pink.

But he wasn’t. Special treatment for being the birthday boy? What was he? Five years old and given a pass after stealing the chicken nuggets off Deku’s plate? Jesus Christ.

And if he was honest, he was mostly pissed at himself. Sure, he could blame how the weather always seemed to sprint from spring to summer around his birthday every year, strengthening his quirk. He could blame the villains for being weak enough that they had no business even stepping foot in his neighborhood. But losing control of his quirk even a little—and it had been a little—was fucking amateur and he’d have to pencil in some extra time at the gym. Maybe snatch Shitty Hair for some sparring, and, unfortunately, probably nab an extra therapy session and talk about this anger thing again.

At least walking instead of sitting on that stifling, crowded train car was doing him some good. Let him cool off a bit before he got home and you saw that something was wrong. He was nearly entirely relaxed by the time he got to his building’s lobby, even having the grace to nod at the concierge—who didn’t know it was his birthday, thank God—before heading up the elevator.

When he got off on his floor, it suddenly occurred to him that you might have done something truly repulsive, like inviting his friends over. He could imagine Shitty Hair’s shitty fucking hair sticking up from behind your sofa as he tried to hide before leaping up and yelling surprise.

Well, if that was the case, then the surprise was going to be him kicking all his dumb friends out of the apartment with one foot. Ain’t no way he was going to host a party on his birthday.

It turned out his worry was for nothing, though, because when he turned the knob—fully braced to punch out some teeth with his other hand—he was greeted with a totally bare apartment.

Like barren.

For starters, it was perfectly clean. Bakugou kept a tidy house normally, but this was certainly cleaner than he’d left it this morning. But more than that, there was nothing extra lying around. No stupid friends. No presents. No cake or even the smell of one. It was almost disconcerting.

No, it was a relief. A relief because he didn’t want any of that stuff. He’d had the slice of cake at work—and was slightly hangry now to show for it—and wasn’t interested in having another. And even though you’d choose better gifts than the extras at work would, it was nothing he couldn’t buy himself. So no, this was perfect. He was absolutely not disappointed. Maybe a bit confused. But not disappointed.

He took his shoes off and set his things on the small table by the door. Then he wandered into the kitchen, downed some water, and thought about what he might make for dinner. He might have expected that you and he would make dinner together or maybe even that you would have surprised him with something, but he didn’t mind doing it alone. It wasn’t like he’d learned to cook just to find a housewife someday to con into doing it all for him.

He decided to go to the bedroom first to plug in his phone. He was just sliding it out of his pocket when he opened the door, saw you, and stopped short.

You were on the bed—not in bed, but on it—wearing a black zip up with his signature orange x over the chest. You were on your knees with your legs spread wide, looking him dead in the eye with a deadly smirk on your face, painted in bright lipstick.

“New prototype. You like?”

The two of you had met when you were scouted from his parents’ business to design the clothing for his first merchandise line. He’d sworn off dating you from the beginning, because the last thing he wanted was to give the old hag anything to say about, firstly, her being at all responsible for finding him a girlfriend or secondly, the fact that dating a fashion designer would mean he was dating his parents. He’d said fuck that to anyone who would listen.

But you’d gotten his brain from the beginning. Your designs were all sick from the sketch to mock up to the prototypes you always wore for him. Maybe he was a simple man for falling for a girl dressed in his colors, aiming to please him, but fuck it. You were talented, too smart for your own good, and pretty as hell.

So what? Now he had a dream girlfriend and one more reason to fight with his mom. Net positive for sure.

Still, that jacket wasn’t a prototype. That was from his first official line, no doubt, and he’d seen you wear it hundreds of times. He knew from here how much it would smell like detergent and how much like you.

You caught his eyes, raised your brows once, and then pulled the zip on the sweatshirt.

Underneath was nothing but lace and ribbon, contrasting the black and orange of the sweatshirt with moss green outlining your silhouette. The moss green from his gauntlets and his belt was caged around you in the thinnest strips of fabric, scraps of floral barely covering your breasts and pussy. The lingerie was an all-in-one, with the tiny bra connected to the panties by a few ribbons crossing over your belly. Not hiding a damn thing, but showing it off for all its worth.

“Fuck,” Bakugou groaned when the sweatshirt hit the bed, your arms still in the sleeves, but the look underneath now fully revealed to him. He could feel the blood going to his dick, just seeing you on display like that getting him up to half mast in seconds.

“Not a lot of coverage on this version,” you mused, sticking your thumb under a bra strap. “Maybe an edit for the second try?”

Bakugou growled, taking a step forward, but you weren’t done just yet.

“I was also thinking maybe full panties next time,” you said, turning around, sitting on your heels. The sweatshirt hung just below your ass, framing round cheeks that were caged by thin elastic crosses, and that was it. Not so much as a triangle of fabric to speak of. “Maybe write: Property of Dynamight on them? Or is that too much text?”

That was all it took for Bakugou to pounce. One arc of his fist had his shirt thrown with a smack to the floor and then his hands were on your shoulders, spinning you face up as he pushed you flat on the bed.

“You know I don’t like unnecessary words,” he growled.

And then he was kissing you, a hand running up the falke stockings pinned on your thighs as you pulled your arms out of the sweatshirt. One leg came up automatically to wrap around his hip, and Bakugou began rutting against your center, fully hard already. On his second grinding thrust, his pants snagged on the scrap of lace you were wearing. Wetness was already glistening on his trousers and he moved his thumb down to your core, groaning at what he felt.

“Crotchless panties?” he mumbled against your mouth. “You’re making this too easy, sweetheart.”

“Shouldn’t have to work so hard on your birthday,” you mewled.

There was a rumble in Bakugou’s throat, half scoff, half chuckle. “Yeah, remind me of that next year, will you?”

You were soaked already—the swipe of his thumb told you that much. Either you’d gotten really excited when he’d texted you that he was coming home early, or you’d…gotten yourself excited at some point after. Either way, it meant that foreplay could wait for round two.

He pulled his thumb away from your core and pressed it against your lip, smudging what lipstick had survived the kisses down your chin. You were half ruined already. You stuck your tongue out and licked at essence on his thumb before sucking it into your mouth, eyes wide as you looked up at him. Fuck, he could feel himself straining against his pants, grinding circles against your half-bare cunt for a spot of relief.

After you licked him clean, he took his hand back, leaving your mouth open and wanting as he began to fuss with the front of his pants. He caught your smudged lips again, holding your jaw with one hand as he pushed his pants down with the other. He pulled his lower half away from you, kicking off the pants—hadn’t bothered with boxers for the commute home—and let them slide off the edge of the bed.

“Ready?” he asked.

Your smile was big and you bit the tip of your tongue, nodding your head twice. That was all he needed. He grabbed his cock in his fist and slid it through your wetness just once, and then he pushed himself in.

Immediately, he felt the drag of something hard and angled against your lower wall right along his cock, pressing from tip to base as he slid home inside of you.

“Woah,” he groaned. “What the fuck?”

You giggled, the action making your walls flutter against him.

“Got myself a new toy,” you said coyly, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Promise you can get yourself something pretty on my birthday too.”

Bakugou reach a hand around your thigh, feeling the elastic garter pulled taut against the stockings that were rubbing so deliciously against his back and his hips. He grabbed a handful of your ass, and the tips of his fingers felt a rounded edge of warm metal slid just between your ass cheeks.

“You fucking naughty minx.” Bakugou grinned, showing all his teeth, rearing back out of you before thrusting back in, feeling the novel pressure of the toy on the way out and back.

No wonder you had been so wet to begin with. You must have lubed yourself up before putting in that butt plug—which wasn’t small, from what he could feel of it. He could imagine you, one leg up on the sink, ass sticking out as you fingered yourself, mouth dropping open when you inserted the toy. How cold it would have been when it first touched your pert little hole and how you’d gotten it all warm for him as you waited with your little secret for him to get home.

“It’s curved to hit prostates,” you gasped as Bakugou rocked hard, steady thrusts into you. “In case you’re interested.”

The thought, much to Bakugou’s surprise, sent a thrill right through his belly down to his dick. He couldn’t help but slam rapidly into you, making your eyes roll back. Fuck, was that something he wanted? It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about, and he didn’t have the mind right now to ponder it.

“God you feel so big.”

“You feel so tight, sweetheart,” Bakugou grunted, refusing to acknowledge the fresh heat that was on his cheeks after your previous comment. “Squeezing me from all sides.”

The butt plug left it so there was barely enough room in your pussy for his cock to pump in and out. The pressure was hard on one side, making him fucking twitch every time the head of his cock caught against it, leading him to opt for long, deep thrusts in and out of you. It was so good that he didn’t even care if the only present he got for his birthday was a little hunk of stainless steel halfway up your ass. He’d gotten home five minutes ago and already he could feel his balls tightening, threatening to bust a nut.

“Just think of it, Katsuki,” you said, your voice dreamy as he fucked you raw. “All the women wearing this set, thinking of you when they show it off for their partners. All wishing that you were the one fucking them. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby? But they’ll never have anything but their husband’s sad cock that they pretend is yours.”

“Fuck,” Bakugou growled, putting a hand on the headboard and nearly splintering it in his grip. You were riling him up and it made him want to press his palm flat against the burnished oak and let off his quirk, send shards flying. His hand was already drenched with more sweat than it should have been, just like with those villains earlier. Goddamn this time of year. He couldn’t help it; his quirk begged for it. He was in dire need of release of some kind, and it wasn’t like he could cum yet. He had to know how your pussy felt when it convulsed around him, ass cheeks tensing and squeezing that toy hard against his cock until he was spurting into you.

Bakugou let off a few crackling pops from his palm, moaning as relief filled him, the tension lessened for a moment. A faint smell of wood smoke spread through the room, slightly embittered by the resin blackening around his hand. One more scorch mark on the bed frame. You groaned underneath him, taken by the sight of Bakugou’s ever-tight control slipping for you. You knew he’d fuck you through the bed until the rest of the frame gave way if he wanted. You’d both be flat on a busted mattress and he’d keep going until he felt you clench around him.

“How’s that sound, Katsu?” you continued, your voice growing higher as Bakugou took his hand off the headboard and pressed four fingers, still sweaty and heated from his quirk, against the lace covering your clit. It was soaked through. “A-Ah, you’d like the idea of a woman home alone, dressed up just for you, fucking herself on the dildo she hides in the back of your closet, screaming out your name and hoping to God that her neighbors don’t hear?”

Bakugou couldn’t do the long, slow thrusts anymore. Your legs had grown tighter around his waist, your calves soft and silken against his ass as he kept his thrusts deep. The butt plug was rubbing against the base of his cock as he pounded into you, his fingers swiping over your clit with little finesse, but speed and steady pressure making up for it.

“But no matter…” you continued, the words coming out in little huffs as you panted with your head thrown back. Bakugou couldn’t resist leaning down and licking a line up the length of your neck, biting your earlobe when he got to the top, “no dildo, no matter how expensive, no matter how long and fat, will be good enough. The whole time…they’ll know they’re missing out. Oh, fuck.”

All of a sudden, your thighs were squeezing tight against his hip bones, arms thrown over his back and finger scratching hot lines that would mark him even more as yours tomorrow. Then you were gasping, walls squeezing and Bakugou fought against your grip to pull out just enough so that the metal toy was rubbing just over the cleft of his head with every convulsion.

He didn’t stand a chance. There was hardly any warning before he was cumming into you, streaks of his seed dribbling out of you. He couldn’t even pump himself through it; you were gripping him so tightly and, more than that, he didn’t want to move. Everything was white hot, so he just waited it out, barely moving save for where his hand was still rubbing over your clit.

Eventually you stopped him, grabbing his wrist just as the grip of your cunt loosened around him. Then you brought his hand, glistening with moisture, up to your mouth, and broadly laved your tongue from the base of his fingers to the tips, looking him dead in the eye. You then brought his hand down to your neck, and allowed him to streak the combined fluids across and down your décolletage.

Fuck—there was no way he was going to work on his birthday next year. He’d let villains overtake the city first.

“They’ll know they’re missing out,” you breathed, and it took Bakugou a second to figure out that you were continuing your voyeuristic fantasy from before, playing it out to the end, “They might even think they understand. But the only one who will truly know, is me.”

You smiled, your eyes and grin both heavy, sleepy, sated.

“Got that fucking right,” Bakugou said, pulling out of you, his cum already dripping down your ass. He eyed it, only catching a glimpse of the glinting metal plug before your legs fell to the bed, spread and limp. He smacked your hip lightly with one hand. “Roll over.”

In no mood to argue, you flipped willingly, ass up, plug still hidden from view. The lingerie was damp in some spots from where your wetness had spilled from your pussy. He leaned his mouth towards one of the strips of elastic stretching against the swell of your ass and bit. You gasped, back arching, and Katsuki smirked as he pulled away.

“A fucking lingerie line?”

A chuckle escaped your throat. “It was supposed to be a joke, but now…”

Katsuki pinched the elastic with his fingers and snapped it, watching the slight jiggle of your cheeks as you jolted. “No.”

“But Katsuki,” you whined.

“Mm,” he amended, as close to ‘maybe’ as you were going to get. You both could always talk about the idea—truly ridiculous idea—later. Katsuki put a hand on one cheek under the strips of lingerie and spread it.

There was the plug, a stainless steel handle. It was thin and shaped like an oblong donut, not like one of those cheap bejeweled things. This one, even just what he could see of it, screamed quality, and, for a moment, Bakugou wondered again what it would be like to wear. If you’d gotten it in, he sure as fuck could. And he did hold a certain anatomical advantage in using it.

He put his thumb and forefinger to the phalange and gave the toy a twist, pressing it just slightly deeper into your hole. You groaned, your voice low and deep in the pillow like when he gave you a back massage. He smirked and kept at it. Seemed this was a birthday gift for him after all.

“Katsu, don’t tease,” you moaned. “Sensitive.”

Bakugou, however, had no mercy. He flipped you over again, pulling a little yelp from you, and then picked you up bridal style, carrying you off the bed.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice suddenly much more awake.

“Shower,” he answered simply. He squeezed the meat of your upper thigh. Not quite your ass but close enough for the point to be made. “I’m not done with my present yet.”

#bakugou smut #bakugo smut #bnha smut #mha smut #tw: voyeurism #not/sfw #bakugou birthday bash

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