#they were watching vine compilations

[cherrytraveller]

i’ve been laughing about this since yesterday

Twitter || Ko-fi || Instagram

[toytulini]

guh i fucking hated the vine compilations and now we're doing tiktok compilations?? those are even longer bro just post one at a time dont make this a fucking thing i swear to god if theres a new trend of like 20minute compilations of random tiktoks that have nothing to do with each other that takes over my whole feed. ill lose it. if i wanted that id just download fucking tiktok. i don't.

[plumdiggity]

There’s a standing event with my friends, we all come over to a place to hang out and drink and catch up and watch movies. The last couple of times I’ve blacked out but that’s kind of my fault for drinking on an empty stomach and no one else seems to mind me staying the night.

I’m the last to arrive, stuck in traffic, and the only spot free is right in the middle of the couch so I wedge myself in between and am immediately handed a drink. We’re just watching old vine compilation videos so it’s not weird that the video ends and another starts every few minutes. It takes me a few seconds to realise the next video isn’t vines or memes. It’s… porn. People with backs hunched wordlessly moaning and thrusting into some girl whose face is covered by another girls thighs assumedly being eaten out. It sounds brutal, balls slapping so loud I’m surprised if it doesn’t hurt. I laugh a little, about to make a joke about someone accidentally adding in their porn collection but stop when I recognise the couch. It’s the one I’m currently sitting on. I look around to gauge everyone else’s reactions but all eyes are on me.

“We were surprised that even after the 5th time we drugged you that you still never caught on. So we thought we’d skip that this time.”

“Yeah. Either you’re completely oblivious or way more of a slut than we thought.”

My eyes pivot back to the screen in time to see the camera pull back and the angle change and I’m watching myself getting manhandled into a new position. Straddling someone and hands shoving me down onto their thick cock, then pushed forward so my ass was more exposed for a second to slam into me as well. My cries are muffled and the camera turns so I see my drugged out self struggling to deepthroat a huge strap on that I’m told is going to split my tight ass if I don’t slobber it up enough.

I barely register that my glass had been taken out of my hand and my best friend has started sliding her hand up my thigh under my skirt. I don’t hear the rustling of clothing being removed but I let out an involuntary whimper when my bestie rubs her fingers over my panties and leans in close to whisper “I’m gonna make you squirt with that strap in your ass this time.”

[accursedthing]

People on here love to post vines and say "tiktok can't do this 😏" and then none of the vines are even funny anymore

[pyxxiestyxx]

House Call

Ding-Dong, cutie! You have a visitor!

You opened your front door in confusion, squinting suspiciously at the affini standing out in the hallway. They were dressed up like a Vet, complete with stethoscope and whitecoat, but everything about the ensemble screamed "freshly compiled". They held out a vine for you to shake as they introduced themselves.

"Doctor Sylvaera Sylvaera, Second Bloom she/her, at your service! I was alerted that you had a medical emergency, and came as soon as I could." She stepped past you and entered your hab, leaving you bewildered and following her like a lost duckling. She seemed to have already known how to navigate to your living room, as she made her way over to your affini-sized recliner and took a seat. You managed to gather your wits to ask her what in the hell she was doing in here?

"Oh dear, were you not paying attention from the pain? I said that you had a medical emergency, and I'm here to make the owie's feel better. Here, let me just…" She reached out and snagged you under your arms, carefully lifting you into her lap, facing her. She held a vine to your elbow, holding a quite serious expression.

"Now then, please breathe as deeply as possible, so I can listen to your…er…spleen? Yes, mhm….I see…ah, exactly as I feared." She removed her vine, nodding solemnly. "I'm afraid that you were eating your meal far too quickly, and now have a rather bad tummyache. First things first-" She held out two small orange pills and a glass of pink liquid. "Take these, they'll help the digestive process and numb any pain.

You knew better than to argue with an affini about things like this, so you dutifully swallowed the medicine, which tasted of oranges. Pleased, she gave you a few quick pats on the head, but didn't make a single move to set you down so you could continue eating your XXXXL Chicken Alfredo bowl.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to remain here for a few hours, to make sure your tummyache doesn't return. I'll have to monitor you quite closely, as well as give you lots of bellyru-….as well as apply gentle massage techniques to the affected area. You don't have any roommates, do you? No? That's quite alright, petal. It just means they won't get in the way. Now then, how about you and I watch some fun videos for a while, hmm? I brought some Class As if you wish to enjoy your night a different way, of course~"

[noobsoconfusing]

oddly specific but comforting things that remind me of the slushy noobz:

martin: warm soggy oatmeal, stepping on water while wearing socks, mayo sandwiches, diary of a wimpy kid, vine compilations, waking up on a rainy morning and skipping school, tv static, ipod era, pillow forts, a warm microwaved meal after coming from school, a lonely parking lot late at night, eating in the car, very early car rides to nowhere, sundays after 5pm, the very first shot of heroin, a really bad acid trip, bubblegum flavoured toothpaste, mcdonalds sprite, coming out of the pool and eating a club sandwich, rainbow loom trading, napoleon dynamite, lactose intolerance, the feeling of when you think you failed a test but actually barely pass, awkward first crush, humidity stains on walls, warm delaware punch, reading a suggestive fanfic for the first time at 11 years old, laughing till it hurts.

hamzah: watching youtube while eating, finding a friend group, sweaty hands, sleeping naked under the covers with cool weather, cinnamon scented candles, cold dr pepper, aqua teen hunger force, mtv, a hug from a loved one when most needed, a badly rolled blunt, dipping cookies in freezing cold milk, being on a bus, favourite music full volume on headphones, supermarket air, shivering wet dog under the rain, stan twitter 2015, laying on the floor just because you want to, shower after a hot day, discovering your favourite song for the first time, warm soup, editing on videostar, jailbreaking a chrome book, creepypastas, cartoon network late at night, the annoying orange, a walk in the woods, discovering true love, being loved back, mashed potatoes, sleepovers, stale cake, the smell of burnt toast, buttered bread, realising you’re not alone.

martin & hamzah: feeling like you belong somewhere, little miss sunshine, crying of laughter, owning your first place, being paypalled, regular show, brotherhood, a nice hug, realising your home is a person, feeling understood for the first time after thinking you were weird. realising you’re weird, reciprocal love.

>_<

[brbwritingfanfic]

kaminari denki x reader

content: use of (Name), slight swearing, vine references word count: 1.3k genre: fluff summary: you and kaminari cuddle while watching vines

 You’re so bored. You want to scream into your pillow or something, but you’re sure someone will hear and get Iida onto your case. You don’t feel like being scolded this late at night.

 You settle for hugging your pillow instead.

 Around 20 minutes ago, you retreated to your dorm room after eating dinner downstairs with your classmates. Bakugo cooked again and your tastebuds were burning from the amount of spice that crazy bitch added. It was still pretty good, though, not that you’d tell him that.

 You heave a sigh, collapsing onto your bed face first, still clutching your pillow. Your wings knock your phone off of your bedside table and you curse under your breath.

 Your quirk was a mutant type, much like the Number 3 hero, Hawks. Two large, black wings protruded from your back and, unfortunately, are unable to be retracted. Hence why, your dumbass wings tend to knock a lot of stuff off of shelves and sometimes hit people in the face if you weren’t careful; you usually forgot they even existed so… yeah.

 You drag yourself to the edge of your bed, still laying down, refusing to get up to retrieve your phone (even though it would be infinitely easier). Your arm stretches out, within a hair's breadth of touching your phone. “C’mon…” you mumble, reaching out further and further until–

 Your phone blares out (favourite song), startling you and causing you to fall out of bed. 

 “FUCK!”

 You faceplant beside your phone unceremoniously, muttering obscenities the whole time.

 You sit up, rubbing your face as you answer whoever was calling you. “I hope you know that I went through a lot trying to answer this call.” You mentally pat yourself on the back. Whoever this person is (you may have forgotten to check the caller I.D) should feel immense guilt for all the pain they put you through.

 “Uh, you okay, (Name)? Should I call Aizawa-sensei, or…?”

 You straighten, a smile involuntarily growing on your face. You know that voice. “Denki? Hey, man, what’s up?”

 “I was checking on you because you left dinner pretty early, but you seem okay?” Kaminari says questionably, causing you to chuckle.

 “Yeah, didn’t really feel like staying down there any longer. It’s was kinda stuffy with the whole class,” you explain before huffing, “but now I’m really bored.”

 “Well, you could–”

 “Oh!” you cut him off unintentionally. “I could totally chill in your room! I mean, I just need to sneak past Iida, but that’s easy and–”

 There’s a knock at your door and you groan.

 “Ugh, gimme a sec. Iida mighta heard me.” You slowly rise to your feet and make your way to the door, careful to not knock anything else over with your wings. Easing the door open slowly, you say, “Listen, Iida, I was kidding– What the hell?”

 Kaminari waves shyly, hanging up the call from his phone. “I snuck past Iida and Kiri said he’d cover for me.”

 You grin excitedly and you grab his arm, yanking him into your dorm. The door slams shut behind you. Kirishima is a godsend, holy shit, you’re gonna give him his favourite food tomorrow. “Okay, so we can either play video games, watch random vine compilations, or–”

 “VINES.”

 “You know me too well.”

 Within minutes, you and Denki were under your fluffy blankets (gosh, you pray that they don’t conduct electricity, HOLY SHIT WHAT IF YOUR WINGS CONDUCT ELECTRICITY???) and eating some popping candy that you found in the kitchen. You now realise that they were probably Denki’s– you remember this one time last week when someone stole his popping candy and everyone nearly died because of how much electricity he was emitting. You like to think that the popping reminds him of little sparks of electricity.

 You think he’s cute.

 You shuffle, trying to get a bit more comfortable with your wings and all. You end up draping one wing over Kaminari and the other over yourself like an extra extra blanket for the both of you.

 As you set up your laptop to watch some good old vines, you could feel Kaminari playing with your wings. You stifle a laugh when he ruffles a few feathers, his eyes glinting in happiness. It kinda tickles; you don’t stop him, though. That smile of his was far too precious to wipe away.

 Denki could stare at your wings forever. He thinks they’re beautiful. And they’re so soft, like, he swears they’re softer than a cloud (not that he’d know how soft they are, if at all, but that’s the only thing he could compare them to). They’re definitely prettier than clouds. 

 His eyes light up in realisation. Oh!! Now he knows what he could compare your wings to. They’re softer than Ojiro’s tail, which is insane because his tail is super duper soft??? Like?? Woah, he could just lay here with you in his arms forever and–

 “Hm, do you want to watch a 10 minute compilation or a 2 hour one?” your voice snaps him out of his daze. You glance at him from the corner of your eye when he doesn’t reply. He seemed pretty out of it… “Denki?”

 After stumbling over his words for a second, he answers sheepishly, “Uhh, the 2 hour one!”

 You grin triumphantly. “Hell yes!” To be honest, you were gonna put the 2 hour compilation on either way. You were already planning on how to force Kaminari to stay that long if he refused. “Ooh, do you wanna stay the night? If you wake up early, no one will know.”

 Denki’s smile widens at your invitation. “Do I? Let’s do it!”

 You both ignore the fact that there was no way either of you would wake up early. Knowing you guys, you’d probably pull an all-nighter (since neither of you can fall asleep that easily) and oversleep. Oh well, you’re sure Kiri and Mina will cover for you. Best wingman and wingwoman ever.

 Hm, now that you think about it, Bakugo would probably cover for you, too, if only for the fact that his record isn’t tainted by affiliation. What a weirdo.

 Pressing play on the vine compilation, you lean back into Denki and pull the blankets up to your chin. You were a little cold.

 Without warning, he grabs your cold hand in his warm one. You immediately relax at his touch, smiling softly.

 Yeah, this is nice, you think to yourself.

 An hour later, your stomach was aching from laughing so much. It was nearly 9pm and the both of you really needed to keep it down. You silently laugh, shaking as tears form in the corner of your eyes. “T-Two bros… chilling in a hot tub,” you whisper-sing, struggling to stay quiet.

 “Five feet apart coz they’re not gay…”

 Silence washes over your room for a solid five seconds. You make eye contact and suddenly you were both howling with laughter.

 “AHAHAH I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I’M LAUGHING–”

 “M-ME NEITHER, PFFT–”

 You hand slams over Kaminari’s mouth. “SHHH!!”

 Oh gosh, you can hear footsteps.

 “We’re gonna die…”

 You could see a shadow outside your door. You hold your breath.

 “Yooo, Iida, whatcha doing, man?” Kirishima’s voice, oh my god, angel Kirishima, rings out, catching the Class President’s attention.

 “Oh, Kirishima! I believe I heard something in (L/n)-san’s dorm and was about to–”

 “Ah, I'm sure it was nothing, man! C’mon, it’s nearly curfew, bro! Wouldn’t be manly to be out past it!”

 You could hear Iida gasp. “You’re quite right, thank you, Kirishima! I will be going now!” Footsteps pattered away from your door and you and Denki let out a sigh of relief.

 “You guys owe me,” Kirishima whisper-yells through your door.

 “Thank you so much, Kiri, oh my god, I will personally get Endeavour's credit card from Todoroki and give it to you.” You don’t think he heard you because a second later, you could hear him walk away.

 “I would die for him, he’s so manly.”

 You nod in agreement. “Okay, let’s watch more vines.”

 “VINES.”

 “SHHHHHHHHH!!!!” you shush him aggressively.

 “WHAT–”

 “WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW, WEATHER BOYYY–”

 “(NAME), SHUSH!” He was silent for a moment before whispering, "hug me."

 "I am, dummy."

[incognito-duo]

MUTANT MAYHEM HCs!!

Leonardo

The turtles and Splinter all call him Da Vinci, hated it at first but then grew to love it.

Loves watching Octonauts, and made a video essay about it.

Likes going to Walmart

Watches Vine compilations at 2 am when he can’t sleep

Color codes his candy, for example, only eats all of the red Skittles then the purple ones then green, etc.

Cried over Roblox VC once, and his brother verbally harassed a 5-year bc of it.

After Scumbug got with Splinter, Leo tried to encourage his family to learn the language she spoke. He is the most fluent, but as good as Splinter.

Even though he's a snitch, Leo has blackmail/secrets that are brothers only. (Some things are sibling code fr)

Favorite Dcom is Z-O-M-B-I-E-S, and looks up to Zed.

Loves cheesy Rom-cons, and has a Tubi account just for it.

Donatello

Head of movie nights, mostly watched anime movies but tried to find one the whole family would love.

Has his tent because he owns a bunch of merch, and needed a place to put it.

Simon, from Alvin and the Chipmunks, kinnie. Had a massive childhood crush on Jennet.

Def a Disney Kid, TOH, Molly McGee etc.

Got into Anime, and other fandoms, bc of AMV's.

Fandom wiki user, and a Tumblr user.

Studio Ghibli GEEK!! Made many video essays.

Chapped as hell lips, carries small Vaseline around (Forgets to use it)

Owns a diary

Info dumps and long study sessions a lot

Michelangelo

Only wants bubble tea for the pearls

Had a small wig era... failed, and never did it again. (He only wears wigs in secret)

Has the best handwriting

He could wing a test if he paid attention in class because IMPROV!!!

HAS to sleep near one of his brothers, hence why he has a bunk bed.

Has glow-in-dark stick stars on his wall!!

Number one hypeman when you wanna ask your crush out. Definitely helped Leo with April

Writes in orange glittery pen

Likes to style his mask in bows or fun edges

Over thinks with giving others gifts, decorating, and hosting parties

Raphael

He HATES the dentist

He is actually a big softie and dork (like we all know), so he yaps a lot with April, his brothers, and the people he's REALLY close with

Likes a few musicals because of Mikey, like CryBaby and Ride of the Cyclone

Loves to show off, mostly to impress people

Plays Valorant with Casey

Bullies little kids on Roblox voice chat

Childhood crushes were on Liv from Liv and Maddie, and Cat from Victorious

Likes to munch on waffle cones when bored

He's too loud or too quiet when speaking during certain times without knowing

Owns a journal, and has the most outrageous handwriting

April

Kids still bully her, but a lot have stopped after the events of the movie

She slowly learns how to get over her stage fright

the CUTEST handwriting when taking notes, the aesthetic school notes with the pastel highlighters

Doodles during class, and tends to doodle Leo when working on her newspapers (AprilNardo>>>)

Lowkey hated Casey before they became BFFs

Goes to her apartment roof when she needs to relax, or when bored

Listens to Lofi Girl when studying

Likes to make small, silly comics for the school newspaper

Loves tot bags, or duffel bags!

She is an only child, but loves to hang out with her parents and relatives. Every weekend, she goes to IHop with her family and invites the turtles and Irma sometimes

[bexiguess]

there are some absolutely excellent short hdg stories out there, and i felt it would be neat to compile some of my favorites :)

all of these fics are under 25k words, and i tried to limit myself to only include one work per author. however, most of these authors have multiple works and i highly recommend looking through their catalogs if their writing catches your interest! remember to always leave kudos and comments on works that you enjoy <3 :)

all hdg warnings apply to all of these stories. please read with caution and with your mental health first.

🌸 Last Man Standing by Tsunmene, 8.4k words

Summary

In 2551 CE, the Affini Compact and Terran Accord went to war. This was regarded by most parties as an unprofitable decision.

Bexi's Favorite Bit

Klaxon alarms blared, the three soldiers stopped what they were doing. A general alert was sounding. Enemy warship, by the time that the soldiers had lifted to their feet to take hold of their weapons, the telltale sounds of wrenching steel and slithering vines echoed through the halls. Shots could be heard, shortly followed by shouts of surprise and intervening cries of “finally!”.

This is it! This is it! This is finally it! Ohhhhh sweet mother of mercy I’m finally getting abducted by sexy plant women from beyond the sta-

🌸 Affini Royale by DancingOnTheAshes, 1.5k words

Summary

In the Affini's games only the Affini really win in the end, no matter how hard you try.

Bexi's Favorite Bit

Sammie stared at the floor, at her scuffed boots. "I uhm... I don't think I'm cut out for this, I'd like an owner... please." Her voice was small, her face red with shame. She knew the Affini could hear her though, they could hear a pin drop 100 meters away on a busy street.

🌸 Hunted! A Feral's Last Chance by ChillTheRose & PyxxieStyxx, 13.1k words

Summary

Welcome to Hunted! For our premier episode, we have a wonderful treat for you. A naughty little feralist was recently caught in their adorable little escape pod! In order to bring them in safely, a deal was struck. Derrick Schneider has to survive twelve hours in our wonderful little enclosure without surrendering to domestication! What exactly does Kigelia Paniculata, Second Bloom have in store for our prey? Tune in and find out~

Bexi's Favorite Bit

Step step slide, step step slide.

He blinked slowly, feeling the wind kiss his skin as he took a few steps into the clearing. Dimly, he tried to muster his thoughts, but they seemed to slip out of his fingers like sand. All he could seem to do was keep watching as it drew ever closer to him. It didn’t even appear to be looking at him, and he distantly wondered if this was all a strange dream. Then, as it stepped up right beside him, he saw a large arm swing out, wrapping around his waist. Another arm came out and gently held his right hand, completing the waltz position. He tried to struggle, to escape, to run. Or rather, he tried to try, but… instead, all he could do was follow its lead, his footsteps feeling slow and off-rhythm compared to the sweeping movements of his new partner. His eyes remained locked onto the weed’s, though he could see the flowers and vines in his periphery slowly flex and contract, as if it were breathing all around him. 

🌸 There are No Lies in the Affini Compact by annabool, 6.7k words

Summary

A ragtag band of the last few Terran rebels encounter a mysterious Affini and discover a shocking truth: why *yes*, they *would* make good pets!

Bexi's Favorite Bit

“Oh, dear, that looks like a dangerous toy.” A very dangerous toy, in Red’s estimation. “I’m only here to talk. There’s no need for that. I’m not even a very tough Affini. Why don’t you give that over here for the moment. I can keep it safe for you. I promise I’ll give it back if you ask nicely.”

It was very dangerous to carry. Given that they were only talking there wasn’t really any need for Red to actually carry it herself. If things did devolve into a brawl then she’d just ask for it back first and they’d continue where they left off. Red shrugged, clicked the weapon off, flipped it around in her hand, and held out the safe end towards the waiting affini.

“There’s a good girl.”

🌸 Stages of Succession by Gentle_Breeze, 10.7k words

Summary

A former Terran general, responsible for war crimes against Rinnian and Terran alike and intent on resisting her domestication, is taken on by a very tolerant owner. She intends to fight to the last.

Her owner knows she'll lose eventually.

A human domestication story.

Bexi's Favorite Bit

“Wait,” I ordered.

Sylvia paused and looked at me. I kept my eyes fixed on her chest.

“What is it?”

“You have to remain in this room with me for the next 45 minutes, so I can satisfy my addiction to you,” I stated plainly. There was no reason to try and hide it. She could feel the connection just as well as I could, if not better.

🌸 The Official Human Domestication Guide Holiday Special by SapphicSounds, 4.2k words

Summary

When actual independent cis guy Damien is asked by his affini neighbor to play the role of dress-up Santa at an affini holiday party, he's warned in advance that things tend to get a bit intense at such affairs, but nothing could truly have prepared for him the menagerie of kinky freaks (affectionate) who would soon line up to sit in Santa's lap. A silly HDG crackfic.

Bexi's Favorite Bit

“...You know I think you make a lovely and capable independent sophont, right?” 

“Yes, Menzi.”

“It’s just that if you ever were to decide otherwise I’d be happy to have you.”

“I know, Menzi.”

🌸 Thought I'd See You Again by Fluxom, 4.6k words

Summary

“Can I borrow your ear for a moment?” The affini’s voice froze the blood in Winter’s veins solid. Mentally, she reminded herself of the importance of her rules for slipping under affini’s attention. Be polite, follow orders quietly, *never* flirt back, and most importantly always give the sense of having somewhere else to be. These were important rules. Necessary rules! Otherwise it was far too easy to give one the wrong impression that you, perhaps, were even a bit interested in being bent into place as their pet and having your will crushed into a fine dust under their heels. However, for *this* affini in particular she was distinctly aware that most of these would not help.

Bexi's Favorite Bit

Winter stomached the part of herself that thought it was gross and bent down to pick up her fork, finding a vine stopping her before she could grab it. Of course. “Dear, that’s dirty now. Here, let’s use my set now.” Of course. Let’s. Plural. Winter had no doubt that Lamium’s idea consisted mostly of Winter passively accepting their help and- yeap, there it is. They already sliced off a piece of pancakes and speared it with their fork for her.

🌸 Wild and Domestic by moonchild69, 20.2k words

Summary

On a former Accord settlement that recently fell under Compact jurisdiction, an independent trans woman begins dating a floret. As the two grow closer, a question arises; Can she retain her independence as she spends more and more time around her new girlfriend's owner, and would it be so bad if she doesn't?

Bexi’s Favorite Bit

“How do you stay so cool all the time? In all the time that I've known you I don't think I've ever seen you look like you're anything but on top of the world.”

The older butch chuckled softly and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Well, I could say it's decades of practice, but that'd be a load of dirt. Truth is... Life's been good lately. The company's gone, I'm no longer in debt, and I'm not busting my ass anymore. Got free medical, so all my aches and pains are gone, and I can even get cosmetic surgery any time I want. I used to basically be a prisoner on this planet in everything but name. Now I could choose to be almost anywhere if I felt like it, but I've got everything I want right here. It's a good feeling. Plus, there's this really sweet bunny gal I've been seeing. He's a little bit younger than me, but who gives a damn about that these days anyway?”

🌸 David, the Independent Terran by sheepwave, 6.3k words

**NSFW Art is embedded inside the work**

Summary

David is a cisgendered, heterosexual independent Terran living in the Affini compact. No, seriously. He actually is all of those things.

His buddies, of course, are now all queer transfem human pets, and this is a story about what parts of thier dynamic have changed, and what parts have stayed the same.

Bexi's Favorite Bit

The feeling in David’s chest of wanting to touch the girl now leaning her head on his shoulder was overpowering. He felt guilty, almost, for the thoughts going through his head. Her pretty little collar marked her as a pet to be cared for and he did feel genuinely protective of her. She was so cute like this, but she had also definitely just brushed against his dick through his jeans on purpose. 

Raya took advantage of the fact that the two best players were now very distracted by each other, and scored first place for the first time all night. She turned to them with the widest grin David had ever seen her catlike face make. “David. Jessica. Go fuck each other, I can practically smell the pheromones from here.”

🌸 Heartsong by FemKUltra, 5.9k words

Summary

Adrienne Miller is getting ready for a date with her friend who happens to be an Affini. Just one problem though, she has forgotten to take her Class-C inhibitors. Surely it will be fine, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Bexi's Favorite Bit

“The first time we met, when I accidentally got entranced in your biorhythm it was really scary, and I really appreciated how you gently pulled me out, helped me calm down, and then taught me about the inhibitors. Since then I’ve really gotten to know you, you’ve become a big part of my life. I’ve introduced you to my friends, I’ve even met your floret, but the thing is, I want to be close to you, but when I take the blockers it feels like I’m hitting the mute button on a part of you, a really important part.” You pause for the briefest of moments as you find the resolve to make your feelings clear. “If I can be really honest, now that I know I can trust you, part of me longs to feel the connection we had one more time, and the rest of me is running out of reasons why I shouldn’t."

[dragonsdendoodles]

What do you think the children would watch on YouTube? What would their favorite youtubers and content be?

Oh god time to just scream my age on the internet

Also for the record if any of these people are problematic I don’t know about it or what happened my entire YouTube feed for the past six years has been Reddit stories and video essays I use for background noise when I draw so if I mention someone sucky I’m sorry I haven’t consumed their content since at least middle school

For starters, I think Emma, Millard, and Horace avoid it altogether out of principle. Emma and Horace because people are stupid and they cannot believe this is what modern entertainment is and Millard because he has ruined many videos by pointing out every inaccuracy he could find and he got sick of the cesspool of misinformation that is the internet.

Jacob has been watching Minecraft videos since the beginning of the damn site. Specifically he discovered iHasCupquake and DanTDM a couple years after joining the loop and now when he’s bored and in a time with internet access he watches Minecraft Oasis and DanTDM’s Custom Mod Adventures on repeat. Noor is the exact same way, but with life hack videos very obviously aimed at middle school girls that have stuff like painting staples with nail polish and sneaking candy into class via empty glue sticks. Think Wengie and SaraBeautyCorner. They actually grew up with this so it’s more about the nostalgia than anything else

Enoch likes history videos. And videos about games like War Thunder and World of Tanks. He also likes Vine compilations, discovered when Jacob and Noor were quoting vines to each other and Enoch joined with them having absolutely zero knowledge he even knew what that was. (Horace also begrudgingly knows what Vine was, but instead of saying “yeah I sure hope it does” to Enoch’s “road work ahead???” he goes “I hate you and everything you stand for” and Enoch laughs.)

Olive, Claire, and Bronwyn watch Gacha Life/Club/whatever the fuck they’re on now I don’t know anymore music videos and Vine compilations. Bronwyn is here for quality control. (Bronwyn’s favorite YouTube series is Rosanna Pansino’s Nerdy Nummies series, even though she has no idea what any of the references are. What she does know is that she showed Jacob the Angry Birds cupcakes and he demanded they be made that exact day.)

Hugh is fascinated by all this but has little to no idea what’s going on. He did however get very invested in Sanders Sides and is very impatiently waiting with me for Orange to be revealed.

Fiona also doesn’t know what’s going on but she thinks Warrior Cats AMVs and multi-animator projects are INSANE she loves them and gets very sad when Noor is helping her look them up and they find out yet another creator is problematic

[pseudophan]

i was watching a vine compilation bc I do that when dnp rewatches aren’t enough to escape the noise of the world and tell me why those two mfers show up in it?? they were really in all corners of the internet doing anything and everything for the entirety of the 2010s

dan and phil and the phandom in the 2010s were like a bug infestation that spread everywhere and you couldn't get rid off and it was definitely Too Much but god i miss it sometimes

[astxrwar]

drops of blood [1/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 7k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Off-screen violence. Series will enter gray territory in later chapters; angsty guilt-ridden stalking, exhibitionism, consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. teehee.

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

When you’re a teenager— no, not even, when you’re a preteen, in middle school— a crew of surveyors for a Russian oil company finds a plane frozen in the Arctic. You’d just finished up the section on World War Two in history class; two weeks ago you’d been sitting in a hard-backed chair with the lights off trying not to fall asleep while watching a Netflix documentary about the life and death of Steve Rogers, the prototypical American Hero, that your teacher put on presumably to get out of having to actually teach. You had to fill out a worksheet about it. You had homework asking about the ways that national ideals of heroism have changed over time. You spent a whole class period talking about that, comparing and contrasting Captain America and Iron Man. You had to write a five-paragraph essay about whether or not you thought the American Hero archetype would even exist without Captain America’s death.

Except Captain America is not dead.

Captain America is alive.

It is 2012, and a lot of things are popular. The Hunger Games. Gangnam Style. The new Batman movie, the one with Christian Bale. A type of teenage and pre-teenage girl exists—has existed, will continue to exist— and while there was NSYNC and Backstreet Boys and whatever the fuck else in the 90s; right now there’s Twilight and One Direction and Justin Bieber.

Captain America comes out of the ice. Captain America is 6’4 and muscular and blond and blue-eyed and unfailingly kind, and then he goes on to join up with a bunch of other people—superheros— and saves the world.

The end result, the one that anyone with a brain could have seen coming a mile off, the one that gets referenced by late-night talk-show hosts and poked at in grocery-store gossip rags and sometimes said outright in interviews with the guy on national television,  is that Steve Rogers— Captain America— kind of ends up rounding out the “teenage girl obsessions during the ‘10s” list. 

And—

Well.

You were never big on any of that.

Your friends were, though, and so you let yourself be dragged through the onslaught of new Netflix specials and you dutifully and appropriately emoji-reacted to every Battle of New York youtube compilation and Vine edit they sent to you and you even went to the movies to watch the new remastered docudrama about the life and now the not-death of Steve Rogers, and—

You never really liked blonds, so.

His friend, though—

His friend was kind of cute.

Sergeant James Barnes. Twenty-eight, dark-haired and blue-eyed and attractive, in a charming, boyish kind of way. 

Fast forward ten years. There’s some weird drama with a helicarrier and some entirely anticlimactic fight at an airport and then an alien kills half the population of the world and then they all come back again, courtesy of Iron Man’s sacrifice and your middle school history teacher one-hundred-percent predicting the future with the whole “the American Hero trope is dependent on the hero’s death” shit that you totally didn’t understand at the ripe age of twelve—

Anyway. Life happens, basically. You grow up. You’re not even friends with those girls anymore. Not uncommon. And that crush on cute little baby-faced James Buchanan Barnes lasted all of something like three months— one of those fleeting childhood infatuations you have on people who are safely unobtainable, like rock stars or fictional characters or guys who are very, very dead— after which time you never really thought about it again. 

And now you’re twenty-three and working closing shifts at a coffee shop in Brooklyn while figuring out what your life trajectory is even going to be, adjusting as best you can to your fucking daily customer base having quite literally doubled in the last six months, that part of you that’d read his entire wikipedia page on a phone with an actual physical slide-out keyboard at two in the morning an entire eleven years ago so far away it feels like something even less than a memory.

Except one night in April this guy walks in. He’s dark-haired and blue-eyed and wearing a leather jacket and matching gloves; he comes up to the counter and he makes startlingly unbreaking eye contact that freaks you out a teensy bit— a lot— and orders a coffee, black, and nothing else, and you stare right back kind of temporarily immune to the weirdness of it because you know him, why do you know him—

It clicks as you’re pouring the coffee into a reinforced cardboard cup and it stuns you so completely that you almost overfill it and wind up less than a second away from burning the shit out of your hand.

Sergeant James Barnes. 

He looks the same, kind of, but also not at all— you sneak glances at him while you fumble for a lid, the harsher angles of his cheekbones and the wider set of his jaw, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the lines setting into his forehead and the way he doesn’t really have any of the baby fat left in his face that he had in all the photos you’d seen of him. 

“Thanks,” he says, when you give him his coffee.

His smile, or his attempt at it, looks more like a grimace than anything. 

You expect him to leave, then, but he doesn’t— he goes over to one of the tables in the lobby, the one by the window in the corner of the room, and he sits there and he drinks his coffee and he stares out at the street. It’s dark already; late November, almost December, the solstice approaching. It’ll be a long while before it’s still light later than 4:30.

He stays there for a long time, and the awareness of him prickles at the nape of your neck as you work, filling orders for a dwindling trickle of customers and starting the long and arduous process of cleaning up everything for close. 

Sometime around 9:30 you go into the back to try to get started on dishes; the doorbell chimes when you’re about halfway through, and you grumble under your breath and rinse soap suds off of your forearms and resolve to pretend you hadn’t lost track of the hose and accidentally soaked the whole of your shirt from about the sternum down—

There’s nobody waiting at the counter when you come out, though.

And Sergeant James Barnes is gone.

~

You expect it to be one of those things. Everyone in New York has one of those things. They’re great party stories. One time I sat next to Denzel Washington on the subway. Michael Keaton bought a phone from me when I worked at Apple in Midtown. I ran into Steve Buscemi at this one mom-and-pop bagel place. 

I served coffee to Captain America’s not-dead friend in Brooklyn. 

Except next week, same day, he’s there again.

The lady in front of him is getting something stupid complicated and being annoying about it. Two pumps caramel, two pumps vanilla, two creams and two skim milk, three sugars and make sure to melt it first, if you don’t, I’ll know, Jesus Christ, make your coffee at home—

The guy who is maybe potentially Barnes laughs.

You said that out loud, apparently. Mumbled it under your breath, or something, quiet enough that the lady hadn’t heard, just shot you a suspicious look and sipped at her drink and then left without a thank-you, apparently satisfied. It’s just you and him now, your coworker off doing food prep in the back room and the lobby empty.

Somehow, he’d heard you. And he’d laughed. It was a weird sound, sharp and rough and cut short like he hadn’t meant to and like he’d tried to make himself stop; his expression is flat, and he’s not smiling, but there’s something— lighter, about it, than when you’d seen him last.

“Black coffee?” you blurt out, before he can say anything. 

He blinks. He’s doing that thing again— the staring. 

“Easy to remember,” you say, by way of explanation.  “Simple.” 

His mouth twitches at the corners, not really a smile, yet, but still— something. That lightness to his expression, impassive as it is, hasn’t faded. “Yeah, just black,” he says. “Thanks.”

You make it for him— ‘make’ is a stretch, you pour it, and that’s all, really— and he takes it back to that same spot by the window in the corner, nurses it as he looks out into the street, the sky cast that bruised purple color when the sun’s gone below the horizon but the light hasn’t faded, yet. 

You try not to stare.

Same deal as the last time; he stays.

“Hey,” your coworker’s voice drifts from the back room, “You want to sweep the lobby or do the dishes?”

“Lobby,” you reply, extremely fast, thinking about last time and the hose mishap and how your shirt hadn’t dried until basically the end of your shift, but also thinking about maybe-Barnes sitting by the window and how part of you really fucking wants to know. Even if it’s not him, if it’s just some particularly uncanny lookalike, you wonder if it happens a lot. The being mistaken.

You make it through about maybe five minutes of actual lobby-sweeping before you become physically incapable of resisting your curiosity. 

“I always got pretty good marks in history,” is what you tell him. Because saying “are you Seargant Barnes” seems kind of— rude. 

He stiffens, and he drums his gloved fingers on the lid of his coffee cup, and he doesn’t look up or say a word.

“Your photo was in a bunch of the textbooks,” you add, twisting your grip on the broom handle, back and forth. It’s definitely him. The haircut. His face. Older, a lot less boyish, but the same eyes. “Sergeant Barnes. 107th.”

He doesn’t look at you. Speaks very deliberately. “Are you going to tell anyone?” 

There’s this bright jolt of satisfaction at being right, followed pretty quickly by a pang of guilt at the thought you’d irritated him.

 “Oh—um, no, definitely not, I’m sure it’s— annoying, probably, getting recognized,” you say, stumbling over the words. “I— sorry, I shouldn’t have— bothered you.”

He does look at you, then. He stares. You’d been fidgeting, still, but under the force of his gaze every muscle in your body goes tense and still, frozen solid, and nerves prickle up at the back of your neck, raising the hairs there. You have to fight back the urge to shiver.

“No,” he says. “It’s never happened before. Don’t— don’t be sorry.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your hands resume their twisting around the broom handle before you abruptly decide you do need to actually finish the chore you’d set out to do. 

You tell him one last thing, before you go back to it. You’d always kind of felt weird about saying this kind of stuff; it gets touchy, particularly after Vietnam. Not really a great practice to get into, the whole “thank you for your service” schtick, because a lot of them don’t see it that way, and every war after that was even more complicated and your opinions on those are— similarly complicated. But World War 2– that was different. It wasn’t US military overreach. It was necessary. And he’d been drafted, you remembered that. 

“Hey,” you say, very soft. “I just— Thanks. For— you know. Serving, when your numbers came up. It couldn’t have been easy, I mean.” you clear your throat, shift your weight, suddenly feeling very self-aware. “Coffee’s on me, next time, okay?”

Something flickers across his expression, like a ripple over the surface of a lake. Whatever it was, it’s gone before you can make sense of it.

You spend most of the week thinking he won’t come back next Friday. But he does. There’s nobody in front of him in line, this time, and like the time before your coworker is off in the back, which means it’s easy to slip him his coffee and conveniently forget to ring it out.

“Thanks,” he tells you, his voice a lot quieter. Softer, too.

You smile at him. His mouth twitches back, like maybe he’s not sure if he should return it, but wants to. 

He takes the seat by the window again. 

~

He keeps coming back. You try to make small talk but it feels stilted and awkward. It kind of makes you sad, a little bit, seeing him sitting there for hours, alone. 

On your day off, in early January, you go grocery shopping. 

You spend about 25$ in total and you make a split second decision to grab something out of the ordinary that’s on-sale. Dude was raised during the Great Depression, you guess he’s not the most experienced in the realm of the great big world of Weird Things You Can Purchase At The Modern Day Grocery Store. It’s meant to be a sort of peace offering, a look-I-can-be-normal-about-it, let’s-be-friends kind of deal, if he’s going to keep hanging around the coffee shop. You’re not sure if he, like— wants that, friends, or if maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to be alone, but you figure it’s worth a shot. 

Part of it is that he interests you. Part of it is that your job, as much as it sucks less than a lot of other service jobs, is very mundane, very normal, often very boring, and James Buchanan Barnes being a regular customer is easily the most interesting and least boring thing that has ever happened to you at work. Or— ever, honestly.

 And maybe that’s selfish, to want to talk to him for that reason, but— whatever.

On Friday, like last week, you get there and you clock in and you try to casually scan the lobby, the floor littered with straw wrappers and crumpled napkins and empty sugar packets, the tables tacky with flavored syrup and coffee stains that you’d need to clean later, chairs around them arranged haphazardly and not pushed in, and—

And in the back corner, sitting low in his seat, baseball cap tugged down and shade over his eyes and fingers drumming restlessly against the side of a paper coffee cup, is James Buchanan Barnes.

The excitement you feel, then, is not really the kind you’d expected to— the last time you’d thought about him had been middle school, and even if it’d been just that three months, you remember with startling clarity that girlish, daydreamy kind of interest, how it felt, pleasant and mild and entirely harmless. Whatever you feel right now is not like that at all. It’s sharp and it’s visceral and it’s real, not a fantasy or the result of your imagination, not directed towards some fiction of a person that functioned as a safe receptacle for the things going on inside your head, but an actual individual human being. 

 It’s just interest, just curiosity, what you feel— you don’t have a crush on him, it’s not like you’re still in middle school and still interested, like that, in even just the general category of person that crush had represented. And the person sitting in the lobby isn’t the person– the fiction– you’d even felt that type of way about, anyways. You don’t know him, and he’s obviously nothing like the guy memorialized in every Captain America docudrama miniseries on Netflix. No, James Buchanan Barnes is a real human being, a very different human being, one that’s a stranger to you and you think— you guess— probably just as much of a stranger to that other, safer, softer, more boyish version of himself. 

You keep thinking about how he looked at you, unbroken and unwavering and eerily fucking precise, how his eyes hadn’t even move at all, focused so intently that it’d made the hairs on the back of your neck raise and goosebumps prickle across the tops of your shoulders and all the way down your arms and your gut instinct yell, loudly, there is something not right about this guy!

You’d read his Wikipedia article again. It’s been updated since; lots of shit came out since 2012. You’d heard about the Winter Soldier stuff, but reading about it in detail— it’s bad. There are probably several things that are not exactly right about him, now. That’s fine, though. The way the world is these days, there’s stuff not right about everyone.

You’re occupied with a steady and annoyingly constant stream of customers until about 8:00, making coffees and sandwiches and trading on and off with your coworker in the back room, where you’re trying to get the brunt of the stocking and dishwashing done before they leave at 8:30. You’d been fucking busy, and you’re annoyed, you got cream from the dispenser machine all up one of the sleeves of your sweater so you’d had to take it off, and there’s fucking caramel sauce stuck to the hairs on the flat of your forearm near your wrist and gluing them to your skin and that grocery bag of fruit is sitting on the back table next to your jacket and your gross sweater and your house keys and it’s staring at you. Accusingly.

Your coworker leaves.

You steal a careful glance over the coffee machines at the lobby, just checking, just to make sure that he’s still—

And he is.

Cool.

It takes you a few minutes to kind of— dredge up the guts to go talk to him, another few more for the last trickle of late-night coffee-getters to start to finally taper out, and then you do it. You gather your resolve and your nerve and whatever else, courage, too, probably, and you go out into the lobby and you stand in front of his table and you wait for him to, eventually, look up from where he’s been staring, kind of sullen-looking, out of the window.

“I looked it up,” you blurt out when he does, before you can think better of it, “Online. Apparently supply chains were really small, in like. The 30s. So people could get stuff, right, but a lot more of it was— local. You know that, obviously, but, um.”

He just looks at you. Unblinking.

“Anyway,” you say, trying to ignore the weird kind of twisty feeling of your nerves in the pit of your stomach; jesus christ, he stares, a lot, “Anyway, I had this neighbor when I was a kid, right, and he was— his family, they were refugees. Immigrants. He was learning English, but I made friends with him by using my allowance to buy things at the grocery store, like, weird things, stuff that he’d never had before. So we could— try it. For– fun. And I thought– well. There was a sale, today, so.”

You gesture to your hand; awkwardly, helplessly, god, this is weird, like ice-breakers on hard mode, if the ice were less like a frozen-over pond and more like one of those miles-deep Antarctic glaciers. A tissue-thin plastic bag, the knotted top of it held in your fist, the lone fruit inside just kind of– sitting there.

He finally blinks, and then he shifts back in his chair, and he looks at you some more, his gaze unwavering and solid and heavy like it has actual, physical weight to it, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders and forcing you into the ground.  “Are you— have you been trying to make friends with me?” he says, in a tone that’s kind of incredulous and a lot disbelieving and tells you absolutely nothing about whether or not he’d actually be amenable to that.

Whatever.

Fuck it, you think, and then you lift your chin and you meet his eyes and you make yourself stare right back, stubborn and deliberately unflinching. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I have.”

His expression– it’d been flat, impassive and unreadable, but something cuts right across it for a fraction of a second when you say that, quick and sure as a knife. For that one heartbeat of a moment he looks expressive and alive– you think he might even look stricken, actually, and you wonder far too late if maybe this had been a mistake, if you’d upset him. Done something wrong.

But then it’s gone, so quickly that you think you must have imagined it.

He leans back in his chair, and he looks down at his empty coffee cup as he taps it absently against the table, like he’s thinking it over. When he looks back at you the sum of his features are wholly neutral, except for his mouth, which is quirked up at the corners, just a little– not a smile, not with the way his lips are pressed together, into a hard, unwavering line, but it doesn’t look like something bad, either. It doesn’t look negative.

“Okay,” he says. “All right, shoot.” He jerks his chin towards the bag in your hand. “What’ve you got?”

You tear the side of it with your fingernails and dump the contents on the table. “Pomegranate. Had one before?”

His mouth twitches up more, and this time it does look like a smile, the beginnings of one, like he’s repressing it. He clicks his tongue and stretches his legs out under the table and shakes his head, just a little. “Yep,” he says. “Struck out on your first try.”

“No way Mr. Great Depression is more worldly than me.” You decide you’re going to interpret that as an agreeable reaction. There’s only one chair at his table, so you drag one over from nearby, the legs making this awful grinding sound against the tile floor. “I’ve never had one, so I’m taking half. Only fair.”

You fumble in your pocket for your knife to cut into it. He stares at it, when you pull it out, and then stares at you, “What do you have that for?”

Some nameless tension inside of you unwinds at the realization that he’s not just sitting there in stone-faced silence, anymore.

“Walk home after close,” you reply with an easy shrug; the conversation no longer feels like the world’s most awkward one-person performance or like actually physically pulling teeth, and that’s— pretty cool. Feels like a victory. “I usually finish at like, eleven-thirty. Not super dangerous, or anything, but better safe than sorry.”

Barnes makes a disapproving sound— what you think is a disapproving sound— under his breath when you flick the blade open, and grabs the pomegranate from the center of the table. “Too short,” he says, jerking his chin at it in your hand, “Gonna be a pain in the ass, let me.”

The knife that he pulls from what you think must be a sheath on his boot is a straight blade without a handguard, matte black and tapered to a point and without a doubt longer than four inches. Long enough to halve the pomegranate in one clean cut, sharp enough to bite into the laminate surface of the table underneath, just a little. 

“That’s definitely not street legal,” you say, mostly joking. 

Barnes stares at you. It takes you a second to realize that’s— new. Relatively speaking.

“New York made anything over four inches illegal, plus butterfly knives and switchblades,” you inform him. “I think in the 50s.”

He makes some noncommittal sound of what you assume is probably distaste, and stows the knife back in his boot. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I’m not a snitch.”

He doesn’t smile, but his expression lightens a little.

On the table, the pomegranate is split neatly in half, and the little pebbled fruits inside the open skin glint in the warm light from the overhead fixtures. Like flecks of garnet. Or drops of blood.

“Could get these in the fall, sometimes,” he says, looking down at it. “Used to pick the bits out with a sewing needle. Made it last all afternoon.”

Your brain conjures up the image of the baby-faced Barnes, maybe sitting on the curb or the front steps of a building. You wonder what the details of the memory are. You wonder if little scrawny Steve had been there, or if he’d been alone. 

You don’t ask. 

“I don’t have a sewing needle,” is what you do say, “But—“ your nametag is clipped to your shirt, a flat slip of plastic with a pin on the back, and you unfasten it and slide it across the table. 

Behind you, the door hinges creak and the bell chimes and you sigh, long-suffering, and get to your feet with an exaggeratedly affected eye-roll.

“I’ll be back,” you tell him, “Customer.”

You go to take the order and then midway through making it the doorbell sounds again. Midway through making that, same deal. This happens, at night, a trickle of customers just fast enough to keep you working nonstop, now that you’re the only person running the store. It goes on for something like ten minutes, which irritates the shit out of you despite the fact that it is technically your job. It’s nine-thirty at night and you’ve been at work for six hours and what you want to be doing is picking this dude’s brain, not making fucking coffee and bagels.

And also because a part of you is aware that he usually leaves around now.

He’s still there, though, when you come back; on the table there’s the husk of one half of the pomegranate,  this pale and washed-out color like corn silk, and a neat pile of seeds on a recycled-paper napkin. Barnes has the other half and he’s poking out little grains of red with the safety-pin end of your name tag and biting the pieces off the tip, breaking the fragile skin between his teeth. He looks— calmer. Kind of wistful. 

You realize this must be the first time he’s done this since he was a child, all the way back in a Brooklyn that doesn’t look anything like this one. Living alongside different people. Walking different streets. Breathing different air. 

“That’s for you,” he says, nodding at the little bits of red, the empty husk, “I thought— since you’re working.” 

You blink at him, and then you smile, a small, grateful one. Something flashes in his eyes, when you do; you aren’t paying much attention to it, still thinking about him, being so out of time. How strange this all must be. How much you really did mean it when you said you wanted to be his friend.

Barnes seems to realize when he brings the pin to his mouth again that it’s attached to your nametag. “Sorry,” he says, stilted and stiff and awkward-sounding, again, “I— you probably don’t want this back, now.”

“‘S fine, you can throw it out, if you want— I have so many.”You slide back into the chair and fish out of your apron pocket a blank one that you’d grabbed from the back, not knowing he’d gone and picked all the seeds out of your half already.  “I forget them in my pockets, they keep ending up in the washing machine.”

His expression relaxes, a little. He catches the kernel of fruit at the end of the pin between his teeth and bites down until there’s a burst of red in his mouth. Stabs another, works it free of the shell, the flimsy little white membrane around it wilting in on itself. You watch him do that for a minute, contemplative and silent. His mouth is red. His tongue, too, when it darts across his bottom lip. Makes you think about rocket pops from the ice cream truck in the summer. Makes you wonder if they had those, back then. 

“Did all that work for nothing, huh?” he says, after a while. You startle out of your thoughts and blink at him, nonplussed; he glances down at the pile of seeds on the napkin. “Thought you wanted to try it.”

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “Oh, yeah. Duh.”

The first gem-glittering marble of fruit is softer than you’d expected and ruptures between your thumb and forefinger, staining the pads of them all red. You think about summer, as a kid, when you’d fall and scrape your hands on the asphalt hard enough that they bled. It’s almost the same color. 

The second time the seed is firmer and it bursts sharp and tart and faintly sweet between your teeth. “Kind of like cranberries,” you say, taking another. 

The pile is gone quickly, leaving just the napkin, the juice, like a dark wine stain. You lick your fingers clean. He’d been staring, the way he kind of always stares, but when your lips close around your thumb, he looks away.

~

You learn a bunch about food in the 1940s, mostly by accident.

Mangoes were a thing; they’d had some growing down in Florida, and you could get them seasonally. Pineapples used to be so rare that rich people would display the whole fruit as a centerpiece at parties and things, way back in the very early 1900s and up through the Great Depression, too; but by the time the 30s rolled around you could get the canned kind at the store. Watermelon was a thing, too, but they all had the solid, jet-black seeds you weren’t supposed to swallow; somebody’d bred those out of the commercial ones sometime after Barnes had slipped out of time. 

“I gotta just go straight for the really fucking weird stuff,” you muse, mostly to yourself. It’s late and it’s quiet in the shop and it’s raining outside, the street slick and black and reflecting the light from the lampposts. He stays later, now, leaves closer to 10:30; you’re kind of proud of that. That he seems to like you, your company. Or at least doesn’t dislike it.

“You could just ask,” he says, sounding just the slightest bit exasperated, “If I’ve had something before.”

“No,” you tell him, deeply serious, “No, that fucking ruins it, Barnes, it ruins the surprise.”

He looks at you blankly. A few seconds too late, you realize you’ve never actually said that, out loud. His name. You don’t call him Sergeant in your head anymore, it seems too formal, but James seems too intimate, and you hadn’t asked— hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted to pry— if he still thinks of himself as Bucky. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Barnes it is, then.

~

Gooseberries used to be way more popular, all the way up into the 1920s, even though technically it was made federally illegal to grow them a few years before he was born. It was an attempt to stop the spread of this fungus that’d jump from the bushes to pine trees, killed huge swathes of them up and down the Northeast, decimated the lumber industry. He tells you his Ma used to make tarts and pies from them, in the fall when they were in-season, but eventually the farms upstate started getting shut down, and it was too expensive. The federal ban lifted in the 60s, you learn via Google, but production never really ramped back up again— they didn’t even have them at your regular grocery store, you’d had to go all the way to Trader Joe’s.

They taste kind of like green apples. He’d looked the way he did with the pomegranate, that first time, wistful and softer and like he’s remembering. It’s really the most you’ve ever seen behind whatever practiced and controlled exterior he maintains, beyond flashes of almost-smiles and eyebrow-raises and pointed looks. You want to peel that veneer off like peeling the skin from a fruit, get underneath it, get to the flesh of him; when this thought occurs to you, you bury it immediately, as deep as it will go. 

“White pine blister rust,” you read aloud off of your phone, crossing the lobby to his table, coffee cup in one hand. You set it on the table for him and he reaches for it with a mumbled thanks. “That’s what it was called, the fungus-thing. According to wikipedia.”

Barnes blinks at you. He takes a long, slow sip of his coffee, even though it’s still probably a little too hot, not that it matters to him; and then he sets the cup down and frowns and says, “What the fuck is wikipedia?”

You laugh without meaning to.

The skin slips, a little, whatever’s underneath peeking out, bruised and soft and bloody, but then you blink and he’s fine. Watching you, expression light and practiced. Whole, again.

~

In February something happens.

Your coworker tells you before he leaves, pulls you aside in the threshold of the door to the back room to mumble, “there were some dudes out back by the garbage when I took it out before. I was getting bad vibes, I don’t know, just— be careful.”

There’d been a string of robberies through the borough, all within some convenient distance of the subway line, and the store is probably three blocks away from one of the platforms. The back door is one of those that opens only from inside the store, the other end flat and lacking a handle; you leave it propped open when you run to take the garbage out. You’re not stupid, is the thing. The guys, whoever they are— it could be nothing, but it could be that they’re waiting. Waiting for it to be just you, waiting for the door to open, waiting for the opportunity. You have a knife, but it’s a flimsy ten-dollar gas station piece of shit, mostly for intimidation and not for actual use; you’re also well aware that using knives in confrontations tends to make things worse rather than better. Bring that shit out and you’re asking to get it taken from you. Asking to have it used on you.

You could try to call the cops, but more than half of them have been requisitioned by the GRC, and you know what they’d tell you. Unfortunately at the moment we’re understaffed and can’t afford to respond to predictive calls. Please let us know if and when something illegal occurs. Practiced and perfunctory and something people joke about in your neighborhood, because there’s really nothing else any of you can do. Your coworker can’t stay, either; he can’t afford to pay the babysitter another hour, not on minimum wage. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine.”

And it is okay. You will be fine.

Barnes is there.

It’s a Wednesday, so it’s just sheer fucking luck that he’s here at all; he must be able to see it, in your face, when you come bursting through the little swinging gate-thing and out into the lobby, because his hands tighten into fists where they’re resting on the table.

“Oh my god I’m so glad you’re here,” you say, breathless and frantic and very much meaning it.

There’s a flash of something on his face that makes you think of heat lightning or splintering ice of the second right before a pomegranate seed bursts between teeth. You are not thinking enough about things that aren’t your immediate anxiety to register it.

“I need your help,” you tell him.

He grows progressively stiffer as you explain the situation, and when you’re done he says nothing, just stands up and pushes his chair in and says, real low, “I’ll go— talk to them. Don’t worry.”

The bell above the door chimes when he leaves.

You stand there at the edge of his table for what feels like some impossible amount of time, every muscle in your body wound up like a spring, jaw clenched so hard it’s starting to drive the beginnings of a headache somewhere on the top of your skull—

He comes back.

“Are you— did they—“ you break from nervously picking at your fingernails to make some vague and anxious gesture. Barnes looks fine, unscathed, cool and neutral and controlled as ever, but when he looks at you it makes something base and instinctive deep inside of you buzz with— alarm. Or— something.

“They were just— being stupid, just drunks,” he says, and maybe you’re imagining it, the thread of tension in his voice. “It’s fine. It’s all— it’s fine.”

You feel yourself visibly relax. “Oh, god, thank you so much, dealing with drunk guys is— it’s the worst.”

He flinches, when you say the first words, just a little, his eyes almost closing and the muscles around them going just briefly tense, like he’d managed to suppress most, but not all, of the instinct. “You don’t— you don’t need to thank me.”

You study him for a minute, like maybe if you look hard enough that flicker of whatever it was would come back, linger long enough for you to make sense of it.

“All right, fine, no thanks. Thanks rescinded,” you say finally, bemused. “I’m going to refill your coffee, though.”

You say it with your hand already half-outstretched, close enough that he can’t stop you even with his reflexes, and whatever entirely reactive and entirely accidental noise of triumph you make when his hand closes around empty space is— not on purpose. 

His mouth twitches, the closest you’ve ever seen to an actual smile.

Something in your stomach flips.

You shove that shit down, too. 

When you come back with the coffee he’s sitting back in the chair with his legs stretched out and he’s staring out the window again. 

“Thanks,” he says, when you set it down.

“Oh, so you can thank me, but I can’t thank you?”

His mouth twitches again. “Yes.”

You make some entirely performative tch sound of affected annoyance as you retreat back behind the counter; you still have to take the garbage out, clear out the pastry display case, start emptying and scrubbing down the coffee pots you’re not using now that business has slowed to a crawl. 

“Are you still coming Friday?” you call out to him,  over the hum and hiss of the espresso machine running through the automated cleaning program, the milk foaming wands steaming in pitchers of sanitizer water, all of it loud enough that you’d never be able to hear him over it, something you realize too late, “Sorry, hold on, I should have asked before I—“

“Do you want me to?” His voice is clear and close and you startle reflexively; he’s at the counter, at the register, staring. Always staring. You thought in the beginning you’d get used to it. It’s not uncommon; those with power stare, and those without cast their eyes down and away. It’s the nature of customer service jobs in New York City. You meet a lot of powerful assholes in suits who make more money than you probably will ever handle in the entirety of your life, and they look at you and talk at you rather than to you, like you’re nothing, a rodent or an insect or something even less than that. You’ve never once flinched away from any of their stares, and never so much as felt like you wanted to, either.

James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t look at you like that at all. He doesn’t look at you like you’re lesser. He looks at you like he can see you— like he can see right through you, like you’re transparent, like everything going on in your head is out in the open, visible, vulnerable, or maybe like he just wants it to be. Like he’s looking for a door hidden somewhere in the minutiae of your expression, some way to force himself inside and pull all of your thoughts and secrets out like unraveling a spool of thread.

He doesn’t look at you like you’re not human. He looks at you like he knows, precisely, intimately, exactly how human you are, and that’s—

Kind of worse. Or maybe it isn’t. It’s definitely weird.

You realize with a start that he’d asked you a question, and you’d been silent for way too long. You tear your eyes away from him and focus on pulling all the cup lids out of the tray at the edge of the counter, sweeping the donut crumbs and sugar crystals and coffee grinds out and onto the floor. 

“I mean—,” your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth and it trips over the words, the syllables, stumbling and uncertain. “Not if you have plans, I— you don’t have to.”

“I never have plans,” he scoffs, scathingly self-deprecating, and then there’s the steady rhythm of his fingers drumming against the counter and you feel it on your neck, the hairs raising there, that he’s staring at you still, “I just—since I came today, I thought maybe you wouldn’t— I don’t want to bother you.”

You freeze, stack of iced coffee lids in one hand, half-lowered back into the now-spotless tray. 

You force yourself to look back up at him.

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, stressing each word, like it’s important. It is important. “You’re— I like you. We’re friends.”

 That thing, from before, the almost-maybe-flinch; it happens again, and you feel your own expression do something reflexive in response, your lips part and your brow furrow in the seconds before you can school your features back to composure. Whatever he does, the control he has over his affect; you’re not very good at that.

“Besides,” you say, into the silence, eyes cast back down and focused on filling the lid tray, “I found something you’ve never tried before, this time. And since I paid for it already, you are, in fact, contractually obligated to be here.” 

He laughs, the same kind of laugh, the only kind of laugh you ever get from him; the cut-short one, like he doesn’t mean to, like he’d tried to stop it. 

Like he couldn’t.

~

Barnes leaves at about 10:45, and you bring the trash out right before he goes, just in case. You wouldn’t have seen it if it weren’t for the fact that you were still kind of nervous and had your phone in hand, shining the washed-out beam of light back-and-forth across the little fenced-in area by the dumpster, trying to keep the garbage bag at arms’ length to avoid getting some disgusting coffee sludge mixture on your shoes where it’s leaking out of the corners.

The light catches on it. It glitters, captures your attention, red against the sun-bleached gray concrete. Pomegranate seeds. Shards of garnet. 

Drops of blood.

[bluesunflowers21]

I have no posts and no followers so this probably won’t see the light of day, but it’s 1:53 am and I’m up reading yumihisu fanfics from 2014 and I just had this thought I needed to share.

Does anyone ever read these older fics and just think about their age? It’s almost like time travel, right? You’re looking into a time in fandom where so many things hadn’t happened yet, secrets not yet revealed, ship wars that have yet to exist. To see a ship you hold close because even if it’s painful in canon it was the first you ever saw that matched who you were in some small way, and it’s young again. It’s all new, and the angst hasn’t hit, and the tragedy isn’t tragic yet.

And then I look at the comments. 2013, 2014, 2017, 2018. All are people, who at one time or another, have read the exact same work I have, and have enjoyed it enough to make a comment. And it’s not just fanfic either, it’s YouTube comments, it’s old vine compilations, it’s late 90s and early 2000s music. It goes beyond nostalgia, it is for just a moment, seeing peaks into peoples lives in a more in-depth way than any history book I have ever read. It is a diary of humanity when things were easier, when we were all young and bright eyed and full of hope.

I feel that since Covid, even before it, the world has been so dull. Colors are faded, and sounds are muted, and smiles aren’t as wide anymore. But tonight, even if for one moment, I caught a glimpse of what once was. I saw the beginning of a world I had just discovered over 10 years ago. I saw a hole in history, and I remembered myself. I remembered humanity. I remember when I cared about people beyond a surface level, when I had empathy and sympathy carved so deep into my heart that I bled comfort and love. I remembered the little things, the fallen log in the woods behind my papas house, just past the field that was decided by and electric pole, and the hill covered in cherry blossoms that I dug arrow heads up from, I remembered my wooden easel that I painted when I ran out of paper, and my bed frame that was once white and ended in an array of pastel colors. I remember when I liked pink and purple like the walls of my bedroom before first grade. I remembered when I started to hate pink and purple. I remembered the bullies from elementary school. I remember my fourth grade teacher convincing me to read The Stone Child, and how it was the first time I had finished a proper book. I remember looking for any horror book I could find after. I remember starting middle school and being so scared of what would come. I remember making a huge card for my seventh grade math teacher because he was retiring, and him hugging me and the other student who helped, because I don’t think he expected that from any of us. I remember starting highschool and trying to figure out who I was. I remember my mom getting cancer. I remember theatre being an escape. I remember friends I haven’t spoken to in years, and some I still speak to today. I remember the little kid who would think “future me, please tell me it will be okay” and I now think of the adult me who says, “yeah, it will be”.

Maybe this is all nonsensical rambling, but now I can’t help but think of a game I played for the first time after watching YouTubers play it online. There’s a specific quote that I don’t think I really understood until this moment, one that I saw make others cry in…I’m not sure, relief? Sadness? Happiness?

“Despite everything, it’s still you”

Despite everything, reading those comments on a random ballerina AU fic written over 10 years ago reminded me that yes, after everything that has happened, things I’ve caused and things I’ve never had control over, the little kid who believed in people still exists. She is a part of me that has never and always existed. Everything she was, and everything she ever will be, is who I am. Everything any child was and will ever be is who they are. Everything a child could have been and will be, is who humanity is.

We are angry, and selfish, and cruel.

But

We are kind, and we are hopeful, and we are love.

Not that we are loved, or that we do love

We are the embodiment of the concept.

And this is all the sleep deprived ramblings of a 21 year old who has no idea if I am actually writing this or if I am just dreaming it. Who knows, either way I won’t remember it in the morning. Tbh I barely remember it now.

[rose022]

wgat is parkour civilization and how / should i get into it. im curious w all your reblogs

its so fucking horrible i hate minecraft yaoi i keep being drawn to it for as long as i live, ive loved minecraft so long and people comtinually use minecraft to make stories and its amazing how people can make such intricate stories with just blocks. and then other people make amazing art of those blocks. so impressive but i need to get over fearing being cringe

sorry for that ramble its just a video on youtube basically. guy has been making videos of a world where parkour is like currency. they were compiled into a movie. its pretty easy to tell when the cuts/recaps happen from when it was serialized

if you ever want other minecraft stuff with good stories... check out life series or empires PLEASWS i mainly watch lizzie, scott, and grian.

oh and tbh i didnt know abt parciv until recently cus i just randomly started seeing stuff and didnt know anything, then my irl was like its unironically good, then i saw tumblr posts saying it was like an allegory for capitalism, then even kwite and ludwig talked about it. so i decided when i had enough time id watch it and here i am. its not great but the vine booms are so funny. evbo is just a silly lil guy. so much deus ex machina main character plot armour but its fun so.

[synthetictorii]

We Don't Sleep At Night ✧ Hitoshi Shinso

Pairing: Hitoshi Shinso x reader Genre: fluff Summary: You can't sleep and neither can your friend. Your nightly walk takes a turn that changes your relationship. Word count: 5.1k A/N: ...obligatory old and cringey fic ahead warning...

     You tossed and turned in your bed, blanket long discarded on the floor. Your window was opened wide, letting the fresh air and noise from the street below into your room. You were currently counting stars, before that you counted all windows you could see, imagined yourself jumping from one roof to another and briefly wondered if it was possible to go insane with boredom. Nothing felt satisfying, no stupid mobile game could entertain you neither could songs, funny vine compilations or fanfictions. Was this how psychopaths are made? You tugged at your hair and rubbed your face roughly. You felt your sanity slowly slipping through your fingers. Maybe you should at least wave it goodbye.

  That’s when your phone buzzed on the floor where you had threw it after you found out that it didn’t contain magical solution to your insomnia. Well, doesn’t matter, you can keep your sanity for a while longer you decided. With a sigh you rolled over and reached to the floor, grabbing your phone. Green light flickered on top of it signalling an unread message. You smirked contently, already guessing who the one texting you would be. The screen lit up after you pushed the button and sure enough, there it was – a message. You opened it with bated breath.

From: Frickin’ Savior

Text: You up?

  Your grin only got wider. No one but you would know who the text was from, which was exactly the purpose of the nickname. Nobody would guess that the savior in this case was Shinsō Hitoshi, the mysterious boy from general studies who never spoke to anyone. Or at least that was how it seemed. And it was super important to keep it that way. Well, to him at least. You wouldn’t actually mind if others knew about your friendship. Though it sure was more romantic like this; like a forbidden romance bloomed between you or something. This part was actually a secret to Hitoshi too. But shhhh, he mustn’t know.

To: Frickin’ Savior

Text: Very much! I’m about to claw my eyes out! What are you up to?!

  Your fingers speeded across the keyboard and hit send. It was a little routine of yours – if one of you couldn’t fall asleep, and it happened more often than could be considered healthy, you’d text the other to see if they were up as well and then something happen. Something also meaning potentially nothing in case that the other was asleep somehow. But it also could mean night adventure, phone call led in whisper so you wouldn’t wake your parents or sending each other shitposts or random thoughts you had. You treasured every single one of those sessions you had over the last six months. If it wasn’t for him, you’d probably have jumped out the window long time ago just to stop the never ending cycle of exhaustion and staring into the ceiling. If you wake up at a different time in a different place, could you wake up as a different person? You remembered the famous Fight Club quote. Yeah, one night you and Hitoshi watched Fight Club together – each in your own home and room but facetiming the whole time. It was super romantic. Your phone buzzed again.

From: Frickin’ Savior

Text: Brown in five.

  You clenched the phone in your hands, grinning like a maniac. You jumped from your bed and took your night attire off, changing into your most beloved pair of jeans with holes that looked like wild animal tore them and [f/c] t-shirt with graffiti pattern on it. It was summer and nights were hot enough to wear just this. You quietly sneaked out of your room and took your favourite pair of shoes and your keys. Then you went back to your room again and put on the shoes. You climbed to the tree right next to your window and then down. Your parents absolutely mustn’t know that you sneaked out again. At least not until you left the house. Then they couldn’t do much but scold you again when you returned. So now you were safe. You let out a content sigh and ran excitedly to the meeting point. It was a small fountain in the middle of crossroad, not much far from your house neither the U.A. dorms he lived in, with a sculpture of demon and angel fighting in the middle. You once said that it reminded you of Dan Brown’s novel Angles & Demons and the name Brown just stuck with it. You were lucky to find another bookworm and befriend him, although your friendship was a secret.

  It wasn’t that Hitoshi or you would be ashamed of the relation but your relative classes, him being in 1-C and you in 1-D, were cruel to you as it was since you both had a quirk that would be perfect for a villain or so they said. Your quirk was The Lie, you could tell a lie and the victim or victims would believe you whole-heartedly, the only catch being that something about your appearance would change slightly. The effect disappeared when someone pointed that little change out. And as was the case with Hitoshi’s quirk, it would also be a great quirk for a hero but wasn’t good enough against robots on the U.A. hero class exams. So this little agreement you had between each other was to protect yourselves from more teasing and bullying. That was actually how you two met in the first place.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  It was second or third week of school, late afternoon. You were just about to head home when two huge guys pinned you against the lockers, hand already covering your mouth – since “You don’t wanna do this” is also a lie. You were smart, no doubt about that, but not strong. It was fairly easy for them to shove you into janitor’s room. You put up a fight though, biting fingers of one of the boys hard, which got you nowhere but he made sure to leave nasty purple bruises on your arms in return. You didn’t have enough time to march back to the door and bang them when they swung open and unknown indigo haired boy made the same messy entrance as you a while ago, they pushed him backwards and slammed the door close. “We caught the bad guys, yeah!” One of the guys outside shouted. “Yeah! But aren’t we too nice to them, giving them seven minutes in heaven,” the whole group bursting into laughter. “Hey! Let us out!” The boy screamed back and kicked the door. But there was no response, only the laughter got quieter as the guys walked away. “Damnit,” he cursed and banged his head against the door. “It’s easier to bruise your arms y’know? It’d still match your hair,” you said while examining the marks on your own arms, startling the boy who didn’t notice your presence. “Ah, sorry, I thought you’d get the seven minutes reference,” you smirked at his surprised expression. He scoffed and scratched his nape. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you,” he looked away and sighed. “Think they’ll let us out?” He asked and sat down with his back leaning against the door. You simply shrugged. “Maybe?” With only about a meter separating you from him you got a clear view of his features, his sharp jawline and high cheekbones, purple eyes with dark bags under them. His hair created somewhat messy crown on his head. He was very attractive and whoever dared to say otherwise was lying.

  He didn’t seem to be much of a talker, simply sitting on his spot and staring to the side. You however were bored and liked talking to people, especially if the person was a pretty boy. “So I guess you’re a villain of your class too?” You asked and his response was almost immediate. “Too?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Ah, you didn’t hear. I’m [l/n] [y/n], the main villain of the class 1-D, nice to meet you. Nobody would talk to me because I can make other believe anything I say and they’re too stupid to figure out how to see through it,” you made a little bow with a smile. “And you?” You tried, the boy looking away again. “Why would I tell you that? You lost a huge advantage by telling me that,” he murmured emotionlessly. “Well, I’m not going to use my ability on fellow student and villain, am I?” You shrugged again. The boy was silent for a while, then sighed. “Shinsō Hitoshi, 1-C, if you answer me I can force you to do anything,” he looked at you from the corner of his eyes. Your jaw dropped in awe. “That’s so cool!” You grinned and then you suddenly froze, unable to move your body. Your senses were intact though so you saw the illegally handsome smirk the boy’s lips curled into. And then everything returned to normal. “Well, that’s what I call a missed chance. You’re locked here with me away from everyone and this is all you do?” You teased, hoping to make the boy talk. Spoiler: it worked. He let out a breathy laugh. “Everyone is super wary to talk to me and you just say this? Are you stupid or what?” He seemed to be super socially awkward but you didn’t mind. After all you had all the time until someone let you out to teach him. “I just thought it was interesting decision for someone as bad as they think,” you gave him a small smile and there it was again, the inability to control your body. This time though he let you go quicker. “See! I bet deep down you’re a sweetheart,” you smiled cheerfully. “I’ll do it until you stay quiet,” he warned you with a hint of mischievous glint in his eyes. You decided that if it will bring out more emotions of him, it’s worth it. “I always have a lot to say, so good luck,” as the last word rolled off your tongue, your motion froze. “And what if I just leave you like this?” This time you counted the time until he let you go: 13 seconds. “Challenge accepted!” You beamed and made sure to make the most stupid face you could pull off – and it worked, you lost control just as you finished the masterpiece. His stoic face changed completely, he actually burst out laughing even if just for a second or two. Even after that there was a small hint of smile on his lips. 7 seconds. “What the hell was that?” He asked, chuckle escaping him. “I just thought that if you were to look at my frozen face I might as well make it worth it,” you explained with a happy grin and lost control. “Now I could actually handle looking at you,” he smirked. 15 seconds. “Are you calling me pretty?” You gasped.

“I still didn’t take back that ‘stupid’, so I’m calling you that.” 10 seconds. “Now that is really mean.” Pout.

“I’m a villain after all, ain’t I?” 20 seconds. “You almost scared me there.” Relieved breath.

“Almost?” 25 seconds. “You’d get bored without me so I figured you’d let me go eventually.” Grin.

“I prefer silence, so why should I get bored?” 40 seconds. “Because you must be really nice when you stop with this jerkish act and want someone to talk to you without fear.” Friendly smile.

“What if I really am not?” Full minute and thirty seconds. “Well, then I’d get to look at your handsome face so I’d still win.” Wink.

0 seconds.

  You looked at him confusedly, little sad that your little playtime was over. The hint of pink on his cheeks and sheepish look full of doubt he shot you made up for it perfectly though so you didn’t mind. “That wasn’t a lie by the way, as you can see, nothing about me changed,” you finger gunned him with another wink. “So that’s your secret?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell anyone, I kinda enjoy them being afraid of me,” you were the one to look away this time. The count started. “Ha! I got ya!” He smirked and stretched. You cursed yourself mentally for not being able to see the movement of his muscles. “Now I have no reason to let you go, do I? Oh I forgot, you can’t talk.” He clicked his tongue. 32 seconds. “See, there’s a reason - you’d miss my voice! I don’t blame you, I know it’s highly addictive,” you sighed under the huge burden, making him roll his eyes. But he didn’t make you freeze. “Seriously, why shouldn’t I tell anyone? Give me one good reason,” he leaned his head on the door as well. “I’ll be your best friend if you don’t. And I’m really good at it!” He gave you amused look. “Hey, it’s true! You can call me anytime and I’ll pick up! If not, the insomnia probably got me and I’m dead, but that just happens,” you sighed dramatically. Something in his look changed though, most notably his direction, now away from you. “Well, insomnia buddy could be nice,” he muttered almost inaudibly. Your face beamed with happiness. “Then we have a deal!” You shouted excitedly and shifted closer to him, extending a hand for him to shake. Instead of taking it he looked at the bruises now dark purple in color. “They did this to you?” He frowned and made a move to touch your arm, stopping after realizing it would probably hurt you. “Yeah, I bit the guys hand so this is only fair, I guess?” You mused. “It looks painful, they didn’t left any mark on me and I fought back too,” his voice was monotone but it still seemed to you like he was concerned. “Not hard enough then,” you teased, getting an eye-roll again. That’s when the janitor finally came, not too happy to find two teenagers in his room.

  After that it went pretty fast. You’d often chat throughout the night and when you came from school. He was the one who suggested that you save each other’s number under a nickname just in case that they’d take your phones. They changed a lot from then but were just as meaningful. The teasing continued, your classes shipping you and mocking you for it but it wasn’t anything that actually bothered you as you knew would be the case if they knew you actually talked to each other.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  And now you were rushing to meet the boy again. Just one more turn and there he was. Sitting on the edge of fountain, looking up. He wore black tight jeans with dark violet shirt with blue stripes and black leather jacket. Handsome as always. At the sound of your footsteps he turned his head, some if his hairs falling to his face. Your heart skipped a beat as it often did in his presence. “Hey,” you smiled and rushed to him, giving him a friendly hug that you enjoyed more than you should have. He kept saying that he doesn’t like physical affection and people touching him in general but you soon noticed that when you touched or hugged him, he hesitated before pulling away. That was why you were already close to confessing your feelings about ten times. “Hey,” he offered a welcome as well. You could tell something was off already. His voice was never this soft unless something happened. “Tell me,” you said simply. It was comfortable knowing each other so well, not having to explain things. “I just,” he sighed and let his head fall, “I met some kids on the street and they followed me the whole way home and picked at me ‘cause of my quirk.” It didn’t happen quite as often now, the Sports Festival long in the past. It only hit Hitoshi more because of this fact. “I’m just afraid I’ll forever be known as the kid who’d be a perfect villain,” he shrugged and tried to laugh it off. You knew him well enough to know this was just a façade. “You don’t have to embarrassed,” you said gently, bumping your shoulder together as you sat next to him on the cold surface. You didn’t nag at him more about that though, your only intention being to remind him of that. “And you definitely don’t need to worry either, they’re just kids. Kids are mean,” you made a face, getting a weak chuckle from him. “Besides my parents will always remember you as ‘that purple bastard’ so don’t sweat it, not everyone will remember you like that.” Now he laughed in earnest. “Are they still mad?” You nodded with a shrug.

Why would parents be mad at the boy with whom their only child ran away in the middle of the night on basically weekly basis… you didn’t understand at all. It wasn’t like you didn’t come back – and if you didn’t, you at least sent them a message.

  A comfortable silence enveloped you. Your mind was swirling with all kinds of thoughts, from boring ones about school, controversies you saw online, to fantasizing about what your first date with Hitoshi would be like. You were swinging your legs as you did. It was nice to just be together with him like this. He looked troubled but you didn’t say anything, knowing full well that he needed to think through whatever was worrying him. You didn’t mind. He was the only person you didn’t mind being quiet around. He seemed to appreciate that, in return trying to talk more than he usually would. “Quick! What was the last thing you thought about,” he asked suddenly. It was your favourite inside game. “I remembered the guy who had the Twin Towers with ‘Inside job’ tattooed on his back, it’s so tacky, you?” You answered with a grin, internally cringing at the memory. “That the blond guy from 1-B is freakin’ creepy.” He didn’t need to explain more, you knew exactly who was he talking about. “Yeah, I hate passing him in the hallway.” You shivered, that empty eyed look always gave you the creeps. “I mean, why does everyone hate on us? He’s the real evil,” you giggled, not noticing the little smile on Hitoshi’s lips.

  You stretched and yawned, looking around. Your muscles were getting stiff from the sitting and it was such a beautiful night. “Wanna go for a walk? We haven’t done that in a while!” You suggested excitedly, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. To your surprise you didn’t get the usual eye-roll but a silent nod instead. If the laziest person you knew after Aizawa-sensei didn’t protest a walk, something was sure wrong. “Those kids got you bad, huh?” You smiled sadly letting go of the fabric. He simply looked away but it was enough for you. “I’m just tired of hearing it all the time, that’s all. And…,” he bit his lip – unbeknownst to him you’ve wanted to do just it since the day one – obviously pondering something. “Keep this to yourself, okay?” He sighed in the end and you nodded with a smile. You wondered if he could hear your heart trying to escape your ribcage. You always got all mushy inside when he opened up to you. “I’d really like to make good impression on kids, it really matters to me a lot,” he confessed quietly with a gentle smile you almost never saw. “But how am I supposed to do it if everyone only sees a villain in me?” He got bitter again, his precious gentle side disappearing. You laid your head on his shoulder, feeling him stiffen under you before relaxing. He was used to this level of skinship by now, you trained him well. You were the one who initiated it for the most part, but sometimes, when you were feeling down or he was in extremely good mood, he’d touch you on his own. It never failed to make your knees weak. For other’s it probably didn’t seem like much – a gentle brush of hands, a quick hug or leaning on someone. It was after all what all friends did, right? Not when it came to Hitoshi, and you knew it. That’s why it was so special to you. “You remember our seven minutes in heaven?” You asked, getting a confused look. “I didn’t think for a moment that you are a bad person, the thought that you may be evil never occurred to me,” you noticed him smile a bit from the corner of your eye. “Even when you had a control over my body for full freakin’ minute,” you pouted. He simply leaned his head to side to touch yours in response. You closed your eyes and carved the feeling into your brain. His hair were so soft they were like a pillow and nice warmth radiated from him. Combined with the smell of his cologne, it was a perfect attack on your ability to think straight.

  “And,” the light bulb went off above your head as you straightened up, suddenly getting an idea what might help him, “look at the proof.” You raised a finger to signal him to wait as you fished around in your pocket for your phone. You unlocked it and showed him messages of your conversation with him. “See? There’s nothing like ‘Stain’s kin’,” you pointed to the nickname you had saved him under. Frickin’ Savior. “You’re really amazing, Hitoshi, it’s a shame that not many people know that.” You watched as his walls fell down, his expression soft. He looked at you with his beautiful purple eyes, stars reflecting in them and you swore it was the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen. “So… yeah, don’t worry about it,” you let out a breathy chuckle. Your cheeks were pink after showing him the embarrassing nickname you gave him. But it did lift his mood so you’d survive. “May I ask for something?” His politeness took you by surprise, but still you nodded without a word. It was the first time he spoke to you like this. You tried to find the reason for the sudden change in his eyes but they were dark, as they after all always were if he was serious about something. His body language though wasn’t guarded like it usually was. He looked anxious, his hand would be trembling for sure if they were balled into fists on his knees. “Is it really okay?” He asked again, a hint of concern in his voice. Now that made you nervous. “Just tell me what it is.” You frowned. Well known feeling overtook you, creeping up your spine. You didn’t try to move, knowing that it would be to naught. “I-I’m really sorry that I do it this way, but I’d chicken out otherwise and I don’t want to hold back anymore,” he apologized, worrying his lower lip between his lip. Then he looked at you and took your breath away as well. There was no hint of the walls he built over the years, all of them down, those few he kept up even around you were no exception. And this unguarded face of his was riddled with fear and uncertainty, he was at his most vulnerable and you couldn’t move to protect him. “Kiss me,” he whispered so faintly you wouldn’t understand if you didn’t read his lips. Right then and there the hold of his quirk crashed.

  But that didn’t matter. What did was that your heart officially outpaced the speed of light. Your lungs wouldn’t co-operate, every single muscle tense and ready for run-or-fight situations, brain pumping endorphins into your blood stream at neck-breaking pace. He wants you to kiss him. And he wants it bad enough to order you, as if he couldn’t take no for an answer. He said it himself, right? Your mind screamed in ecstasy. After all the months of surviving on strictly innocent touches, finally came a moment you were waiting for. You looked into his eyes now that you could move and it finally hit him. His face contorted in a grimace of pure horror. He shrieked a high pitched noise and took off, sprinting away.

  But oh boy, were you not having any of this shit.

  You chased him street after street, alley after another, finally pinning him against a wall of some shop. You were both breathless, yet he still tried to find a way to continue his escape. You stepped closer to him, invading his closest personal space, chests and noses only millimeters apart. “Let me go,” he pleaded quietly, avoiding your eyes. “No way,” you frowned before suddenly having to squat down overcome by a fit of coughs you always got after running for a long time. Only annoyed and angered this time by the opening it created for Hitoshi to run away. He however mimicked your pose instead and soothingly rubbed your back up and down. You smiled in between the coughs.

  “Didn’t you want to run?” You asked when your body finally calmed down and sat on the sidewalk. “I still can I guess, but I don’t want to put you through that again, I know you hate it,” he said and shifted awkwardly. “Then why did you ran in the first place?” You gave him mean look he couldn’t see since he was still avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d ran after me.” He confessed and sat too, knees pulled to his chest. “Why wouldn’t I? Do you think I’d let the opportunity to kiss you slip from my grasp so easily?” You offered a gentle smile and nudged him with your elbow. He finally looked at you, still as vulnerable and scared, now shocked too. “W-w-what? You don’t have to do it, my quirk didn’t work!” He protested, turning away but you cupped his cheek, turning his face back to look at you. “It did, but did you forget when it turns off?” You chuckled a bit at his dumbfounded expression. “You know, back then, I was really shocked because,” you took in a deep breath, “because my crush of 3 months, 2 weeks and 6 days, whom I thought would never feel anything but friendship towards me, asked me to kiss him.” You stroked his cheek with your thumb, genuinely shy smile gracing your lips. You let him process it, watching his emotions shift and change. From surprise, to disbelief, to denial, to finally, acceptance. He smiled as well, beautifully sweet smile and eyes sparkling. His whole face lit up in an instant. “May I still kiss you?” You asked but the answer never came as a pair of soft, warm lips gently crashed and melted into yours in deep kiss. Your eyes shut instinctively. The feeling was impossible to describe, pure bliss was very weak expression. His hands found their way to your hair and back and pulled you closer. You hummed happily and put your arms on his shoulders, gently pulling on his hair. He moaned quietly into your mouth and it was the only sound you needed to ever remember and hear again and again.

  Eventually though you had to pull away for oxygen, your forehead still resting against his. He looked at you sheepishly. “So… how was it?” He asked, unable to contain a smile. You leaned forward and captured his lips again, gently this time, a reassuring kiss. “Addictive,” you simply purred, your lips still touching. “Do you want more?” He smirked and you leaned in again but left him hanging, instead giving him a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I do, but I also want a proper confession,” you whispered teasingly, pulling away to look at him. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “I think I was pretty straightforward though,” he tried to pull you closer again but you resisted. You knew however that he wouldn’t budge, not like this. “Nah-ah, if you want it you better confess properly,” you tapped his lips with a finger and faked a yawn, “anyway, I’m getting pretty sleepy. But don’t worry I’ll wait for you.” You stretched and stood up, walking back to your home. It was hard to ignore him and don’t turn around when he called your name so sweetly but your stupid cheesy heart needed a proper love confession, stuttering, avoiding eye contact and everything.

  You received some pretty sweet messages from your savior saying that he missed you, that he needed you to come back. It goes without saying that you didn’t sleep a bit, your heart racing with every new text. You always responded along the lines “If you want it, come and get it” but he never did. You knew he wouldn’t, he needed time to organize his thoughts and to get used to the situation. He was always awkward with words so you patiently waited the whole weekend, going back to just texting. You talked on the phone too, chatting as you normally did, except now you slipped in compliments and sweet nothings as well, always making the other one blush even if it couldn’t be seen.

  Then Monday came around finally. You walked to the school and to your class, passing Hitoshi in the hallway. You noticed he didn’t ignore you completely, shooting you a warm look that effectively made your knees weak. You weren’t able to concentrate during lessons, your mind too occupied with the indigo haired boy. How could you not think about him when your classrooms were right next to each other? During the third lesson you couldn’t take it anymore and secretly texted him.

To: Frickin’ Savior

Text: How much for 10g of the stuff?  You smiled, quite satisfied with your pun. But hey, he got you hooked so it was his fault. You were shifting nervously the whole time until the break came. Just as the bell rang there was a big fuss at the door, lot of muttering. You sat on your desk so you could see but you didn’t need to, it was the exact moment Hitoshi emerged from the group of people blocking the doors. “We don’t want any villains here!” Someone shouted after him but he paid it no mind, instead walking towards you with determined look on his face. It made your heart do flips inside your chest. You looked at him confusedly, this was a taboo! He didn’t seemed to care though as he made his way to you. One of his hands sneaked around your waist and the other cupped your cheek. He pulled you close and leaned in to kiss you, you were to shocked to protest, melting into him instead. Nothing but his lips against your mattered, definitely not the gasping and stupid remarks of your classmates. You moved in sync, both hungry for more. He pulled away reluctantly, looking into your eyes with a smirk. “Is this enough of a confession?” Corners of your mouth quirked up, you captured his lips again instead of answering. Yes, this was enough.

[imeverywoman420]

you have to remember a sizable chunk of the population is made up of opportunistic sadists. People you think are normal and good people. I mean this sincerely there is such a large amount of people that arent serial killers but theyre about 5 steps away. Starting confrontations for fun, with a bag of dead gerbils under their bed, watching the Funkytown cartel video like its a vine compilation. Like theres malevolent and malicious people out there so evil its cartoony and they probably wont go out of their way kill you. But if you were drowning in a pool at night and they were the only one out there… they wouldn’t help you. They would write in their diary abt how powerful they felt watching you die.