#this might not make it into the draft but right now it's in!
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ciceroprofacto · 1 day ago
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Few additions as someone who struggled with this in undergrad because I was disorganized:
Yes, start with your bibliography. if you see a good source and wanna jump right into it- either because you're already focused or you're not sure if you'll use it and don't wanna waste time, it's enough to get the author's name or a key word of the title down. Just slap it at the end in parenthesis and highlight it to fix later. You don't need to do a perfect citation on the first draft, but you need something that will trigger your memory to where you found it.
In academia, you need a source for every idea, even if you had it on your own. Even if it seems really obvious. (I know- this one got me too). Think about it this way- sources aren't just a demonstration of where you found info, they're also a demonstration that the info is coming from multiple reputable places. It's either "I got this from here" or "these people think so too". Never these are my thoughts. That's not a thing. Your thesis might be the one thing you claim, and even then, it shouldn't seem like it's coming from you. It should be the conclusion your reader draws from the arguments you're presenting. If you're doing it right, you might not even have to say it. Erase the idea of 'State your thesis' and think about it as 'Argue your thesis' because you're not saying what you think, you're presenting evidence of why you think it.
ALWAYS always always make it as easy as possible to find your sources even if you think you're done using them. Use bookmarks and folders in your browser or download and drop them somewhere contained on your desktop as soon as you find them. If you can afford a writing software like Scrivner, those can be used to organize your schoolwork too. Different software have different advantages and disadvantages, but some of these programs even let you highlight and write on pdfs now.
It's always better to fuck up your format than it is to not cite something. If you end up in a time crunch and aren't able to make your citations perfect, STILL DO THEM. An academic review board that's checking for plagiarism is going to regard an attempt to cite with incorrect formatting a lot more kindly than no attempt at all.
in re plagiarism and citation and people not knowing how to do it
in the capstone class of my MASTER's degree, I had to do a group paper with fellow students who had all done 6+ years of collegiate study to get there
we shared drafts of our portions and they had no citations and i was like???? and they were like "it's a draft i'll put the citations in at the end" and i was like ???????
because by the time you're done writing the thing you're not going to remember what you got where and whether you synthesized information together! this is how "i thought i thought of it" plagiarism cases occur!!!!
anyway i told them at the bare minimum any time they referenced a numerical figure they needed to cite it, and since it was a paper on accounting fraud that mostly worked out. but i could tell they were citing stuff simply because i'd told them to cite where numbers came from, because they didn't bother to cite some non-numerical things that definitely needed it.
anyway this is why when you have classes that have multiple assignments for a paper to teach you how to write it, annotated bibliography comes before drafting. because you're supposed to have your sources and know what's in them when you start writing.
to current college students: PLEASE put the citations in as you're writing not as you're editing. i know it seems like a pita especially if you don't know the formatting well, but that's what tools like Purdue Owl are for. Tell it what citation format you're supposed to use, what kind of source you have, fill in the fields and it will format the citation for you.
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delusionaldeadgirl · 2 days ago
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Adore Me
Spencer Reid x famous singer!reader
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Summary: Spencer takes his friends to see his girlfriend at her live show in DC. He didn’t realize she was going to play a specific song about him that has him blushing and his friends joking about it
a/n: This is a random draft based on Juno by Sabrina Carpenter. It’s not chronological with the other one I posted. Nice comments are appreciated lol.
Spencer sat in the dimly lit venue next to his friends. The buzz of excitement filled the air as the crowd eagerly awaited performance of famous singer Y/N—who just so happened to be his girlfriend.
As the lights went down, the audience erupted in cheers. His heart raced as he looked at his friends. They were genuinely excited, especially Penelope. She had been talking about this ever since Spencer asked them all to come.
When Y/N stepped into the spotlight, wearing a stunning outfit that sparkled in the stage light, Spencer was left speechless. Her voice flowed through the crowd, captivating the crowd, mostly filled by young women. He couldn’t help but smile watching her interact with her fans.
Then she started singing one of her newest songs, one Spencer was surprised by when it started playing. One of Y/N’s most suggestive songs, obviously about him.
“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing. Oh yeah you just get it.”
“Whole package, babe, I like the way you fit. God bless your dad’s genetics”
Spencer blushed. Side eyeing Derek already knowing the look on his face and the playful banter that was to come. It was obvious to the whole room what the innuendos implied.
Derek leaned over, grinning. “Your girlfriend is something else, Reid. You sure you can handle all that?” Spencer stuttered trying to form a rebuttal but he like Emily always said “And just like that, IQ 187 is slashed to 60”.
The song progressed. Getting more and more suggestive making Spencer more and more bashful.
“I know you want my touch for life.”
“If you love me right then who knows? I might let you make me Juno”
His colleagues kept looking at him, trying to suppress their laughter at his reaction. “Looks like someone’s blushing” Emily joked.
“You make me wanna make you fall in love.”
“Oh, late at night I’m thinking ‘bout you, ah”
“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”
Y/N gets down on her elbows and knees looking directly at Spencer with a suggestive smile on her face.
“Have you ever tried this one?”
Spencer immediately buried is face in his hands. His friends hooting and cheering before they turned to look at his reaction. It was both thrilling and mortifying watching his girlfriend exude such confidence on stage. Thrilling because of how talented she is, mortifying because of how his friends were looking at him right now.
The song started to slow down a little, getting to the bridge. The most direct lyrics about to be sang. He was not mentally prepared for this.
“Adore me. Hold me and explore me.”
Y/N began to slowly walk over to the side of the stage facing Spencer.
“Mark your territory.”
“Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one”
She sang making direct eye contact with him. He was so done. The team’s genius swore he was brain dead by how entranced he was by her.
“Adore me. Hold me and explore me.”
She sang again as she got down on her knees once more. Laying on her back suggestively.
“I’m so fucking horny.”
At this point the whole audience could tell who she was performing this song for.
“Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one”
She sang one last time before getting back on and proceeding with the rest of the show.
Not only were Spencer’s friends speechless, but for what felt like the first time ever, so was he.
When the show ended, the crowd erupted in cheers once more as Y/N bowed, her eyes searching for Spencer in the crowd. The moment she spotted him, her expression softened, and she smiled excitedly.
After the show, Spencer approached her, still flushed. "You were amazing," he managed to say, his voice slightly shaky. "Thanks, babe! Did you enjoy it?" she asked, a teasing glint in her eye. “Uh yeah” he stuttered. “Maybe a little bit too much” Derek interjected with a laugh.
Y/N laughed, stepping closer. “You know, I was thinking about that song…”
Spencer swallowed hard, antsy to figure out where this was going. “Yeah?” he asked. “Maybe we can recreate it later” she whispered, winking at him.
His heart raced at her suggestion, and he felt both flattered and flustered. "I'd like that," he replied, unable to suppress his cheeks blushing even harder.
“So how about some after show drinks?” she suggested to the group. They all erupted in cheers of agreement.
As they walked out of the venue, Derek whispered to Penelope “I didn’t think Spencer watched anything but documentaries. How does he know what Juno is?” She just laughed shrugging her shoulders.
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weltraum-vaquero · 3 days ago
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Swan song
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Professor Viktor x TA Reader
[PART 1]。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆[PART 2] ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆[PART 3] (coming soon)
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆[AO3 link] ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。
Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.
Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, romanticizing and eroticizing borsht, lab shenanigans, reader being filled with equal parts shame and lust
Word count: 7.8k
Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.
Notes: A little something something while we await season two ;] The draft for this post deleted itself twice now. If the formatting looks wonky (especially in the texting section), NO, it doesn't. Shut up.
He didn’t lie. 
Which is all the more shocking, considering you attend his 8AM lecture on the very same day, and he seems more bright and alight than you’ve ever seen him.
When did he find the time?
Though there isn’t a daunting amount to your thesis just yet, you still want to believe you’ve written something quite substantial over the past months. 
You toss one glance around yourself before you follow him into his office after his lecture, and you find the stack of papers you’d left on his desk last night looking positively devoured, in the most… academic way possible. Scribbles and notes litter the margins, the edges of the papers are already somehow lightly worn. 
He must have read it multiple times.
“Coffee?” He offers.
“Yes, please.”
As he gropes the machine in search of its switch again, he cocks his brow at you. “And what was that for?”
You frown. “What was what for?”
“That… glance, before you followed me into my office.” The switch clicks, the light comes on. “Looking around like you were being followed.”
“Oh,” caught in the embarrassing act, you shrug. “I don’t know. Being cautious, I guess. Students have been looking at me a little funny, lately.”
“Much too late for caution, I’m afraid.” 
Uh oh. 
As he retrieves two paper cups, you’re left wondering what exactly that should mean.
“Why’s that?”
“I thought you were well aware of the fact that rumors would start, um… circulating the moment I made it public that I had hired an assistant.” Coffee trickles into the cups, a soothing little melody. Viktor leans against the wall beside the machine as he watches the cups fill.  “I’ve always been adamant about not needing one. It is natural for people to have questions — and to come up with, eh, answers — when I suddenly do.”
The notion of the answers students might have come up with swirls around in your brain. 
You wish they were right.
You’re glad they’re not.
You look at Viktor.
“Do you mind it?”
The coffee stops pouring. Viktor does that thing again, spreading long fingers apart to grasp both cups. And he’s quiet — for a beat longer than he should be.
“No. There are more important things to worry about than… gossip.” He sets the cups on the table, then takes his seat. He hesitates for a brief second, craning his neck before he fixates on you, motionless. Waiting. “Do you?”
“Trying not to.”
The answer makes him… deflate, somehow. It’s barely visible, for just a fraction of a second his chest sinks, before his tone is back to his composed cadence.
“You will get used to it,” he assures. “Now, onto more interesting matters — your work.”
Thank god. You don’t know how much more of the awkward tiptoeing you could have handled.
“Yes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. Acting normal has never been so difficult. “What did you think?”
“Very impressive.” He slides the stack of papers towards you. “I have made some… suggestions here and there, should you wish to take them into consideration. But, I think you struck gold with your hypothesis. Should you need a conversation partner, guidance, anything at all — I would gladly be at your service.”
“Thank you, Viktor. I really appreciate this.”
At the sound of his own name coming from you, something in him shifts. Shifts with an unfamiliar near bashfulness, he stifles a little smile into the rim of his paper cup, the corners of his eyes crinkle, he settles into his seat a little further.
“But you never held up your end of the bargain,” you point out. That snaps him out of it.
“Ah, yes. I did not.” He continues to hide behind his cup, before he finally seems to decide to take a metaphorical leap, as he sets it down and stares down at it. “I fear the unfortunate truth may be that when it comes to research, I either work better with a partner, or that… Cecil is right and I need to slow down. Though I’d guess the former is more likely.”
“You used to work with, uh…” you’re not sure how to approach the topic, “Talis, didn’t you?”
“The five basic principles of applied arcanism are commonly referred to as Talis’ princies, you do not have to feign uncertainty to appease me.”
So you drop the attempt to tiptoe around the subject, and ask, plainly:
“Why wasn’t your name added on?”
Viktor scoffs. “Talis-Sidorov-Sviboda has a terrible ring to it. Or so he’d said. And admittedly… I was more of a conduit than the co-author of his idea. He said we would name the next big thing we would discover after me, but… well, you know how it is. I dedicated myself to teaching, he retired to lead a quiet life in his gaudy mansion with his sports cars and his purebred German shepherds after he married some businesswoman.”
Though his story does line up, those aren’t necessarily the rumors you’d heard. There’d been talk of more than just a mild dispute of names, and… well, there had been… something between Talis and Viktor. But that’s about all you know.
Under your gaze, Viktor grows suddenly uncomfortable — both with the subject and the fact that he might be able to tell you know more. He’s quick to redirect the conversation.
“As for my research: I have been studying the laminal hexoin cascade in stabilized hexgems in various matrices. And though bold, I have been attempting to figure out the ideal matrix — something that will allow for close to a hundred percent energy renewal and render all other sources of energy obsolete.”
”That is bold,” you say. Your other thought, you keep to yourself: it also sounds impossible. You suppose stabilizing hexgems 20 years ago was also something thought impossible — and yet, Viktor hadn’t shied away. If anyone is apt for the job, it is him. “Any luck so far?”
“Partially. They have been yielding favorable results, but not enough to be viable energetic alternatives as of now.” He takes his cup again, bringing it to his lips in a rushed movement, drinking a mouthful, rather than a sip. Once Viktor sets it down, his hand remains on the table, fingers tapping on the shiny surface once, twice— “I could use a theorist to assist me with a few things.”
The implication dizzies you. Is he…?
But then he slides another one of his drawers open, and retrieves a stack of papers. Slanted handwriting, barely legible — you’re by now intimately familiar with it: his cursive. It litters the pages, in different inks and in pencil, diagrams, sketches… just looking at it makes you hungry to read it.
He smiles as if he’s read your mind, again.
“I was thinking it could be you.”
You’re invited to his office for lunch break the very next day too. And though he assures you there is no pressure in having to read through his notes by then, you disregard it.
It takes you a reread to be able to make sense of all his scribbles, but… it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. 
It should stop surprising you by now — his ideas, his drive, his curiosity, his mind — but with every single time Vikror impresses you anew, he becomes something more distant.
As you’re marveling at his intricate weaving of concepts, it strikes you, unpleasantly, that this is the same man you’d wanted to devour just days ago. The man who’s made you coffee, the man whose sharp eyes fold at the corners when he smiles. 
You’d have deified him, had he been your teacher. You still do, especially now, after you’ve seen more of what his mind is made of. The mere notion of him becomes terribly out of reach, and you’re plagued with guilt for that night. Guilt for having tainted such a man with your thoughts. 
And yet, you still can’t help but think of his neck, the soft pink of his chapped lips, the hollow of his cheeks. You wonder what his mouth tastes like, and you want to slap yourself on the wrist for it. You should have, because minutes later, you wonder about worse things too. The scent of his skin, the coarseness of his body hair, how far up under his navel it might reach.
And when you finish reading his notes a second time and bring the paper to your nose to sniff it — hoping for a trace of him — you realize you have a problem. A serious one.
It torments you for the rest of the night, through the hours you spend writing up some suggestions and ideas, all the way to when you switch off the light, and hug whatever pillow’s within reach close.
When you get the urge to tilt your hips against it, you decide to get up and splash your face with water.
And you wish you could do the same thing the very next day on your lunch break, when you’re standing in the doorway of his office and he’s eating borscht. The sweet-tangy smell of vegetables, beef and beets makes your stomach growl, but your physical hunger is long lost on your otherwise preoccupied brain.
The beet red of the soup has pigmented his lips. They look kissed raw, puffy, ripe. A lavish speck of colour on his otherwise pale face, it draws your gaze and does not let it stay somewhere more respectful.
You want to taste them.
He does it for you, raspberry pink tip of his tongue darting over the plush of his lips before he swallows and finally greets you.
“Sorry,” you say, and it comes out tense, near horrified. You’ve caught him eating soup, for chrissakes, not being bent over his table. Oh, god. Why did you have to think about that? ”I’ll come back later.”
“No,” Viktor gestures to the empty seat across from him. He screws his thermos shut, and puts it away. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit.”
And you do, like the dog you feel like you are right now.
“Did you manage to find the time to read my notes?”
Oh, did you.
“I… followed your example and made some suggestions of my own. But on separate pages. Here.”
His reaction is more than what you’d hoped for. It’s more than the impressed raise of thick brows that had kept you fueled last night, it’s more than the smile you’d been hoping for. 
“You are unbelievable,” he grins, and takes what you offer, pushing his glasses up his nose before he starts reading. You selfishly use the distraction to stare at his lips again. He mutters to himself as he reads, pink mouth molding around whispered jargon, nodding. “Yes, this… this is exactly what I’d hoped for, when I’d asked for your assistance. Your fresh set of eyes is invaluable. I hadn’t thought of approaching the modification from that angle.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the page for even just a moment, flipping it surprisingly fast, and taking it with him as he leans back in his seat. 
And decides to torture you.
Viktor traces the pad of his own thumb over the curve of his bottom lip as he takes in your handwriting. The give of the flesh under his fingertip hypnotizes, the slight drag of rough skin on soft pink one, your mind is long gone.
You think of rough fingertips on his lips, on his chest, rough fingertips on the pasty white of his gaunt lower stomach, rough fingertips in coarse hair. Rough fingertips dipping between his milky thighs, rough fingertips on where he runs just as pink as he does on his lips, rough fingertips dipping, slipping on slick skin—
You need to stop.
And you most certainly need help.
“Is something the matter?”
It feels like you’ve swallowed your own brain whole when he speaks, because your skull rings hollow when you try to come up with a reply that isn’t incoherent babble.
“Wh— me? No. Why?”
And because embarrassment loves to stick around once it has made its presence known, the stars align for the next social disaster: your stomach growls. Loudly.
“Did you not have lunch?” Viktor asks.
“I… didn’t get around to it,” you admit.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, then,” he assures. If he knew just how much of your time he’s started taking up — and the fact that you wish you could give him what is left of it to him, too.  “I would like you to work alongside me on my research. But if you don’t feel like you can squeeze another project into your presumably busy schedule, I understand. I would be glad to have you merely as… a colleague to consult with, as well.”
Is that even a question? He’s offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You would be an idiot not take it. 
And an even bigger idiot to turn down more time spent with him.
“You don’t even have to ask,” you joke. “Yes. I would be thrilled, Viktor.”
This is his first smile you witness when his pretty boyishness doesn’t shine through. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, no teeth to be seen, just tenderness. It makes your heart leap to be the cause of it.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you.”
Silence.
Just as you’re about to breach it — he does it first.
“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow as well?”
He watches you from below long, dark lashes as you give a breathless yes.
“I brought you something.”
It’s the last thing you expect as you step into his office at noon, upon exchanging hellos.
You’re alight. With curiosity, above all else. And with worry — why would he bring you something? What will you do to reciprocate? 
“Thank you,” you say, though you have no idea what for just yet. “What is it?”
“I saw you eyeing my borscht yesterday.” There’s a glint in his eye that suggests more, so much so you can’t decide between flirting or digging a hole for yourself in the hardwood floor of his office. 
The middle ground is standing in his office awkwardly as he unzips his backpack.
He retrieves two thermos bottles: the one you’re already familiar with, and another that looks older, more worn, and sorely lacks the sticker you’ve so come to love and fixate on and dream about. “I, eh, I made you some. In case you wouldn’t get the chance to eat before you came here.”
Your chest swells so much it hurts. 
He made you soup?
“You… Viktor, this is… thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to. Have a seat.”
You practically jump into the seat across the table from his — a seat you’ve come to associate as yours, in spite of being well aware of the oppisite.
As he screws the bottle open and pours some steaming soup out into a paper bowl — god, he’d brought paper bowls — his eyes flick to you.
“But if you don’t care for borscht, you don’t have to—“
“I do care.”
And that rings true not just for the borscht.
It rings true for the soup he brings you the next day too, it rings true for every word that passes his lips. And it rings true for the time you start to spend in the insane coffee shop queue to surprise him with his preferred order and a slice of cake (a different one each day, until you figure out his favorite: cinnamon coffee), it rings true for the dark blue roughed up thermos he lets you take home the day you don’t finish the soup he brings you because you’re just so busy talking.
It’s November before you know it.
As the days grow colder, it’s not rare to be finding warmth by lavishing in Viktor’s attention as you ramble on about ideas — either for his research, or your thesis. All while he intently follows your thoughts with a smile, stopping just to shave another mouth-half-full’s worth off his cake of the day with his plastic spoon.
And once he savors the last bite, Viktor almost always flips it hollow side down, sliding it down the swell of his tongue within his mouth, removing it from between puckered lips. His cheeks hollow, he holds eye contact all the same, and it’s a mental image that haunts you. A mental image you project in your mind, nestled between the apex of your thighs. The thick of his tongue. The cushiony seal of his lips, the suction of his cheeks. 
It never becomes any less distracting than the first time it happens. 
You startle when Viktor speaks as he sets down the plastic spoon into the now empty packaging. 
“I would like you to accompany me to the lab sometime soon. When would you be free?”
You’ve been before — but just a handful of times. Mainly for him to demonstrate or disprove certain guesses, or test conclusions you’d reached together. 
“I’m free right now,” you suggest.
Viktor shakes his head. “I have a lecture in an hour.”
Right. 
“I mean… I think we could make it in an hour.”
“I prefer to take my time.” Viktor leans back in his seat, stares thoughtfully at the clock on his wall for a moment. “Would seven PM work for you?”
“Uh…” you mentally go through your schedule for the day, “yes. It should. I might be a little late, though. How about… seven fifteen-ish?”
“Good.” The flow of the word is syrupy, yet his next sentence comes out surprisingly peppy with excitement: “See you then.”
Though you’re well into the final week of November, it never stops bothering you just how quickly the sun sets. By the time you get to the lab, the air’s gone cold, dry, and the darkness is heavy and thick.
Viktor waits for you just outside the university lab, under the halo of the street light — perhaps just a hint overdressed for the cold, in your opinion. It’s certainly trench coat season, though his is surprisingly long, reaching somewhere along the middle of his shins. The hand he hasn’t tucked in his pocket holds his cane and is clad in a leather glove. Around his lengthy neck, a red knitted scarf lays in chunky, impenetrable layers, reaching almost all the way to the swell of his top lip and his ears. You can hardly see his smile from underneath when he spots you — but his eyes give him away. 
“Right on time,” Viktor’s tone has just as much pep to it as a few hours ago, perhaps even moreso. He rolls his shoulders, before he subtly nuzzles further down into his scarf, shying away from the biting cold. “Let’s get inside.”
He leads the way into the building, its warmth embracing you the moment you step in. The tip of your nose and your fingertips feel like they’re beginning to thaw, tingling just a hint. As you go to take off your coat, you notice Viktor isn’t in a rush. He rests his cane against the wall before he unwraps the thick, wide scarf from around his neck, folding it. He sets it on a nearby table, shucking off his trench coat, slender shoulders under a wool sweater. You watch closely as he then takes his scarf and stuffs it into the sleeve of his coat before he hangs it up. 
There’s something stiff, painful, about how he moves. You wonder if it’s the cold.
“What?” He watches you with appeased amusement.
Caught red-handed, you jump, still halfway clad in your coat.
“Nothing,” you reply, scraping for a way to deflect from your obvious staring. “Not a big fan of the cold?”
“Never.” He says it like it’s a very serious matter. “I still don’t know how I made it through my first eighteen winters in St. Petersburg.”
“You grew up in Russia?”
He laughs through his nose like you’ve told him a half good joke. “What gave it away? The accent? The surname?”
“No, I just thought… Svoboda is a Czech surname.”
With how his smile turns knowing, self-satisfied, you’re suddenly back in his office again, uncertain and nervous and asking for a job as his assistant. He could taunt you with the knowledge that you’ve looked up his last name, embarrass you a little, play with you.
But he isn’t that man anymore — not to you. This time, he feeds your curiosity, albeit just with crumbs.
“My mother’s,” he clarifies. “Sidorov is Russian — my father’s.”
Oh.
“It’s nice that they used both their names. I’m assuming that wasn’t… common, back then, and back there.”
“It wasn’t, and they did not.” Viktor waits for you to hang up your coat, watchful gaze making your every movement feel loaded with static that’s about to snap. “I added hers when I changed my name.”
Changed his name?
The image of the sticker on his thermos turns up fresh in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…
“Well? I was hoping we could discuss more in the lab, but if you prefer the coat hanger…”
Goddamn it. Focus. You need to focus.
“Sorry.”
You catch up, then slowly follow Viktor down the hallway, into the small lab he has been assigned. It’s one of the less grand ones, but it has all it needs — from a pretty new hexion accelerator to a humble whiteboard. It smells sanitized, sterile, ozonic.
You assume your usual seat by the whiteboard while he sets up. It still doesn’t feel… right to let him do all of that by himself, but he insists upon it, so, you stay out of his way. Viktor tidies up the space just a little, finding his goggles among the mess. He slips them onto his head, elastic pulling back his soft hair into a fluffy grey and brown mess. His cane thumps against the linoleum with every hurried step — though he doesn’t seem to be hurrying on account of you being there as much as excitement to show you.
Once he’s done, he sits in front of the accelerator, slipping his goggles on, and nods for you to come. Which you do — you’d be at his beck and call beyond just the academic context. For a moment, you pluck the inviting tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips out of their context, and you plant it atop your own bed, him in just a loose shirt, underwear, lax with freshly received pleasure. More comfortable than he’s ever been, all because of you. Beckoning for you. Come here. Smiling at you when your knee dips into the mattress, tucking his index under your chin as you crawl to him, reeling you in for a kiss.
“Come closer.”
God help you.
You comply with a wildly beating heart, stepping forward until you’re close behind his sitting form, watching the accelerator over his shoulder. 
He smells nice. Like an indistinct, aromatic cologne, covering up the natural, gentle musk of his skin. You have to resist the urge to dip your head down and trace the tip of your nose along his spine, from where the bones of his neck show to where the scruff at the back of his head goes thicker, fuller. You wonder if he’d shiver as you let the scent of him imbue you… you wonder if he’d lean into it, if he’d tilt his head for you, let you dip your face into the slope of his shoulder, where his scent’s more potent.
The mere thought of him, vivid in your nostrils and clinging to your palate and the floor of your brain, rattles you with a shiver.
“I thought I’d rather show you than tell you,” he explains, wrapping both pale, bony hands around the handles of the accelerator. Steam hisses from the exhaust, flooding the room with more ozone, and gently, but certainly, the gem starts to spin behind the glass panel, beginning to levitate out of its socket, illuminating the room. 
God, you should have put on goggles too, it’s making your eyes hurt. It’s a welcome reminder as to why you chose to spend most your days staring down a blackboard rather than the thing itself. The screen right above it is more of a familiar sight to you: numbers, reading the rotations per minute, as well as energetic output, steadily increasing. 
It whirrs, magic static whirling up around the blue orb, electricity crackles. 
You can see the appeal of this over a blackboard. But you’d still take the chalk. Especially considering the deafening noise. 
Nevermind the damn goggles. You need to remember to bring some ear plugs.
“Watch the panel.” Viktor raises his voice over the hum of the machine, and turns to you, watching you from behind foggy lenses with a smile. You wish you could see the way his crow’s feet deepen. It rumbles harder, so much so Viktor almost has to shout the next thing he says, which is a shame, because his usually playful lilt is lost in the noise of it. “Not to… spoil the outcome of this experiment for you, but I implemented the conclusions we came to last week, and, it is safe to say…”
With a well-timed click and tug on a lever, the machine disengages, and the gem drops back into its socket under the influence of gravity. Its violating light returns to a faint, blue glow, like an artificially lit aquarium; fluctuating and undulating gently in its intensity. The potential energy indicator’s numbers climb back up, steadily, but faster than what you’ve seen before. 
Much faster.
You can’t help but grin with excitement. “It’s regenerating fast.”
Viktor smirks at you over his shoulder like you’re sharing a sacred, intimate inside joke. 
“It is.“
You await the verdict with a bated breath.
“How much?”
Viktor’s smile only grows, like he’s about to give you a present. And, all things considered, this is going to be one, in months’ or maybe even years’ time.
“A thirty-seven percent recovery after usage within an hour.” Viktor spins in the lab stool to face you with the theatrical self-satisfaction of a magician who just sawed his assistant in half and is waiting for the applause. You nearly forget to step back to give him the space for it, so much so your knees knock together. But there is no chance for you to apologize, Viktor is unbothered, sliding the goggles up his forehead enthusiastically, his show of complacency ditched in favor of pure excitement. “That is more than I’ve ever achieved thus far. Thanks to y—” 
His voice sticks in his throat, turning into a pained hiss.
His hair’s tangled in his goggles.
“Oh, wonderful,” he grits out sarcastically. 
A frustrated half-sigh half-groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls again and only makes things worse.
“Could you get me a pair of scissors? I should have some in the third drawer over there.”
“Wait. At least let me try first,” you insist. Reluctantly, you step closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Viktor lowers his head for better access like a feral animal letting itself be pet for the first time. He sits still, the sound of both your breaths suddenly loud in the tall, quiet room as you’re forced to step even closer. “Could you…”
You nudge his ankles apart with the tip of your shoe.
He listens.
After a stuttering, fragile exhale, Viktor spreads his thighs. 
You take the space offered. And you try not to think about kneeling, about making a home for yourself between his thighs.
“Do you think you can do it?”
You wish he’d asked you that about any number of things, except for the goggles tangled in his feathery, soft hair.
But yes. You think you do.
It would have been a terrible shame to cut it — though some shorter, bluntly cut hairs that sit a little further back near the top of his head tell you his suggestion was not the product of a new idea. Carefully, you pull whatever hairs are looser from between the lens and the bridge of the goggles, though a strand remains stubborn. 
You try to ignore the warmth of his breath on your shirt, the intoxicating, soapy, yet distinctively human smell of his scalp, and the mesmerizing ratio of grey to dark brown, the subtle heat on the sides of your palms and wrists, resting on his head for stability.
As you separate another few hairs from the stuck strand and accidentally tug at them, Viktor has no reaction. Beyond swallowing thickly, and sitting through it dutifully. 
You wonder if he’d act just the same, had you bunched his hair into the spaces between your fingers and tugged — simply biting his tongue and chewing through the pain — or if he’s leaned into the force, moaning with it, and god, you’ve hurt him, and you haven’t even apologized.
“Sorry.” You sound twice as genuine — mainly because you apologize for much worse than the inflicted pain. “Almost done.”
“The scissors would have been faster,” he half-jokes.
His voice sounds different. A hint more… strained. He shifts in the seat, wipes his hands on his slacks.
“Would have been a shame, though. You have pretty hair.” The last part of the sentence positively escapes you, and once you hear it, you freeze. Your brain scrambles itself trying to add something that will fix the inherent following awkwardness, the horrifying realization you just called your boss pretty, the fact that it’s true, the fact that—
Viktor flinches with another accidental tug of his hair, and so do his thighs — jumping with the surprise, clenching together until they squeeze around yours. But they’re gone just as fast, flinching away with horrified urgency. Before you get to savor the supple flesh pressing into your own in another new perverted way, before you get to imagine his ankles locking behind you, tilting and rubbing your hips into the hug of his thighs.
You need. To get. A grip.
“Sorry.”
You continue on in silence, and thank everything above he at the very least can’t see the way your hands shake, because he’s staring at the floor like he could drill a hole into it with just his eyes. 
You should have gotten the damn scissors. As if through divine intervention, the rest of his hair comes loose not soon after.
“Okay. All done.” You smooth the slightly crinkled, but now free strand back down into the rest of his soft hair. 
Viktor’s dainty features come into view from below his face framing pieces as he tilts his chin up. His lips quirk into a gentle smile, his eyes sparkle in the faint blue glow, soft shadows under the hollow of his cheeks and the swell of his lip and the tip of his nose and the bone of his brow. You wish you could immortalize him in whatever way he’d let you — a sculpture, a painting, a poem. He looks ripe for kissing, eyes half-lidded and twice as dreamy as he peers at you.
You’re going to see him like this in your mind’s eye later tonight.
Nestled between your thighs, or kissing down your stomach, molten gold under long, dark lashes, sitting atop carved marbled bone.
“Thank you.” He says it quietly — like it would break the sudden holiness of the moment to say it any other way.
He’s so warm. 
You could kiss him. See what the ozone of the room tastes like in the slick of his mouth. You wonder if he’d let you, if he’d suckle your tongue into his mouth in a show of submission, or if he’d bite your lip, licking your teeth, pressing, pushing, make you earn the privilege to taste him. 
You wonder if he’d hold you, or if his curious hands would roam, tracing the front of your stomach, or your spine, or press to the middle of your breastbone like he wants to see where you’d split open for him down the middle like a ripe peach. You wonder if he’d let you dip a hand down the front of his slacks, you wonder if he’d tilt his hips into it like he’d been aching for it, aching for you. Scorching your hand with want, materialized in slick or straining hardness. You wonder which it’d be.
From where you’re standing, the distance between the apex of his chin and the space where his slacks stretch between his thighs is small — and your gaze takes the leap, searching. But the material dips and curves in such a way that you’re left none the wiser, and with nothing but a disgusting realization.
You’re staring at your boss’ crotch.
You step back from the heat between his thighs, painfully awake, aware. It squeezes and wriggles in your chest like you have a parasite lodged in the chambers of your heart. 
You’re disgusting.
You need to put an end to this.
“You’re welcome, professor.”
With that, you’re practically bolting from between his thighs, to stash the scissors away again.
You’re neglecting your job, you’re putting it in jeopardy. Putting yourself in jeopardy, risking all the rumors circulating becoming a shameful truth, you’re risking the first man who ever kept up with you, followed you where you wanted to go and took you further — you’re risking it all because he makes you unbelievably fucking horny. 
And it’s absurd. Embarrassing. You need to get a hold of yourself. 
“I was… thinking, actually,” you begin, and want to punch yourself over how Viktor perks back up from where you’d left him. “About some things regarding my thesis that I’d like your thoughts on.”
“Oh. Of course.” You have got to be imagining the subtle disappointment in his tone. The second you let yourself believe it’s more than just a figment of your make-believe, is the second you will be doomed. 
Viktor, with all his years and experience, would and does know better than to fall for his assistant. You know he does.
“What’s on your mind?” He prompts after your prolonged silence.
If he knew the half of it.
You’re late.
And it’s a direct, shameful consequence of last night’s lusting, the time you’d spent frustratedly tossing and turning and thinking of his mouth and his eyes and his scent, before you’d given in past midnight, and humped your hand into completion.
Thinking about him under you, about pressing your face into his neck, about pressing him into the mattress and rutting into him until he gushes and his tired body sings for you and his voice cracks. Until he breaks for you, until pleasure itself oils and unscrews all the biological cogs of his body and he comes out unstrung, reborn.
Viktor’s in a wheelchair. 
And he looks worse for wear than you’ve ever encountered him before, slumping in the chair and massaging his eyelids with his thumb and index, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He’s dressed even warmer than usual, in a loose but thick, dark red sweater. There’s a colorful knitted blanket folded and set over the tops of his thighs. 
Viktor doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in and sit near the whiteboard, simply resumes his lecture as he regains his mental footing. And he goes on for a while, not sparing you a single glance, as he goes through powerpoint slides today, instead of his usual writing and hand drawn diagrams. 
He’s at it for a while, not as fast as his usual pace, but undeniably concise, certain. Until…
“The energy output increases proportionately to the spin, and, with powerful enough matrices, some hexgems can create force fields of their own. This is a particularly common phenomenon in unstabilized gems as well, though with the activation of their force field, those tend to also create… eh…”
Viktor stops, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He frowns, mumbling something in another language, which, judging by the heavy consonants and squeezed vowel, you’d assume it’s Russian. The word must be slipping his mind, so you decide to help out.
“A shock wave.”
Viktor’s gaze cuts. He’s looked at you with disinterest before, sure, but this… 
He doesn’t even turn his head to look at you, just eyes you from the corner of his vision like something unworthy of acknowledgment. You wish you could swallow your words back up.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. A shock wave.”
You don’t say anything again for the rest of the lecture. 
Once the door falls shut behind the last few students who have left the room, Viktor turns to you. You wish you could shrink; and it feels like you do, when he finally speaks.
“I appreciate your intention to help — but do not interrupt me again. I know what I’m trying to say.” He sounds utterly unlike himself, both spent and angry. “I don’t need help. Especially not in the middle of a lecture.”
“Sorry.”
That alone softens him up a hint. He looks away, rubbing his thumbs against the wheels of his chair, before he speaks again. Calmer. 
“Just… do not let it happen again.”
As he slumps in his seat, massaging at his temples, you understand that his anger… might not have been as directed at you as you’d initially thought. He’d been snippy when his back hurt — having switched to a wheelchair must mean he’s in a lot more pain now.
And you understand his frustration. He’d just gotten himself an assistant a few months back, and started a new project — looking like he requires help in front of his students is certainly not doing his reputation right now any favors. 
“But if there’s other things I can do to make your day a little easier, I’d like to do them.”
“No, thank you.” He shakes his head, before he grabs both wheels and advances to where he’d left his bag. As he starts packing his things, he stops again, quietly groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. “Where did I put my pen…”
Viktor eventually finds it right behind his water bottle on the table, tossing the both of them into his bag, shutting it tightly. You expect him to wheel himself over to the ramp that leads to the exit, but he just hangs his head, massaging at his temples again, before he looks at you.
“Actually, I’d like it if you went to my office and got me a silver tin box in the… fourth drawer on the left side of my desk. Do you have the key with you, or should I give you mine?”
“I have it. I’ll be quick.”
“Thank you.”
And you deliver on your promise. You don’t run, but you power walk there, and you’re back with (hopefully the right) tin box in the same lecture hall before his break ends.
Viktor takes it from you gladly, popping it open. It contains two foils of painkillers, one already half empty, a small ziploc bag of… gummies, and at the very bottom, some dark chocolate. 
You must have pulled a bit of a face at the contents — particularly the gummies — because Viktor cocks a brow at you, before he faintly chuckles under his breath and pops three painkillers in one go.
After depositing the foil back in the box, he fishes out the dark chocolate bar. It looks to be the expensive kind, something Belgian — Viktor breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth, before he holds it out to you.
“Peace offering,” he clarifies when you hesitate. 
You’d be a fool to turn him down. You take some — it’s rich, buttery, and melts on your tongue. It coats your mouth with its taste, dark and aromatic and unfortunately not as sweet as you thought Viktor preferred. He’d always favored the almost disgustingly sugary cakes.
“Didn’t think you’d like something so bitter,” you say.
“I do not. It sometimes helps with my migraines,” he tells you. “Sugar makes them worse. A very… devastating discovery to make, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
You wonder if right now is the right time to be curious — and you decide it might be.
“Do the migraines also affect your leg? Or the other way around?” 
“No.” Viktor shakes his head, popping off another piece of dark chocolate. “This,” he gestures at himself, the wheelchair, “was just a very unfortunate… overlapping.”
“Oh.” You grimace in sympathy. “Fun.”
“A punishment for it, more like.” 
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Let’s hope my migraine eases up on me throughout this lecture.” He smiles at you — and for the first time you’ve known him, he looks old doing it. Exhausted. The face of a man who’s seen enough hardship for a lifetime, but has yet to cave under it. 
You wish you could hold him. You wish you could melt it away, kiss it better, love it better. Whatever he’d let you.
You surprise both him and yourself when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and let your thumb rub a small circle over the wool. 
Though he flinches at the first contact, once something in his brilliant mind unfurls and settles, so does he. Through the cracks, tenderness shines under the fatigue. Viktor can be soft — in spite of everything im his body and his past that protests against it. “Thank you.”
You take your hand away sooner than you’d like — but at the ideal time to keep it from being anything more than a friendly touch.
“I’m glad I could help,” you say.
Viktor isn’t there at all next week. 
You come in on Monday to find his office empty during lunch break, and when you attend his lecture, it’s another professor from his department teaching it. The students don’t seem all too excited about the change either — and you leave before it even starts.
Heimerdinger is none the wiser about Viktor’s situation when you talk to him — in spite of their shared history. He simply tells you he’d taken the week off and had arranged for substitutes.
You consider messaging him… and ultimately end up doing so, after some internal debate. You simply text him to get well soon and that you hope he’s getting some well-deserved rest. He replies with just a plain thank you.
Tuesday is quiet. You receive a stack of midterms you need to get through from the substitute, and you do, by Thursday morning. Which is when Heimerdinger messages you.
Dr. Prof. Cecil B Heimerdinger
Good morning! I’m well aware this is on very short notice — but the substitute professor has unfortunately suffered a minor car accident. Not to worry; they only sustained small njury. However, I am finding myself forced to task you with Viktor’s lectures today. Do you think you could take care of that? Thank you.
-Cecil B. Heimerdinger
9:32
Just the thing you needed — teaching two full lectures, entirely unprepared.
Alright. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You just need to find out what’s even on the agenda for today. You could text Viktor, right? If he answers on time, that is… he’s sick, he might as well be asleep right now. You could call, but… he said only to do that in the case of an emergency when he gave you his phone number. 
Would this count as an emergency?
Your phone beeps.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
There should be a black flash drive in the third drawer on the left in my desk. It has all my lectures.
9:34
Today’s topic is LHC segments naturally occurring in unstabilized gems. Feel free to use my work laptop to familiarize yourself with the presentation before the lecture.
9:35
Me
Thank you so much! 
9:35
His answer comes a few minutes later, just as you fish the flash drive out of his drawer, and plug it into his laptop.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
Good luck 👍 
9:42
It would be a lot easier to get caught up in the desire to snoop around on his laptop if you didn’t have less than 20 minutes left until the lecture. His background is disappointingly the default image, but some of his folders look undeniably tempting — not just the scientific ones, which take up most of the space. There’s some photo albums titled with the year and location: Germany 2011, Czech Republic 2009, among many others. There’s also a photo album titled Persichka. 
Who is that? 
You almost click it. But then you check your watch again and realize you only have 15 more minutes until the lecture, and decide against it.
For how utterly unprepared you are, it goes surprisingly well. You stumble, once or twice, but you’re glad to see that even by the end of the lecture, you still have most students’ attention.
After you dismiss the class, you don’t expect questions. But a good handful of them, a little under ten, approach your desk, whispering among themselves, before a hastily appointed representative emerges. 
“We were just wondering,” she awkwardly begins, “if professor Sidorov-Svoboda is alright. And when he’s coming back.”
“Oh.” You hope they’re asking because they understandably prefer him, and not because you did a particularly shabby job. “He texted me just today — he’s doing alright. But I can’t give you an exact estimate for when he’s coming back just yet.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
With that, all of them turn to go. After the last student has left the room, you reach for your phone, and pray you don’t see any other day-altering messages today. 
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I did not mean for you to have to do this. 
10:11
You unlock your phone and jump straight into the chat.
Me
Don’t worry, it’s alright. I handled it :)
12:02
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I knew you could.
12:02
Thank you.
12:02
Me
Focus on resting up and getting well soon! 
12:03
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I have been. I actually feel well enough for company now. Coincidentally, I’ve gotten some ideas for your thesis and I would like it if we discussed them sometime. Would you be free this weekend?
12:05 
He wants to meet? Outside of the university? Undoubtedly for academic purposes still, but your heart squeezes and bounces and pops with the implications. 
No. You shouldn’t let yourself hope for more than just a few formal, at best friendly hours spent together.
Viktor doesn’t want you. He would never want you — he knows better. You know better.
Me
I’d like that! Saturday works for me. Where would you like to meet?
12:05
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
If you’d prefer somewhere on academy grounds like my office or the coffee shop, either would be fine.
12:06
My apartment is also an option.
12:06
The choice is obvious.
131 notes · View notes
enzstr · 2 days ago
Text
Only You || K. Bakugo
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Pairing: Bakugo x Reader
synopsis: starz26708 and Dino.tnt609, two students who first met in an online chatroom. A friendship had flourished between them. With the strong need to meet each other, 6aku.tnt609 slowly gains curiosity regarding the other's identity, which sparked the desire to meet her within him. What could possibly go wrong?
💭: btw, this is inspired from the Chad Michael Murray and Hilary Duff movie A Cinderella's Story!!
author's note: My deepest apologies it took me so long to upload the new chapter!!! I've been having finals and examinations but I'm free now!! New chapter might come out in a few days or a week since it's in my drafts now...
words: 3.7k
Chapter 2: The Two People
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Reader's POV
The following day, I sat in my classes, feeling unusually unfocused. I found my thoughts continually returning to the message I had received the night before from my friend, Dino.tnt609. The words and emotions contained in that message had left a powerful and lingering effect on me, making it difficult for me to fully immerse myself in the subjects being taught.
“Please meet me at the school’s party. I’ll be waiting for you at 11:00 in the middle of the dance floor.” 
Those messages had set themselves so deeply into my thoughts that it was as if they were on a constant replay in my mind. No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to rid myself of their presence. They continued to resurface, over and over again, like a stubborn memory that refused to be forgotten. The more I tried to dismiss them, the more their contents seemed to linger in my thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside or ignored.
“Y/n, what is the difference between speed and velocity?”
My heart dropped. I have been half-listening, my mind drifting, thinking about the message Dino sent to me—contemplating meeting him, and the school party. But now, I was completely caught off guard. Difference between speed and velocity—the words sounded fuzzy in my head, like fragments of a puzzle I wasn’t sure how to put together.
That was when she noticed him.
Bakugo.
He was sitting at the back of the class, leaning back in his chair, hands casually folded behind his head. He was grinning—the kind of grin that wasn’t friendly or supportive. It was the kind of grin that only came when you were sure someone else was about to fail. He’d been watching me for a while now, and I could feel his gaze boring into me. I knew exactly what he was thinking: She wasn’t paying attention. She doesn’t know the answer. This is my chance to look good in front of everyone.
The grin on Bakugo’s face widened ever so slightly, and I could almost hear his internal smirk. He had the confidence of someone who’d aced every test without breaking a sweat, someone who knew how to get under your skin with the smallest of gestures. And right now, his quiet, almost smug enjoyment was aimed directly at me.
My stomach twisted. It wasn’t that I cared about beating Dylan, exactly. But I did care about not looking foolish in front of the class—especially when he was clearly expecting me to fail. The challenge hung in the air, palpable, like an unspoken duel. I could almost hear him thinking, Come on, mess up. Please mess up.
The competitive spark in me flared to life, and in that moment, something shifted inside of me. I wasn’t going to let him get the last laugh. No way.
I straightened up in my chair, eyes narrowing just slightly, and forced myself to focus. I don’t need to know everything, I told myself. I just need to know enough to get this answer right.
My gaze locked back onto the board, and suddenly, it wasn’t so hard to make sense of the question. It was a simple logic question—something I could handle if I stopped panicking.
Mr. Aizawa was still looking at me expectantly, but now I had a plan. I took a steadying breath and spoke, my voice clearer than she felt.
“The difference between speed and velocity lies in their definitions, speed is a scalar quantity, meaning it only describes how fast an object is moving, without any reference to direction. For example, if a car is going 50 km/h, that's its speed.”
Her eyes flicked back to the board, confirming her answer. She could feel the weight of the moment—this was what it was all about. She hadn’t been paying attention before, but she was focused now, and she was going to finish strong.
“Velocity, on the other hand, is a vector quantity. This means it not only describes how fast an object is moving but also in which direction. For instance, if the car is traveling at 50 km/h to the east, its velocity is 50 km/h east. In essence, while speed only tells you the rate of motion, velocity provides both the rate and the direction of motion.”
Mr. Aizawa nodded approvingly. "Exactly, Y/n. Well done."
I felt a small surge of relief, but it wasn’t just the satisfaction of getting the answer right. It was the feeling of having turned the tables, of having taken control of the moment that had threatened to spiral out of my grasp. I glanced over at Bakugo, just as he was about to sit up straighter in his chair. His grin faltered when he saw the glint in my eyes.
And that was all the encouragement Bakugo needed.
I couldn’t help myself. A small, almost mischievous smile curved on my lips. It wasn’t an innocent, pleased-with-herself smile—it was the kind of grin you wore when you knew you’d just pulled something off, when you’d just made someone else realize they’d misjudged you.
Bakugo’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly, the smugness faltering for the briefest of moments. He’d thought I’d fumble. He’d thought I wouldn’t know the answer. But I had shown him, and not only had I known the answer—I said it with confidence, without hesitation.
He looked away first, clearly frustrated, but I didn’t miss the way his jaw tightened. I knew that look. He didn’t like losing, even if it was just a small moment, a little victory that nobody else in the room might even notice.
But I noticed. And that was enough for her.
As the class continued, Ellie let herself settle back into her seat, but her mind was sharp, focused, and alive with the thrill of competition. Dylan might have been the golden boy of the class, but today, in this small, unexpected moment, Ellie had beaten him. And for once, it felt really good to smile back at him—just a little bit smug, just a little bit competitive—knowing that he hadn’t seen this coming.
The moment I finished answering the question, I could feel it—a mix of pride and adrenaline coursing through me. I had nailed it, no hesitation, no second-guessing. The class had been quiet after I spoke, the silence hanging in the air before the professor acknowledged my answer. It felt like the eyes of the entire room were on me, but in that instant, I didn’t care. For once, I was the one who had it together.
But then there was the scoff.
I didn’t even need to look at him to know exactly who it was. Bakugo. The ever-present thorn in my side. His chair creaked as he shifted, his eyes narrowing in that way I was so familiar with. He looked almost... irritated, the kind of expression he wore when he thought someone was challenging his spot as top dog in this class. And right now, it was clear that he did not appreciate the fact that I was the one who had answered confidently.
Why does it always have to be him? I wondered, my hands clenched under the desk. I knew it was coming—he was going to find some way to one-up me, to make me feel small for doing something as simple as knowing the answer. I hated how predictable he was, but I hated even more that it affected me so much. I’d never let him see that, though. He had to think I was just as indifferent as he was.
I kept my eyes trained forward, pretending like his irritation didn’t bother me, like I wasn’t still replaying the way he’d looked at me, the way he always tried to put me in my place. It’s just a class. It doesn’t matter, I reminded myself. This isn’t real life. This is just some stupid competition.
The bell rang, breaking my thoughts, and the class started to pack up. As usual, Bakugo shoved his things into his bag with that signature smug expression, as if he'd already forgotten the moment I’d answered correctly. He probably wouldn’t give it a second thought, while I would be stewing in it for the rest of the day.
I grabbed my phone, hoping to distract myself. A new message from Dino.tnt 609 popped up. My fingers tapped the screen eagerly, relieved for the sudden shift in focus.
Dino.tnt609: “So, Halloween party tomorrow night.. what do you think? You in?”
I smiled at the message. Dino. He was the one person who could make everything feel lighter, even when things felt heavy. Talking to him always made me feel like I could breathe again after a day of dealing with Bakugo’s constant need to compete. Dino was my escape. He didn’t care about grades or the stupid academic battles I fought with Bakugo every day. He just… gets me.
But then I hesitated. My thumb hovered over the keyboard as I began to type, the excitement of the invite quickly dampened by a twinge of anxiety. The party. It should be fun, right? Just a Halloween party. But the idea of seeing someone in person—someone I had only ever known through texts and memes and game chats—suddenly felt overwhelming. What if I didn’t click with him in real life? What if meeting him was awkward?
But more than that, what if it turned out that the person I was texting with every night was someone I couldn’t stand in real life? What if he was one of those people who, once you met them face to face, you realized you just didn’t vibe with? What if it was someone like Bakugo?
Wait, no. Don’t think that. I tried to push the thought out of my head. I knew it was irrational. Dino wasn’t Bakugo. He couldn’t be. Dino was the one who listened to my rants without judgment. Bakugo would’ve laughed at my complaints, probably turned it into some kind of competition. But Dino didn’t—he understood. He had always been there when I needed to vent about school, about life, about how exhausting it was to constantly feel like I had to prove myself to people who didn’t deserve it.
I bit my lip, still unsure. Maybe I was overthinking it. It’s just a Halloween party. Just one night. The mask I planned to wear would make it easier, give me an extra layer of comfort in case things felt weird. And if it turned out the person I was meeting in real life was someone I couldn’t stand? I could always leave early, or just keep the mask on, keep things light. No pressure.
With a sigh, I finally typed back.
starz26708: “I’m not sure yet. I want to go, but I keep thinking about who I might run into. What if it’s someone I already know and just don’t get along with? I hate the idea of meeting someone and realizing they’re not who I thought they’d be…”
I glanced at the message after I sent it, my heart pounding slightly. What if Dino didn’t understand? What if he thought I was being weird or overdramatic? But no, Dino would get it. He always did.
My phone buzzed almost immediately, and I opened the message from him.
Dino.tnt609: “I totally get it. Meeting people in real life is a lot different, especially when you’ve only talked to them online. But hey, no worries. If you don’t like the vibe when you get there, you don’t have to stay. Just come and hang out for a bit, if you feel like it. We can just keep it lowkey. And honestly, the mask thing sounds awesome. No pressure at all.”
I felt the tension leave my shoulders as I read his reply. Dino’s message was so casual, so easy-going. It reminded me that I didn’t have to overthink everything. The idea of the mask suddenly felt like a safe haven, a way to protect myself if things didn’t go as planned. And if things went well? Even better.
I glanced at my costume on the chair across the room, the simple, cute outfit with the eye mask. It was just for fun, right? It would be a way to keep things light, to feel like I could still hide behind some layer of anonymity, just in case. I could show up, meet DIno, and see how it felt. If I didn’t like the vibe, I could leave. No harm done.
Taking a deep breath, I typed out my response.
starz26708: “Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll come to the party. And I’ll wear the mask. No pressure. Just… a fun time, right?”
I hit send and sat back in my chair, feeling both nervous and excited. The thought of meeting Maverick in real life still made my heart race, but now there was a sense of excitement bubbling up, too. No more overthinking. Tomorrow would be what it would be.
As I tucked my phone back into my pocket, I couldn’t help but think back to the classroom earlier that day, the way Bakugo had looked at me with that scoff, like I was some kind of threat to his place in the class. I couldn’t stop him from being irritated or annoyed by me. But for once, I didn’t need to care. I was about to meet someone who saw me for who I really was, not just some competitor in an academic race.
And for the first time in a while, that felt like enough.
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The library was still, the kind of stillness that envelops you like a blanket, pressing in with its quiet whispers. The scent of old books and fresh paper, mingled with the faint hum of fluorescent lights, filled the air. I sat at my usual spot in the corner near the back row of tables, tucked between two towering bookshelves. The table before me was cluttered with textbooks, notebooks, and a half-finished cup of coffee that had long since cooled. It was late afternoon, and the golden light from the windows cast long shadows across the floor, making everything feel a bit more serene than usual.
I liked it here—the calm, the solitude, the sense of focus that always seemed to find its way to me in the midst of my chaotic thoughts. But today, there was an odd distraction. Him. Bakugo.
It wasn’t that he had suddenly appeared or made his presence known in any way. No, he’d been here for a while now, sitting at the table across from hers, his head bent low over a stack of textbooks. His usual aloofness was present, that edge of arrogance that always seemed to follow him like a cloud, but it was muted somehow. Less blatant. Less in-your-face.
I could feel the tension in her chest as I stole a glance at him. My eyes lingered for just a moment, not sure what to make of it. He wasn’t showing off, wasn’t playing the part of the smug academic genius. He was just… working.
It was weird. It had been a while since I’d seen Bakugo like this—since he had been normal. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word. Maybe it was more like he was letting his guard down a little, just enough for me to notice. He was still Bakugo, the same guy who had scoffed at me when I answered that question in class with confidence, the same guy who’d shot me looks of condescension every chance he got. But today, there was something… different.
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the way my thoughts were spiraling around him. I didn’t like this feeling. I didn’t like the fact that I was starting to care, even a little, about what Bakugo thought—or, worse, starting to wonder if he was, in some way, not the person I always assumed him to be.
My focus snapped back to my notes. I had a test coming up. A test I needed to ace. No distractions. No thoughts about him. And yet, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stop my gaze from drifting back to him.
Bakugo had paused in the middle of writing, a pencil hovering above his notebook as he looked at something in the distance, his gaze unfocused. There was a tiredness about him today, something uncharacteristic, as though the weight of his own expectations were getting to him. His posture had shifted slightly; no longer the rigid, always-perfect stance, but more slouched, as if the constant pressure of being the best was beginning to wear on him. I had always known that he had his own demons, just as I did. But today, it felt… real somehow. It felt more human.
I tried to shake it off, to tell myself that this was just another moment of my own weakness, my need to understand people. To make sense of things. But it was harder now. It was harder to keep the walls up when I had seen a flicker of something real underneath the arrogance.
Bakugo cleared his throat suddenly, breaking the silence between them, and my eyes shot up, my heart giving an unexpected jolt. He was looking at me now, but not with the same sharp, dismissive gaze I was used to. No, this time, it was... different. There was still a hint of skepticism, but it wasn’t the biting kind. It was almost... curious.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, but not with the usual irritation. It was more like an observation. “Staring off into space.”
I blinked, surprised by the comment. “What?”
“You’re distracted,” he said, his voice quieter now. He shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired sigh. “You’ve been looking at me like I’m some kind of puzzle you’re trying to figure out.”
I frowned, annoyed at how accurately he’d read me, even though I hadn’t been aware of it myself. “I haven’t been staring at you,” I muttered, though it wasn’t very convincing. I hadn’t meant to stare at him, but it was hard not to when something about today felt... off. In a way that was hard to describe.
Bakugo smirked, the edge of his usual arrogance slipping back for a moment. “Sure you haven’t.”
The flicker of their old dynamic was still there, but there was something softer in the way he said it. No ridicule. No malice. Just a simple, half-amused observation.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. This wasn’t helping me focus. And yet, there was something about the way Bakugo was acting today that made me feel like he wasn’t just my academic rival anymore. He wasn’t just the guy who competed against me for every grade, for every small victory.
For a split second,I entertained the thought that maybe—just maybe—I had misjudged him. But I quickly dismissed it. Bakugo was still Bakugo. Still arrogant. Still stubborn. Still too proud for his own good.
“I’m trying to focus,” I muttered, feeling a bit of tension in my chest, my irritation creeping back.
Bakugo didn’t respond right away. Instead, he picked up his pencil again and started scribbling something in his notebook. The sound of the lead scraping against the paper was oddly calming in the otherwise quiet space. I could feel the weight of the moment stretch out, the minutes slipping by as both of us worked, neither of us speaking.
And then, unexpectedly, Bakugo spoke again.
“You know,” he said, his voice a little softer than before, “you’re not the only one stressed out about this stuff.”
I blinked at him. What?
“Yeah,” He continued, not looking up from his work. “I might seem like I have everything figured out all the time, but I don’t. I—” He paused for a second, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something that wasn’t arrogance in his eyes. “I hate feeling like I’m always just... expected to be the best, you know?”
I was taken aback. I didn’t know how to respond at first. This wasn’t the Bakugo I knew, the Bakugo who acted like he had the world on a string and was just waiting for it to fall into place. No, this was different. This was... human. Vulnerable, even.
I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. “I get it,” I said quietly, before I could stop herself. “I feel the same way. Like I’m always trying to prove something. Like I’m never enough.”
Bakugo finally looked up at me then, his expression more thoughtful than I had ever seen it. The usual arrogance was still there, tucked beneath the surface, but it wasn’t all-consuming. For a second, he just looked at her, as if considering her words. And for a moment, I wasn’t sure what to say next.
Then, surprisingly, Bakugo offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, not into a smirk, but a genuine smile. It wasn’t much—certainly not the kind of smile I ever expect from him—but it was enough.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Guess we’re not so different after all.”
I was silent for a moment, processing the unexpected turn in their conversation. There was still so much about him that grated on my nerves, but in that moment, sitting in the library with him, I realized something. Maybe—just maybe—there was more to him than the arrogant exterior he always wore. Maybe there was a real person beneath all that pride and stubbornness.
And maybe, just maybe, I was starting to see him for who he truly was.
“I guess so,” I replied, offering him a small smile of my own.
Both of us went back to their work, the silence stretching out between us again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… peaceful. There was an understanding now, an unspoken truce. They weren’t enemies, not really—not anymore.
For the first time, I realized that their rivalry didn’t have to define us. We could just be two students, studying together in the same quiet space, both trying to survive the pressures of their lives.
And in that simple moment, sitting across from each other, we both found a kind of peace.
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taglist: @sara4uuu @zoast32 @lemon-lav @instantmagazineconnoisseur (comment to be added on my taglist!)
enzstr © 2024. please don't steal, modify or copy my writing on any other platforms!
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pictopye · 3 days ago
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Update! Firstly, thank you all for the hearts and reblogs on my initial roughs. I greatly appreciate the support and care; it's given me quite the boost to my confidence on getting out there and sharing and creating more within the fallout community. So thank you again for the warm reception! I've been keeping myself busy with art - worked on some spreads for a zine about Sonoran bean trees, painted some miniatures, got a good rough sketch/layout of a new piece of fan art that I might use as a masters study (soon to be posted), and did another draft/refinition on this Hancock piece! Next comes either colors or biting the bullet and tackling a background.
PS: I understand how hard it can be right now to not fall into anxiety, overthinking, doomerism, or overworking/overreaching yourself. So as one friend to another - Please make sure you take the time to take care of yourselves, and your loved ones. Make sure you take time to enjoy the little things in your daily life, and if you can get something to eat and drink if you haven't had much - please do. Thank you all for checking in, and I'll talk to y'all later!
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I did these little FO4 doodles on a scrap of paper back in Oct. But with everything Oct threw at me it really put the kibosh on having time for just having some fun. So I finally got around to fleshing it out a little further today. With Hancock as soon as I had that cheesy grin I knew the direction I wanted to take with him; and will likely do a full render since I'm quite happy with the rough barring a few tweaks/changes here and there. Ham and Nick were just sprinkles of additional fun. Also I seriously cannot get @haileythesato's wonderful fan animation, 'Out of Context Nick Valentine' with it's "synth toaster" line outta my head - it lives there rent free now, and I'm honestly 100% OK with that. :P
Hence my swap out to a very 'brave little toaster' Nick.
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intrepidacious · 3 days ago
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❤️ a good time!
tat!bucky’s favorite (or least favorite) thing about twelve
… why not both?
cause and effect
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chapter summary: How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.
pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader
word count: 1.8k
warnings: light angst and negative self talk (this is bucky y'all); some light pining 🤭please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: i've literally had this one in my drafts for about two years and i hadn't actually planned on posting it for a while yet but i did promise distractions. and i missed him. i always do.
this is part of the time after time universe but can be read as a teaser and/or a standalone 💚
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Bucky’s relationship with time has been fractured ever since a cold day in January that stole away the life he was headed towards and turned him into the monster underneath a child’s bed.
It’s hard to feel good about the concept of time travel once a lot of your own time has been taken away from you. Even now, there’s only so many things in his life he has control over; like the fact that he’s actively choosing to go back to therapy now, or that he’s able to keep a pet for the first time since he was thirteen years old. Stupid little things, like what kind of food he wants for lunch or whether he should take the stairs or the elevator.
Every single one of these things he’s fought for tooth and nail, clawing his way out of the past and carving out his own space in reality again, struggling, trying, hanging on like he wasn’t able to all those decades ago.
He’s probably still failing.
Some days, clinging to the present is tense and brings him nothing but grief. Sometimes, it feels like he’s going to have to mourn the past forever, whatever might have been; and maybe that’s his sentence.
He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. He deserves worse.
And then there’s you.
Flickering in and out of time, constantly moving, changing in the time it takes him to blink.
It’s infuriating to him, the way you get to use your powers. The way you don’t need to think about consequences, because they don’t have to be permanent, don’t have to be something you need to live with for the rest of your life. To you, time has always been something that can be changed with a single snap of your fingers. Whatever you do can just as easily be undone.
Once you decide you’ve seen enough, you can just take the scene from the top.
And you’re so stubborn.
You’ve already seen how this goes on if you let it, and so you’re always right, end of story. There’s an ease to your steps because of it, a nonchalance in every movement, and it makes Bucky’s blood boil to see it so plainly.
With all the good that you could do, you choose to do nothing instead; to stay out of the picture entirely and burn through your powers just because you can, wasting them all on things that don’t mean anything.
How many lives could you potentially save?
Instead, you consume disturbing amounts of caffeine and then continue to provide running commentary to the world around you based on things that, to him, never happen at all. "Do this", "don’t do that", "take the other one", or, his absolute favorite, "don’t make me fix that".
Why not? he wants to ask, say, demand. Why not fix all of it?
It takes a while for him to realize that all of your fire means you’re burning from both ends. In fact, it takes Becca.
"You should bring her by sometime," she tells him on a rainy afternoon. "While I’m still alive and kicking."
His little sister just turned ninety-eight. Her kitchen sideboard is filled with black-and-white pictures reminding him of all the things in her life that he missed, arranged in perfect little wooden frames.
"And why would I do that?" Bucky asks, scowling at his cards.
"Because you keep mentioning her," Rebecca says dryly and whisks the cards onto her pile with quick fingers.
"You gotta be kidding me," he groans, noting down her points. "And I don’t."
"Do, too. I don’t remember you being this terrible at this game."
"Because I haven’t caught you when you’re cheating."
"Exactly. It’s embarrassing." She wins the next trick, too. "How’s Tuesday?"
"Am I clairvoyant now?"
"I was thinking lunch."
"No." Finally, he gets a couple of points down. When he glances up at his sister again, she’s looking at him expectantly and he sighs. "What?"
"You can’t fault me for being curious," she says. She has just as many opinions as she did when she was sixteen. Her eyes are still the same, too, the same shade of blue as his and the same glimmer of archness as their mother.
"Don’t you think it’s weird?" Bucky says, finally giving in. "The whole … time thing?"
"I think it’s very weird, but so’s you returning from the dead and kvetching about it." Her eyes narrow when he starts to protest. His mouth closes again. "Besides," she continues, shuffling her hand around, "it doesn’t sound all that fun."
"To have the power to never make mistakes?"
"To have to live through every mistake twice without anyone knowing."
Something about her words strikes him like a match, and so he tilts his head and squints at her and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s got it wrong.
That you carry not only your past, but all the futures you’ve seen that never came to be; all the what ifs having turned into answers.
And he thinks, how nice. And then he thinks, how horrifying.
It’s a thought that follows him over the next couple of weeks, and it starts reframing your interactions for him, in a way.
"Will you stop staring at me," you say without looking up from your book.
Honestly, he can’t. He’s still trying to pick up on it, the split second between before and after, that little change of your posture, your hair, your face, that tells him more time has passed for you than it has for him.
It’s more of a feeling than anything else, something right at the back of his mind telling him that something is different if he concentrates on it enough, but he’s never sure what it is. And he doesn’t like that; not one bit.
So Bucky crosses his arms and leans back. "Why?"
A flash of irritation makes your nose twitch, even though you still refuse to meet his eye.
"It’s rude, for one."
"Noted." He waits for the two that never comes. "Anything else?"
And there it is. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of moment, like the air shifting around you ever so slightly, a certain knowing glint in your eyes when you roll them and get up.
"Annoying!"
He can’t help it. He wonders what your original answer was.
***
Bucky’s relationship with time changes slowly, the deepest cuts carefully mending themselves until looking back doesn’t feel like getting his bones ripped apart anymore, until he looks at you on a cold day in January and realizes he’s fucked.
At first, he hopes that it might be a fluke. A trick of the light, maybe, or seasonal allergies. That’s the reason why his eyes are drawn to your face as soon as he enters a room; the closest source of discomfort always the thing he seeks out first. That’s the reason why his chest constricts like that.
But the truth is, he knows this feeling has been building slowly; he’s just been unwilling to admit it.
Something soft and delicate has started to nestle in that gaping hole inside his chest, unbothered by the walls he’s so carefully built up.
He’d never planned on you.
Fuck, if he’d known in the beginning, he might’ve …
No, he thinks. He wouldn’t have changed anything.
Because you’re too good for him, anyway, and he knows it. Smart and strong and funny and gorgeous and capable of things he’s not sure he’ll ever fully comprehend; and it’s worse than that, because he knows you now.
You’re grouchy in the mornings and you make terrible jokes when you’re nervous and you have a strange feud with his cat and your smile makes him want to put his fist through the wall because what is he supposed to do with any of this?
He’s not made for this dance anymore. That part was taken from him so long ago, and he’s delusional to think that anything or anyone could return it to him after all the bridges he’d been made to cross and burn. Why would someone like him deserve to be given tenderness anymore in this life? Why would anyone want to try?
But that foolish thing blooming inside him feels a lot like hope, despite of what he keeps telling himself.
There’s just something about you that keeps pulling him in, and honestly, he’s tired of fighting it. Then again, the thought of you feeling the same is nothing short of ridiculous.
He’s not the same guy as he used to be. Hell, sometimes he’ll look at old photographs and barely recognize himself.
He remembers life before, and maybe that’s what makes this so hard. He remembers talking to pretty girls, their bright smiles, their soft skin underneath his hands. Good times were easy to come by, even though life was hard in a different way, then. But he was good at it; acting on his feelings alone used to be simple, fun, second-nature almost.
It’s different now.
It used to be different only once before, and look where that’s gotten him.
No, he can’t say anything. Not ever; or not yet, at any rate.
Sometimes, though, Bucky lies awake at night and listens to the rain knocking against his window, and he remembers how much easier falling asleep used to be when he had someone next to him and his mattress didn’t swallow him alive.
He’ll remember the dark circles under your eyes and wish it could be as easy as asking, too. He wonders if there’s a universe you remember where he tries, but he doubts it.
These days, he knows his mind again. And it’s not a burden he wants to share.
You have enough to carry on your own.
Maybe, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling at three in the morning, maybe there’s still a certain comfort in your powers, in knowing all the possibilities, but it also means constantly losing something that’s real; always mourning the life that isn’t.
He can relate to that.
And maybe that means you can relate to him, too, at least a little bit.
It’s odd, how comforting that last little thought is to him.
When he does eventually fall asleep, you make your way into his dreams, too, sometimes. Those times are the worst.
You’re you, and he’s him, and there’s a sort of "us" in the both of you that doesn’t exist in real life. So when you let him lace his fingers with yours and press your lips to his forehead and it feels easy, that’s usually the point when he wakes up, heart tumbling over itself, right hand tracing the ghost of your touch, always too much, never enough.
He knows it’s not real.
He knows it’s just an indulgence; selfish, really.
The problem is that whatever small hope has decided to settle in his very core is impossible to kill, no matter how much he pushes it down; and he’s not sure he wants to lose it again.
Secretly, silently, serendipitously, you make him have faith in the future again.
But it’s not time for it yet.
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if you want to read more about these two (plus a lot of time related shenanigans), read the main series here. or check out the rest of my bucky fics, that's also an option 💚 i don't do tag lists but you can follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications
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bamboobooshark · 2 days ago
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WILL GRAHAM • ❄️
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Too Cold || 820 Words || P.G. Rating || Fandom: Hannibal (2013)
Author’s Note: I have another Will Graham fic in my drafts already, but I have more motivation to write this first. I’m excited to see how this post does since I recently got into Hannibal and really wanted to write something with Will. Enjoy!
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CONTENT WARNINGS: No mentions of Will’s nightmares, Will is sensory seeking but also needs cuddles, Reader can use their arms/upper body (momentary scene), Reader moves around but with no description how exactly (no mention of legs), Reader is in a romantic relationship with Will, uses of the pet name sweetheart.
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The snow usually didn’t get this thick, but today you were thankful for it. The powder blanketed the ground outside so heavily that no one could go anywhere. You and Will decided to stay in and relax together. The two of you agreed to sleep in the living room on the pull out couch while the dogs slept on the floor. The fire crackled softly and dimly lit the room that was nearly sun blocked. You had brought your own individual blankets to wrap up in because Will insisted. He hated the idea of getting you drenched in his sweat just so you could cuddle him. You thought it was a fair trade; hold him in your arms and make him feel safe in exchange for something you could easily fix in the middle of the night. You didn’t like to push him, though.
You sat yourself up and rubbed the sleep from your eyes. You looked around the room and counted each of the dogs to ensure they were all here. You sighed deeply while taking in your surroundings. It was peaceful—every aspect of the moment you were in. Will slept peacefully for once, the dogs breathed deeply, the fire gave off a pinch of heat, and the snow fell heavy outside with the whipping of the wind. A soft smile crawled onto your lips. You stretched, preparing to get out of bed. You looked down at your sleeping lover and pressed a kiss to his forehead. A heartbeat later, you’re slowly dragging yourself out of the pull-out couch.
Once you get yourself steady, a few of the dogs get up to come greet you. You whisper sweet greetings and wish them each a good morning. You make your way towards the kitchen to the dog treat jar. You tap the ceramic lightly so as not to disturb Will. The last few dogs who were either sleeping or chose to stay lying down came to you. You gave each of them their gingerbread treats and sent them to go lay down once more. The house continues to stay quiet as you walk into the pantry in search of something to eat. You hum softly before grabbing a pop-tart from one of the shelves.
The springs from the pull-out bed squeak awfully, causing you to emerge from the pantry as soon as you could. You spot Will looking at you with tired eyes. “What?” you ask with a soft chuckle. He looks at you, slightly annoyed. You should know by now what he wants. “Come back. I’m cold,” he said blankly. You nod your head in agreement as you head to the bed. “You’re taking an unreasonable amount of time,” he complained to you. “I’m working on it,” you say in a sing-song voice.
The second your thighs touch the edge of the bed, Will clings his arms around your waist and pulls him toward you. You squeal and smack at his arm playfully. “Will Graham! Get your hands off of me right now!” you said as you smiled so hard your cheeks started to hurt. “I never want to let you go, though. Espically not in this sort of weather,” he told you as he pulled you so his chin lined up with your shoulder. Your entire body shivered as you felt the tip of his cold nose touch your skin. He breathed you in deeply, resulting in him becoming completely still, besides his chest rising and falling. “You soothe me so well,” he praised gently. The arms that circled your waist squeezed a bit tighter as if they might loose you. You wriggled to be closer to his chest and settled once you were. His hand slowly traced circles on your stomach. It was so quiet you could hear the soft scratching of his fingers against the fabric of your shirt.
Your silent peace is soon interrupted when Will turns to lay on his back, bringing you with him. You gasp from the shock, at a complete loss for words. Will chuckles as you take a few deep breaths. “Why would you do that?” you ask in utter confusion. “I needed your weight on top of me,” he said plainly with a shrug. You sigh in slight annoyance—but you’re always glad to provide the stimulation your lover needs if it helps him stay calm and focused. He leans forward and kisses your forehead gently. “I had to return the favor,” he whispered. You chuckle once you realize what he was referring to. You kissed him back on the cheek, and he raised his eyebrows in amusement. “I’m assuming that’s a request for another kiss,” he observed before returning it. You two continue kissing each other back and forth, keeping warm from the blushing and your bodies pressed together, safe from the snowy weather outside.
The universe is good to you today. It’s been good to you every day since you met Will.
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yoonia · 2 days ago
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Hello^^
This is your annual (monthly) psa from little old me.
I'm sorry for being MIA. I had a ton of fun with my birthday bash event on October and I love that I ended up writing a couple of new pieces at the end aside from giving you guys some lovely moodboards to enjoy, which was a blast.
Unfortunately, on the final days of October, I started getting an allergy reaction from some of my meds, which led to me getting a weird skin infection appearing on my right arm and with a terrible inflammation on my upper arm. I also experienced a symptom similar to carpal tunnel syndrome which I got from hours of designing and drawing for work during the day and playing with canva and photoshop and writing on my computer at night, so I had to take a long break as soon as I finished my event and November came around.
To top it all, I think I'm a bit burnt out. I've been releasing a ton of things since August, and my mind (and I guess, my body) is asking for a break. I've been taking some time off from the internet and Tumblr because of this and have been focusing on recovering (bc your girl has bills to pay and I can't draw anything with this arm *sobs*).
I'm still recovering right now, with my arm still sore and hurting, but I'm slowly getting back to writing and creating some stuff again as I'm doing NaNoWriMo independently (without the site). Here's where we are at so far:
— Nefarious, that was planned to be released at the end of October, is about halfway done. I'm currently focusing on this one to release as soon as I'm done with it (because this won't be the last instalment from In Motion and I want to get the other out on December). Thanks to my break, I was able to open the draft with fresh eyes and...hated at least most of the things I wrote last month lol. so I'm in the middle of rewriting this and I can say that I'm making better progress with this so far.
— Carousel is still on rewriting process, with its weekly update continuing on Wattpad starting this month.
— The Bedroom Hymns is also on progress. I can only write for an hour or two each day due to my condition, so progress has been slow, but we're getting somewhere. I think I can release the new chapter right after Nefarious is released.
— Ever A Never After is continuing. Again, it's a slow progress, and I might release it sooner on Wattpad as small chapters if it comes down to it.
— I have a surprise project to release soon. I'm not sure when it's coming, but I'll be announcing it when I'm ready :)
That's all for now. Thank you for your patience and for making things fun for me back in October that you've given my a lot of motivation to write some new fics. I have a couple of messages waiting for me in my inbox which I'll be answering as soon as I'm available (again).
Be back soon! Take care, lovelies <333
xoxo, Dia
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ladytauria · 2 days ago
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Oh I see what we are doing now *ahem*
-Abyss left the ask box-
-Person with the most perfect Mustache you've ever seen-
*Strokes it* Trick or Treat my fine lady
*squinting* that’s a very fine mustache you have there, dear, but I SWEAR I’ve seen your face before
hmmm… well. while there are still several ideas hidden in my documents for some reason I feel compelled to give you my OTHER idea I had for my dear friend @deepwithintheabyss
jumping into this one without a lot of worldbuilding to try and curb the length dfghjk also this is a little rough/messy… i’d love to flesh it out a little more perhaps. call this a first draft version haha
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It’s not until after Zatara has left that Tim gets to process how odd all of this is.
Alvin and he stand across from each other in Tim’s living room. It’s almost like looking in a mirror—both of them dressed in the same loose sweats, the same ratty Gotham Knights sweatshirt.
Alvin tilts his head. “So… are we going to fuck?”
Tim chokes. “What?” Of all the questions he could have broken the silence with—
“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.” Alvin’s lips twitch. “I know better.”
If Tim is always this smug-looking when he’s right about something, he can understand why Steph says he has a ‘punchable’ face. “You don’t have to be so blunt about it,” he grouses.
His objection is mostly on principle. In a world of alternate universes and time travel (proven multiple times over now, Bruce), it’s hard not to consider, to think about, what might happen if Tim was faced with another version of himself. Hell—Tim has met another him. Though, granted, that meeting didn’t go particularly well.
But. There was always the possibility of meeting another him, someone who wasn’t a fascist asshole. Someone, well—
Someone more like Alvin.
A magical doppelganger, created by an artifact related to Tim’s latest case. A perfect copy of him, down to his last memory at the time of creation. It answered a lot of questions Tim had—but more immediately… it opened up entire realms of possibilities.
Alvin steps closer, and then closer still, until they're almost touching. “Do you really want to keep arguing?” His voice is low. Husky. Tim has heard himself sound like that before, but always—always from inside his own head.
No. No he doesn’t.
But Alvin knows that already.
There is no hiding from him, Tim realizes. Alvin knows him better than anyone ever has—or ever will.
The thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
Rather than answer, Tim steps even closer, crossing the distance between them. He tangles his fingers in the hairs at the back of Alvin’s neck, gripping his nape. Their mouths crash together, both of them making the same soft sound. They almost harmonize. Tim feels his belly tighten—his nipples harden, rubbing against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. He shivers, his skin tingling.
Alvin’s hands slip under his shirt. Tim gasps. Alvin’s fingers are cool against his skin; his grip steady, firm.
The slide of their lips is slow, unhurried. It’s good. Not the best kiss Tim has ever had—their lips are chapped in just the right way to catch against each other. But… even despite that, it stokes the steady warmth growing in his belly, making him sigh against Alvin’s mouth. He gives into the urge to lick into Alvin’s mouth and Alvin lets him, slackening his mouth so Tim can lick into him and taste.
Alvin tastes like nothing at all.
It would be disappointing if it the reason why wasn’t so thrilling. Of course Alvin’s mouth doesn’t taste like anything—it’s Tim’s mouth.
His grip tightens in Alvin’s hair. Alvin moans. He sucks on Tim’s tongue, pulling an echo of the sound from his own chest. He steps forward, slotting his leg between Alvin’s. His thigh presses against his groin. He can feel the shape of Alvin’s cock, hot and half-hard, through their sweats. It makes his mouth water. He swallows—Alvin’s tongue chases his back into his mouth as his hips roll, grinding against Tim’s thigh and groaning. His nails bite into the skin of Tim’s waist, and Tim gasps.
“A-ah—” He has to break the kiss to pant.
Alvin takes the opportunity to bury his face in Tim’s neck, biting at the delicate skin there. Tim is sure that he’s leaving bruises. It’s something he loves on a good day, but the idea that the bruises would match the shape of his own mouth—
“Fuck,” he says, his twitching, cock rutting against nothing, nothing at all.
In all of his elaborate fantasies, Tim had never imagined rutting against his doppelganger like he’s still a teenager. But now that it’s happening—
Why not?
Why not get off just like this?
Like Alvin is thinking the same thing—and fuck, he probably is, because they’re the same—he slots his own leg between Tim’s. They’re tangled together, pressed so close they’re almost one person.
Alvin bites—Tim shouts, his hips stuttering forward, and moans breathlessly when this time, he meets the hard muscle of Alvin’s thigh, the friction sending a wave of feeling skittering over his nerves. He pulls at Alvin’s hair, good and hard, the way he knows makes his nipples feel tight, his scalp tingle. His other hand drops down to Alvin’s ass, gripping the swell of it, pulling him forward to rub against Tim’s thigh.
Alvin gasps, moans. He scratches at Tim’s back, his waist, and abruptly, Tim needs to be naked. He lets go of Alvin to grab the hem of his sweatshirt and pull it off, over his head. He tosses it aside carelessly. Nothing crashes, so wherever it landed is probably fine. Alvin makes a soft, eager noise, then he follows suit.
They’re identical, of course. Lean and wiry and covered with a dark dusting of hair, thickest at his belly. Scars litter their skin—some of which only they can see, too faded for anyone else to find without serious exploration. There’s a mole next to one of his nipples. Tim’s only really ever seen it in the mirror before; it’s too far down for him to pay much attention to when he’s lying in bed, touching himself.
Right now—
Right now, it’s like his vision has narrowed down to it, and he shoves—gently—at Alvin, until his knees hit the back of the couch. Alvin lets himself fall, lets Tim crash on top of him, gripping at his shoulders while Tim trails a rough, wet path from his neck to his chest. His knees hit the floor. Alvin’s legs lock around his middle, ankles crossing at his back.
He knows just how to touch himself… with his hands. With his mouth—
With his mouth it’s clumsier, messier. He doesn’t know quite how roughly he can bite, how hard he can suck. But he figures it out, letting the gasps and moans Alvin makes guide him. Alvin’s fingers find his hair. He tugs, that perfect way that Tim likes, and he moans. His hips rut forward, against the couch.
He feels dizzy with want.
It reminds him of his task, just a few moments ago. He pulls off of Alvin’s nipple and shucks his pants. The position makes it awkward, clumsy. He would feel embarrassed if he didn’t know that Alvin was just as messed up as he is.
He reaches for Alvin’s pants next. Alvin’s belly tenses, showing off the muscles in his abdomen as he lifts his hips, letting Tim slide them over the swell of his ass and then down his legs. Tim doesn’t bother with their socks, climbing back up to plaster himself against Alvin instead. They move, the two of them, until they’re horizontal; Alvin lying under him, his head propped up slightly on one of Tim’s throw pillows. The other one is kicked to the floor. He can feel Alvin’s cock against his belly, hard and hot and leaking precum.
Alvin looks up at him, his face flushed, his eyes dark, hazy. This is what Tim looks like when he’s having sex. His cock pulses. He needs— He needs to see what he looks like when he comes.
He holds his hand up to Alvin’s face. He doesn’t have to say what he wants—Alvin knows, licking over Tim’s palm, holding his gaze as he does. Tim’s mouth is dry.
As soon as his hand is wet, he shoves it between their bodies, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks. They moan in perfect unison; the exact same breathless, desperate pitch. Tim starts slow, smearing spit and precum over their cocks until the glide is slick and smooth. Then he speeds up.
If he was masturbating alone, he would alternate between slow and fast; keep himself hovering over the edge until it was almost too much to take. Then, and only then, he would let himself cum.
Later, he’d be more than happy to test both of their limits. To act out every filthy fantasy they’ve ever had, but never had anyone else to to try it with.
Right now, though—
Right now, he’s getting an outsider’s perspective of his own orgasm and he wants nothing more than to see it through. So he does, hitting that perfect speed, that perfect tightness, twisting his wrist—pulling out all of the stops until he can almost taste his peak. Alvin writhes under him. He claws at Tim’s back, leaving streaks of red over the smooth skin there. Tim will look at them later; compare the spread of his fingers to them and flush at the idea that anyone else would look at him and think he’d found some random hook-up to take home.
Only Tim would know the truth.
Well.
Tim and Alvin.
“C’mon,” he whispers. “C’mon, baby—wanna—I wanna see you cum.” He shifts slightly, bracing more of his weight on his knees. He gets his other hand involved, then; tugging and twisting at his nipples, starting with the neglected one from earlier, the one without the mole.
Alvin grips Tim’s shoulders so tightly Tim is sure he’s drawn blood, and then—
He arches, mouth opening, panting their abdomens in white. Tim barely refrains from following him over the edge—staying as present as he can as he drinks in every detail. It’s not the same as watching himself on video. Even his highest definition camera can’t capture the rush of blood under Alvin’s skin, the glisten of sweat on his skin, the way his eyes move under the lids and his lashes flutter against his cheeks.
He gentles his hand, stroking Alvin until he collapses against the couch, chest heaving as he pants. He looks up at Tim with hazy eyes—his expression lazy, fucked-out. If Tim cared to psychoanalyze himself, he’s sure he could think of several interesting notes about the way he leans down to capture Alvin’s lips in a kiss.
Tim isn’t interested in digging that deeply.
Not this time.
Alvin only lets the slow, lazy kiss continue for a few minutes before he threads a hand in Tim’s hair and tugs him off. His lips curve upward, and then his legs tangle with Tim. He’s suspended in the air for one breathless moment before his back hits the couch, knocking the remaining air out of his lungs.
“Your turn now.” Alvin’s voice curls around the words in a low, dark promise.
Tim shudders, arching into his touch.
He can probably get away with taking a few days off. If anyone asks— He can just tell them it’s for science.
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b4ts1e · 3 days ago
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Okay- hear me out though....
(took a break from writing to play the updated TKatB game- so possible spoilers but I don't go into big specifics)
I adore Crowe's storyline now that there is an actual story to it (still adore Sol as well, but like- there are somethings he does in the nsfw version I get irked by), but if I had the option to choose out of the ENTIRE TKatB cast of who I'd romance?
You better bet your ass I'd either go for a queer platonic route with Jess and Brit OR I'd romance the hell outta Hyugo.
You cannot tell me that Mr. Wanna-Be-Detective wouldn't be a good partner when he gets all cute muttering shit like: "you remind me of them." or out right callin us pretty OR JUST ASKIN IF WE'VE EVER BEEN IN LOVE- WHILE BLUSHIN ALL CUTE N SHIT! Sure he may be a little knife happy in two of the routes but like- one is to leave no witnesses, while the other is cause we started trying to eaves drop on a private call.
You also cannot tell me otherwise that Brittney would not be one of the best people to be queer platonic with. Hear me out alright?
Woman makes us a sandwich and tries to include us the next day even if we run away or choose to not go to lunch with the group on day 1. And with Jess, if you choose to go with them kn day 1? She openly trusts you with her not-so-secret crush on Brit. Which is also the main reason I say queer platonic- Brit and Jess are SO into each other, even if Brit doesn't realize it yet. I'd never wanna come between that- but like...bestie cuddles and doin romantic and/or domestic shit with someone you know you're safe and secure with? Feels fuckin great.
I can genuinely picture Jess, Brit, and the MC cuddling on MC's couch and watching a movie and eatin snacks- hells maybe Crowe would be dragged in from time to time. Especially if he's in a relationship ship with the MC.
Queer platonic polycules are lovely when done right ^^
Makes me tempted to draft a rough idea of what the world of TKatB would look like if it was just a normal dating sim, well- I'd probably still include the whole...city being dangerous stuff. Might work this into a book at some point if I still like the idea once I get one of the current projects public- no promises though!
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vykio · 3 months ago
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Kevaaron break up you say?? 👀
WIP Game! ohohohoh in this version, katelyn and aaron broke up a couple months ago but they're still friends. they're done their exams and drink to that and Katelyn drops a any developments on your crush on Kevin? and that is where Aaron learns for the first time that Katelyn thinks he has a crush on Kevin LOOOOL............
This isn’t Aaron’s room. It hasn’t been for almost two years now but his body brought him here anyway. It dawns slowly on Aaron that he’s in the wrong place, but he’s aware enough to notice Kevin’s brows scrunch together on his face. Watching Kevin’s lips turn down as he frowns unsettles him; looking down is worse because Kevin isn’t wearing a shirt—there’s so much of his skin on display with his legs bare, too, and Aaron hears Katelyn say, I’m sorry but we both know you—
Aaron curls a hand into a fist and weakly drives it into Kevin’s stomach. It works in stopping the thought but it brings out something worse—Kevin’s whole body reacts, surprised, his muscles tensing and rippling against Aaron’s hand. Aaron recoils at the sensation and takes a step back, protectively tucking his arm against his chest. “G’night,” he says loudly, hoping none of his sudden panic has seeped into his voice.
Kevin slips two fingers in the collar of Aaron’s hoodie when he turns away, still within reach, and hauls him back. Aaron falls back without fighting and wheels around once he’s steady to swat Kevin’s hand away. He turns a snarl at him. “What?”
The flash of concern on Kevin’s face is no longer, but he does have an eyebrow raised at him. “You look like shit,” he says flatly. Aaron hadn’t paid attention to what he looked like when he fled from Katelyn’s. He hadn’t cried, but he can still feel his face and neck hot in some places, still probably red from being flustered and blindsided. Before Aaron can take offence, Kevin jerks his thumb over his shoulder and adds, “I’m drinking.”
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icewindandboringhorror · 13 days ago
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Little bright colored outfit with a fun vest ~
(shoes from ebay like 10 years ago. everything else is thrifted)
#ootd#jfashion#fashion#fantasy fashion#mori kei#....like... adjacent... lol#no idea what style this would be lol.. makes me think of like whimsical vaguely fantasy themed childrens book character#finally posting one of my aforementioned seven million drafts of actual outfits and costumes i have finished and edited#the photos for but just never feel like posting lol..#I need to find one of those people whos like 'omg i am ADDICTED to social media ugh i wish i could get off of it#im just browsing and posting like 60 times a daaaaay!!!' and take a little magical bottle and suck some of the social media#enthusiasim out of them. for moi. In exchange they can have some of my 'literally just never in the mood to post or interact with the#outside world ever' energy. We can balance each other. huzzah and so on#Though I think maybe it's part of the general thing I've heard of like.. I can't remember if it was in reference to adhd or just some sort#of general execcutive functioning issue type of thing - but the idea that things have to be ''just right'' before you do something. like#'oh i need to do this task. but i have to wait until XYZ first' or 'oh i can do this but only if X specific condition is met' or etc#The fact that I even have to be in a Specific Mindset to post. or sometimes will delay posting on social media because like 'oh well#I'm going somewhere tomorrow. somehow this matters. i cannot spend 5 minuts posting TONIGHT. clearly it will interfere#somehow schedule wise with the doctor appointment i have 15 hours from now. yes. yes. i must wait until my appointment is over#tomorrow afternoon. THEN i shall post' or etc. etc. lol. NOT even taking into account the many days#I just genuinely and physically sick and it's not even a mental thing. I just physically dont feel like sitting at the computer lol..#ANYWAY.. trying to get back into it. trying to get a business bank account.. make a proper paypal so i can start selling sculptures again.#selling clothes and sculptures.. posting about such things then of course as one must. etc... chanting to hype up and motivate myself lol#But yes. this is my favorite outfit out of the bunch so I am posting it first I guess.. maybe others later..#Also the purple dress says its from shein. which I've heard is bad fast fashion stuff. but maybe okay since its second hand? I havent#been to the bins since like 2020 or late 2019 even. and I think stuff like shein and temu has only become poular in the past few years#but I bet if I went to the bins now I might would find a good handfull of that stuff. Probably now not much different than what you#find in a walmart or a forever 21 or actual physical stores you can go to though. I hear quality of clothing is down everywhere no matter#where you get it or whatnot. What bountiful joys unfettered capitalism and exploitation bestows upon us (<being sarcastic).#Wearing one of my favorite little vests though. I love the texture of it and the clasps on it
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spotaus · 1 month ago
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New Age AU (Obtaining Killer)
Hey guys! Through with a bot of stuff for the day and I have a sneaking suspicion that this stress headache will not leave me until I finish some projects for work, so I *may* be m.i.a. for a hot second until they stop.
In the meantime, I want to drop this! (Unedited, unrefined, raw off the slab style)
Andddd @ancha-aus and @papiliovolens ! Hello! (Mutzelputz if u see this, the tags weren't working for some reason, I apologize.)
Hope y'all enjoy!
Ccino had convinced him to leave the castle. After nearly a year had passed since his last true public appearance. Since he'd stolen the apple from his brother. Nine months had passed since he'd sent Dream away. He tried not to think about it.
Nightmare had been finding out a lot about his magic. How it made him jittery, and how he felt like he understood so much more. How it made him deeply paranoid, quick to react.
How it made people listen to him.
He figured it was because he was scary now. The negative magic condensed over every inch of his bone wasn't exactly appealing, and the extra limbs which had sprouted from his spine now acted like his own personal weapons. If someone didn't listen, didn't give him an answer he liked, the limbs moved without him even thinking.
It had taken time to learn to better control them. Even now, they writhed in his wake. His nerves expressed through their lashing and twitching as they hovered just above the ground.
The streets weren't exactly crowded.
Upon word of the King's arrival to this small providence, Nightmare had found that many people fled from his path. His travel party of several soldiers, and himself on horseback. He'd always wanted to ride horses. The traitor twin was someone that every citizen wished to avoid.
Ccino had coaxed him outside with promises of fresh air. Apparently there were promising young members of the city guard that Ccino swore would be wonderful future knights. Young warriors for him to bring up loyally under his name, no fear of betrayal.
It had made sense, at the time, but Nightmare hadn't chosen to recruit any of them.
It wasn't to say he didn't want to. Several of the humans and monsters were very talented, and he did his best to give them praise, but he could tell. None of them wanted to work under him. They didn't like him. Rejection and hatred that had pierced him immediately, he could practically taste it.
Ultimately, they would do better here in their hometown. A place they were passionate about protecting, and with people they cared for. Night would not try to mold promising soldiers into his perfect guard. No matter how smart of an idea it may have been.
And so he'd moved on.
Night had visited several smaller shops, onces which couldn't afford to refuse him, and he bought some fabrics, a trinket, some small thing from each place he stopped by. He payed exactly the price he needed for each thing. He wouldn't bribe his people, either. The best he could do would be to remain neutral.
He did discover, against all odds, that he was enjoying this day out. Ccino was, in fact, usually correct about this sort of thing.
The travel had been enriching. Almost exciting. He'd never gotten out of the castle much at all, this was all new and excitingly mundane.
Good things do not last forever.
It was almost sunset when he noticed it. Torches being set up, a platform prepared. A crowd gathering.
An execution, came the mutter from one of his soldiers. Though he recognized the set-up, Night had never been in attendance to an execution. He was morbidly curious. The crowd held such a contempt. A broiling hunger for blood.
He wished he'd wheeled his horse away when a few people were ushered out of a nearby building.
The prison, maybe?
There weren't many of them. Nightmare dismounted his steed, and much to the dismay of the soldiers at his side, he found himself sinking. Into the growing shadows cast by the dying sun.
He re-emerged beside the stage, where the few people were lined up. Ready for death by hanging.
That trick wasn't one that Nightmare quite understood yet, but he was always drawn to feelings of intense negativity. He knew that, now. Something about these prisoners were bothering him, even at a distance, and he found himself more curious as he stood before them.
His guards, at the back of the crowd, hadn't seemed to figure out where he had gone. He had the time, now, to loom over the small group of prisoners.
The city guards, the trained ones, had likely seen him earlier at their headquarters. They did not speak even a word against him as he stared.
Nightmare stared at these faces.
A dog monster, scrappy and scarred, black fur clashing against a few patches of white. One of her ears was missing.
A pair of humans, both men, one with long, curly red hair and another with short-cropped red hair and the beginnings of a beard. Maybe they were brothers?
A skeleton. His sockets dripped with black magic, and his soul was a piercing crimson, just infront of his chest.
A flame monster, small and stout. Their flames a flickering green and purple. One of their eyes had a patch over it.
Nightmare was not great at determining emotions yet. He was hardly versed in his own feelings, but there had been improvement recently. Understanding new emotions had been coming more naturally to him.
Sometimes it hurt, but he was learning.
Now, past the blossoms of a headache, he felt a bit baffled as he subconsciously picked through the negativity these monsters exuded. Their fear. Their pain. Their loss, and their anger.
Oh.
"Only one of you is guilty."
He'd said it without thinking, practically announcing it with a voice that still felt unnaturally deep. A voice which rattled his ribcage and seemed to force past the barrier of darkness around him.
The group before him seemed startled. Confused.
Well, all but the skeleton, who seemed to only raise his skull slightly. As though just noticing Nightmare was there.
"How could you have possibly been jailed in the first place?" He muttered a bit quieter to himself.
He knew, deep down, that there were many, many rules in place for situations like this. Laws which he could challenge. People he could speak to. He could appoint members of his court to each of these people and try to earn their innocence through the rites of the law.
Then again, he remembered the rage of the crowd. The frustration of the people waiting to see these killings take place.
He didn't know what to do.
Now the prisoners, especially the two humans, were staring at him hopefully. He'd managed to shatter the negativity a bit. He believed them. He knew this was wrong.
"I don't know..."
The mutter came again unprompted.
These people would not have the means to repay him for his help. He couldn't just waive fees, or risk his court turning against him. He couldn't afford enemies being made so close to his inner circle.
He couldn't just leave them, though. Not after he'd seen the injustice of it all.
Stuck in his own thoughts, he was drawn out of it by a snickering laugh.
"Just set them free." A voice followed, "You are our King, aren't you?"
Nightmare then found his eyes drawn to the skeleton.
The others had eased themselves away from him. He stood, now, almost alone. He seemed unbothered by speaking up, his sockets held in an almost lazy posture. Tension going completely un-held.
He grinned up as the King, and seemed to watch contentedly as the thought settled in Nightmare's skull.
He could do that. Simply waive their charges. Pardon them. He could do that, surely. Many royals had done it before him for less certain terms. His mother had plenty of times.
"And you are guilty. You'll still be hanged. You know this, don't you?" Nightmare asked.
That was when the Skeleton's lazy sockets seemed to tighten with a sort of glee. Some hidden joke Nightmare wasn't privy to.
"Hmm." This was a poor choice. This was a bad decision. "Tell me, quickly, how you came to be here. Before I proceed?"
Nightmare didn't know why he was asking. He was... curious. Just like he had always been.
Very few people would ever speak straight to his face. Ccino, that was the only one who'd done it since his change. Since the prophecy. This skeleton had done it. He'd spoken when no one else could muster even a plea.
The silence he seemed to bring to every room. Broken, just briefly.
The skeleton stared at him a moment.
"Name's Killer, your majesty." The tone was mocking. "A while back a buddy of mine got into hot water, and I decided to help them out. Now, plenty of bodies later, I'm the one stuck on death row."
Simple. An admission of guilt.
Nightmare stared at him some more.
Finally, it seemed his frantic guards had noticed him. Found him. They rushed to his side, though not as fast as he would've liked. He could feel the frustration seeping from each armored body around him.
"You don't have an aversion to it," Nightmare voiced, "Killing, I mean."
Killer nodded. Unashamed.
It felt strangely calm, still. Perhaps it was because the crowd was still chattering. They likely hadn't noticed Nightmare at all.
The king turned to the city guard, still stood on the steps. "Free these four people. My judgement decrees them as not-guilty."
And, before any time could pass in the slightest. "Killer, I would like you to accompany me, before you abscond."
He'd noticed it. Killer had undone his cuffs before their conversation. Completely freeing himself from his weak imprisonment.
Killer seemed amused at the concept of sticking around to chat.
"If you would, I would like to recruit your services at my castle. I need a man who is willing to kill. And kill swiftly." Ccino said to establish an image. It was obvious now that his reputation would remain in the gutter, no matter what choices he made. He was not Dream.
Killer's sockets narrowed.
"And what would I get for being your little hunting dog?" Again, it was bold. It was new.
Nightmare was sure his expression hadn't changed since he'd come before the group. That same angry glare that sat permanently along his skull. The magic had an image to project.
His tendrils flicked, slightly.
"Payment, room, Fresh meals, and any other amenities you may like, so long as it does not break our treasury." He replied, "All I ask is that you simply obey me. And Me alone."
Not true. He'd probably ask for him to listen to Ccino as well. Once he knew for certain he'd stay.
Killer seemed to be thinking. He eyed they king, up and down. He looked to each of the guard around the king. The ones who were back in position now, though Nightmare could feel their annoyance. Their confusion.
Then Killer turned.
Then he turned back.
"Mm. Can't be worse than the ol' noose." Killer replied. "Funny way to run a country, my king. Hiring the first murderer you spot?"
Nightmare didn't humor that with a response. He was honestly shocked the skeleton had even agreed.
Though, all of that negativity had been swapped out for a glee. Something deep in Killer had changed during their brief interaction. A hope. Night could barely grasp the edges of its existence with his subconscious. But it was there.
.
He ignored the crowds as they grew confused. He ignored the worry pouring from the criminals as he had them released and informed them of their pardon.
He did not ignore when his guards told someone to keep their distance. He glanced up. Killer was standing beyond the guards, looking bored.
Nightmare, trusting fool he was, didn't even ask a guard to watch him to ensure he stayed put.
"Stand down." He ordered the guard, who begrudgingly allowed the skeleton to smugly slip past.
His tendrils kept the monster at a distance Night preferred all on their own. He seemed to take the hint.
"They're all gonna be dead by morning, you know." Killer voiced easily.
Nightmare turned to him, confused. What did he mean by that? He'd pardoned them?
"Are you deaf? The crowd wanted us dead, especially me." He chuckled, "Leaving them here is definitely going to get them killed. If the crowd doesn't rip them apart the second you leave, then it'll happen at night. There will be no witnesses."
Oh... Night hadn't fathomed that these people could turn on the innocent once declared. It hadn't even crossed his mind. Did they have a home to return to? A family they put at risk?
The noose was a fast death, but being murdered? That would've been so much worse.
He could tell, by the way they evaded looking at Killer, that he was right. Nightmare would be sentencing them to a new sort of death if he did it like this.
But he didn't have time for a trial. Or several. The sun was going down, abd Ccino expected him back. The castle needed him present, or they might revolt.
Someone might hurt Ccino.
Oh, he was such a poor ruler. He did not know his people well enough. How he lamented the lessons Dream had taken about crowds and current issues abd how to be likeable.
Night didn't know how to handle this. He was still learning!
A trembled in his hand. He tucked the limb quickly away from where it had been lightly clutching his tunics thick fabric, now hiding it beneath his cloak.
"Killer is right. It won't be safe here, for any of you." He spoke. Thank the gods it didn't sound as shaken as he felt. "I extend an offer to you all. You may stay here, or you may come take up positions among my staff back at the castle. Unlike Killer, I do not expect any crime from you, but you will be paid and housed."
The offer was met with a roar of frustration from the crowd, Nightmare chose to allow his guards to handle it. He watched, carefully, as the four looked between eachother.
The brothers agreed first. (They introduced themselves as brothers as they knelt in thanks.) Then the Dog. She said she had no family left to watch over, starting a new life would be for the best.
The flame refused, saying they would leave town by morning, and try to stay safe.
And so, Nightmare left the town with four new party members. Each had been provided a horse, each tied to one of the guards. Aside from Killer, whose steed was held personally by Nightmare.
He figured Ccino would chew him out for this, for bringing criminals into the castle when he was sent to collect soldiers, but Nightmare had a good feeling about these ones.
They did not hate him. Or fear him. He was helping them. And it felt good.
#hoping this posts. i put it into drafts first...#new age au#Night is a little poorly written here. but I promise it's intentional.#i love making the narration feel just as displaced as the character it's followinh#also. might write smth for Killer's pov of this because I can promise you#90% of it is “this loser has no clue what the fuck he”#'s doing“#in a mix of awe and amusement#and he 100% started with ulterior motives and ended up having a change of heart because of the whole#him sensing vaguely that Night was a weird paranoid kid still#OH#and that odd bit in the middle where Night is doing stuff isn't fleshed out very well#but it's meant to be a show of Night making sure his presence is known + gauging how people react to him being perfectly normal#and more importantly#he lost track of his plans. he's actually not supposed to be doing that. he's still a kid and he wanted to explore!#mm#okay#one more note#Nightmare takes those people back with him right? his castle staff is like 20% people from before and 80% people he freed from#unlawful situations or took in when they had nothing#the public sees it as him taking in shifty#evil criminals. but really? these people look up to nightmare because they were at their lowest and now have stable lives + homes and even#families sometimes#it's just cool#inside the castle is a lot safer than outside#even tho Ccino is still the only one who prepares Night's meals I think a good hunk of the staff would maul anyone they found w/ poison in a#mile radius of the kitchen.#raughhhh#okay fr last thing#I love Killer :] Him being the first is so important to me and I think he deserves the happiness ever
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catocappuccino · 6 months ago
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A pointless tumblr post titled
"Assigning furby colours (specifically 1st gen) to Murder Drones characters without giving any explaination for my choices" part 1
Uzi - juicy grape
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N - labrador
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V - banana peel
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J - bumblebee
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Cyn - angel
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🔥🔥🔥If you enjoyed this post leave a like and follow for more PEAK content like this🔥🔥🔥
/j
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tsukasalover · 2 months ago
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I can think of a lot of reasons why I like and have gotten attached to tsukasa more than any other fictional character and i think if i had to keep it simple (or else id be rambling for hours) id say
1. He’s so interesting. I usually pick up the extremely mischaracterized blonde characters anyways but he gets my brain working real hard. its almost 2am and i cant think straight but theres something about his duality that keeps me glued to him and the amount of Layers he has and how removing even one layer or completely ignoring how both his huge ego and kindness + selflessness coexist can really mess up your perception of him. There was something quite short i wrote about how both sides make him. Well. Him. back when his colofes dropped since i was so annoyed at the people Not getting it (while most never even read the STORIES 😁) anf ive been screaming this for a year now Please. Also the way his dream and being a good big brother go hand in hand have captured me. I really like fictional siblings and they fill something personal i miss and Looove looking at the roots of characters. Discovering where this and that and connecting events to what started their behaviors or helped their personality bloom. So seeing saki and toya play such an important role in his life keeps me HOOOKEDDD. I took the bait like tiny fish. Dont regret it. Never will. I like my fictional characters like layered cake. Thats basically how i see them. I had a yummy chocolate cake with so mant layers the other day 🤤 but anyways. I also really like when characters have to learn and grow as people after making really bad mistakes or being straight up assholes so it really took a while even after mainstory but once i got to see more of him with saki and read dazzling i was like. This is the guyyy. Youre mine now lets go. I dont like perfect characters but.. you see.. when characters who have (sometimes way too much) confidence and are dramatic yet are shown to truly be good people who enjoy making others happy… alright.. now im listening… Sign me up…
But really he has almost everything I’ve ever looked for in a character. Starting with the fact that he’s a theatre kid. And blonde. Of course emu nene and rui + more fictional characters have made their way into my heart and ive gotten attached to them on very Very personal levels but when it comes to this Idiot who wants to be a star and reminds me of a dog its something that i dont even know how to explain sometimes. Why is he here? What are you doing inside of my head. Ill never have one solid answer because he takes up too much space in my mind and i become incoherent too often when talking about him.
2. Ignoring my first answer, He is ugly. My favorite punching bag. Cartoon character. Begins floating when he smells pie. I dont know anymore
3. he just like me fr (Which is terrible i dont like that)
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sukugo · 3 months ago
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everytime sukugo gets called a crack ship i suffer +10 damage
#f.txt#it's not about the ship or anything#it's more just. they be calling anything a crack ship these days huh#djdfhskdsffgs#like with skg they did used to be a rarepair but arent anymore#but they were never a Crack ship. it's a ship that has made sense since the begginning. (ok maybe i MIGHT be a biased fdjfdfg)#but!!!!! they had 2 interactions!!! two!!!!! for a crack ship u need a minimum requirement of 0 canon interactions#even THEN. u might not necessarily call it a crack ship#i think it maybe has to do with how fandom has gotten much larger and the Big Ships are so much more omnipresent in any fandom#so maybe that skews people's perceptions of other ships? like. any smaller ships gets totally overshadowed.#or maybe it's just confusing the term with rarepair#but i mean i have seen people be so confused when presented with skg and finding it slightly bizarre#and before i would have kinda gotten it . but now after the fight. im like......did u NOT see all that.#a lot of people seem to not venture into ships outside the 'main' ones#and take them as canon to a certain degree ?#('why would u ship X with Y if Z is right there')#idk#it's interesting#maybe related to the mainstreaming of fandom#?#just thoughts honestly#tho i feel the same about rarepairs tbh dsfjsdfds#i feel like the idea of a rarepair has also gotten skewed#where some big ships (in my opinion) are also getting called rarepairs#had this drafted from a while back. but i saw skg being called a crack ship again and remembered it#anyways. i will reiterate......ppl really be calling anything a crack ship these days#dhsfjdhjdghjfffddfhhfd#it just makes me feel....old(?) idk fjdhfjshgjs more kinda like a purist all NO!!!!!!!! wrong use of the word!!!!!!!!#but let's be honest ppl have always been like that. 'there's X!! why ship Y!!!!!'#basically. conclusion. fandom gettin so big intimidates me fhdjdfghjdfhjdfhfsdfgg
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