#looked up a tutorial for the clouds

[affluent-havoc]

here's what the og sketch was

also tried a more weathered and discolored version for fun. ah, blending modes my friends! ^v^

[dazzelmethat]

various sketches and drafts and things. Uploading so I don't loose track of the sketches.

top two: oc Pierrot Ren, ocs Irises falling. Bottom two: oc immortal true form idea, Alice and Celia from Deemo fanart.

[lelianaslefthand]

my steam friends watching me open oblivion 10 times in the span of 15 minutes bc im checking mods

[kxsagi]

hihihi~!

i really love your work and had a request to see if it was possible!

what’s your thoughts on bllk men if they were a girl dad? of course, they would be aged up. do you think they’ll do awesome or completely struggle with their daughter?

i just love girl dads, they’re so cute. i love bllk, too. so, why not put them together? <3

if you can do that, you’ll make my day!

“𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐫𝐚”

a/n: hi, this idea is so wholesome, i love the fluff!!!

i absolutely live for the daughter effect

(art credits go to kisa0813 on X)

ft. isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, barou shoei, mikage reo, kaiser michael

isagi yoichi – “will try his absolute best but is also stressed 24/7”

reads every parenting blog and book he can get his hands on like it’s soccer film. 

cries the first time she says “dada.” 

overly worried about her crawling near anything mildly dangerous. “is that corner too sharp?? is the floor too hard???”

can braid hair decently now, but he watches a tutorial every time. 

tried to play soccer with her once. she picked flowers instead. he proudly kept them in his wallet for weeks. 

dad rating: 8/10 (competent, but emotionally overwhelmed).

nagi seishiro – “lady dad turned ultimate softie”

thought being a dad would be too much work… until she fell asleep on his chest once. now she has him wrapped around her teeny tiny pinky. 

lets her paint his nails. also lets her put stickers on his face. doesn’t flinch. 

he carries her on his shoulders all the time. even when she’s like 9. 

naps together = sacred bonding time (his love language as well). 

doesn’t know how to say no, so his daughter gets whatever she wants. 

dad rating: 10/10 (shockingly incredible and a natural, chillest girl dad on the planet).

bachira meguru – “chaotic good dad”

teaches her how to climb trees and paint murals on the walls (with washable paint… sometimes). 

she has glitter in her hair and so does he. always. 

they make up silly dances in the living room. matching pajamas. karaoke battles. 

lives for being called “her favorite person.” 

tells her monsters aren’t scary because she’s scarier, and she believes it. 

dad rating: 11/10 (she’s a menace just like him and they’re thriving).

itoshi rin – “emotionally constipated but trying so hard”

very awkward at first. holds her like she might explode. 

eventually becomes her quiet protector. she doesn’t need words when he’s around. 

learns to tie pigtails with surgical precision. might not talk much, but he’s very present. 

when she gets older and gets her heart broken, he will hunt the boy down. 

secretly lets her paint his nails black. she says he looks “cooler” that way. 

dad rating: 7/10 (emotionally struggling, but loves her more than anything). 

itoshi sae – “cool dad but unbothered until she calls him out”

acts chill, but his daughter has him clocked. “you act like you don’t care, but you bought me five outfits for one field trip, dad.” 

drives her to school with sunglasses on. she still holds his pinky. 

always says “no” to tea parties… until she calls him “sir sae of the pink palace.” then he pulls up in a crown. 

gives subtle but powerful advice. “you’re already better than anyone who doubts you.” 

dad rating: 9/10 (low effort, high impact. she’s his favorite person but he’ll never admit it out loud).

barou shoei – “terrifying to everyone but her”

she has a bow in her hair and he has matching scrunchies on his wrist. he pretends he doesn’t like it. 

yells at anyone who makes her cry. teachers. kids. possibly clouds. 

makes her eat vegetables. makes them look like her favorite animals first. 

draws a lion on every lunchbox note. sometimes it says “roar today” in all caps. 

once attended a ballet recital in a full suit. cried when she did a spin. 

dad rating: 10/10 (terrifying dad, softest girl protector ever).

mikage reo – “spoils her endlessly and unapologetically”

designer baby clothes. baby yoga. a mini sports car she doesn’t even know how to drive. 

makes flashcards to teach her 3 languages before age 4. 

will throw her a birthday party that costs more than a wedding. 

but if she says she’d rather have a picnic with him? he’s packing snacks in 2 seconds. 

wants her to know she can do anything, even if it means letting her “do his makeup” for 2 hours straight. 

dad rating: 9/10 (rich, extra, but devoted as hell).

kaiser michael – “wants to win best dad award… but needs help”

overly confident at first. “this’ll be easy, i’m amazing with kids.” drops the pacifier on the first try. 

secretly has parenting books hidden in his bathroom. will never admit he cried at a lullaby. 

tries to teach her german before she can even talk. 

his daughter tells him to stop showing off when they’re at the park. 

gets offended when she says “mommy’s stronger.” 

dad rating: 6.5/10 (trying his best, needs some humbling. but he does love her to pieces). 

© ����𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[rfyu]

you catch sight of him again at the bus terminal - that cute boy from your tutorial last year who you’d almost been foolish enough to think you had a chance with. that was until you’d realised takashi mitsuya was just that nice to everyone - the soft smiles that crinkled up the corners of his pretty eyes, the quiet concern, the witty conversation.

devastating. 

humiliating, even.

the whole day so far has felt like it’s been leading up to something, and you guess this is it. it’s nearing the turning of the seasons, so the sky is heavy and the air thick with the promise of an oncoming storm. the cold metal of the bench brands ice against the back of your legs as you’re pushed into it by the masses of people waiting for their buses - late, as usual - your view entirely blocked by heads and backs and tote bags. so it almost feels like fate - the way the wind picks up, the crowd momentarily shifts, and your eyes land on him. 

your first thought is, damn, he looks exactly the same. all things considering, it’s not the most intelligent thought given it’s only been seven or so months since your breakup - nota bene, the submission of the group project - but he does have a tendency to reduce your neurological function to near-zero levels. and it’s not like you haven’t seen him in the months between; you’ve faithfully watched his stories with a carefully calculated timing that conveys the utmost nonchalance. and though you now know far too much about the food he likes, his design wips, his friends, cats, and motorcycle (a suzuki gsx400fs currently in for repair), you’ve never worked up the courage to text him, to the dismay of your friends who’ve faithfully put in hours of unpaid labour brainstorming the perfect opening lines with you.

but there’s something different about finally seeing him in person again. cameras really don’t do him justice - they don’t capture the way he holds himself with easy confidence, the elegant messiness of his silver-lilac hair in the wind, the calm set of his pale grey-violet eyes. the way he’s always so well put together, in clothes and action and speech. the silhouette of his sharply cut coat, the light glinting off his earring, the way the clouds seem to part and sunlight forms a crown on his head as a choir of angels descend.

bad. this is really bad, because you’re still down bad, and he’s beautiful in the way the moon is - addictive, dominating your sky, impossible to take your eyes off…

at least, that’s until he senses your gaze on him and glances in your direction. you look away so fast you hear something in your neck crack, feigning a casualness you don’t feel at all. 

this is fine.

you’re panicking; heat’s rushing to your face despite the biting cold. you can’t help it - you peek back at him, just for a second, and lord up above but he’s still looking at you. and then he gives you his perfect smile, the soft one with the crinkled eyes and the little tilt of his head, and you have never been more grateful to see your bus pull up in your entire life as the crowd surges forward and cuts off the tenuous connection your extended eye contact had formed between you.

there’s still a few empty rows near the back of the bus that you make a beeline for, slipping into the seat closest to the window and pulling your bag onto your lap. there’s music playing, just barely loud enough to hear over the rumbling of the engine.

if you like piña coladas / and gettin’ caught in the rain …

you’re lucky you got to sit down; at the rate people are pouring through the doors, there’s going to be a lot of people left standing, and is that takashi mitsuya? getting onto your bus, gaze searching for empty seats, gaze finding you? 

it’s disgraceful how unabashedly you suddenly wish that he’ll take the empty spot next to you as he weaves his way in your direction, your entire body tingling with anticipation - but as he moves towards you and then decidedly past you, you mournfully conclude that’s too much to hope for. at the end of the day, you really don’t know each other that well. he probably doesn’t even remember your name.

the thought makes you a lot sadder than it should.

why’s he on this bus? where does he even live? you’ve never thought about it (lie, you have, you’re just not good enough at stalking to find out - though you assumed it was the student accommodations), but surely he doesn’t take this route. surely he doesn’t need to go to the same station as you. surely there’s not another part of your lives that overlap.

it’s only once the bus starts moving and you rest your head on the rattling window pane that you realise he’s sitting right behind you. after some adjusting - with your chin in your hand and your gaze on the gathering darkness outside - you can clearly make out his reflection in the cool glass if you turn your head the slightest bit. 

how does he manage to look so beautiful in a bus window? and at an ordinarily unflattering angle, too? how insane are you for putting this much effort into catching another glimpse of him? (you’ve probably broken the scale of measurement.) but there’s just something about him that makes you weak - that makes your heart flutter and your knees wobble - that makes you stoop down to levels you have never gone to before. 

takashi fricking mitsuya will be the death of you. 

the bus jerks to a stop, banging your forehead against the window hard enough to leave a bruise and unequivocally bringing an end to your humiliating, down-bad behaviours.

that's it. you’re going to suck it up. you’re going to lock in. you’re not going to pine after a boy who you spent two entire tutorials working with, who doesn’t even remember your—

“sorry, do you mind if i sit here?”

you turn, and the bus accelerates in tandem with your heartbeat. 

i’m the love that you’ve looked for / write to me and escape…

“it’s just my other seat’s directly under the air con,” takashi-fricking-mitsuya says pleasantly, “and it’s already cold enough in here.”

your mouth moves automatically before your brain does, giving you a few extra seconds to catch up. “oh, yeah, of course, no worries.”

perfect delivery. chill, friendly. you should turn off your brain more often.

what the hell.

he drops into the seat beside you with far more elegance than any single person should possess. “yn, right? i remember you from last year.”

“yup, yeah, i - remember you as well.”

as if you could forget him. the seats are small; you can feel the warmth of his body, mere inches away from yours. he’s not crazy tall but his legs look insanely long, even folded up - at least next to yours. you need to say something more.

“um, that was a pretty good unit.”

good. great work. you formed a passable sentence. 

he does his smile again, eyes crinkling. “yeah, definitely. you can really feel the difference when the chief coordinator actually wants to be there - there’s so much more thought that goes into its organisation.”

you find yourself smiling back, an automatic reaction whenever you’re around him. “though the first assignment really shouldn’t have been a hurdle.”

“i didn’t mind that so much as the fact it was a quarter of the grade.”

“that’s the thing with humanities units,” you shrug. “you get fewer assignments, but they have much higher weightings. it’s a lot more spread out in science.”

“i’d much rather make one good video essay than have to memorise - i dunno, layers of the stomach - and have to submit five different things every week.”

“shall we agree to disagree, then?” 

“you probably enjoyed memorising the layers of the stomach,” he accuses.

you laugh. “there’s only four, so it’s really not that bad.”

“what’s your major, anyway?” he asks, tilting his head at you; a lock of hair falls into his eyes. “was last year’s unit your elective?”

you’re doing physiology; he’s doing fashion designing. the conversation continues from there - straying from uni, to interests, to a story about one of his childhood friends involving a near-stolen bike and a case of mistaken identity that’s got you cracking up till you can’t breathe. and to your surprise, it’s all so easy. you’d forgotten how well you get along with him. you almost feel stupid for not reaching out earlier, but as usual, you’d gotten too caught up in your head about it all. takashi-fricking-mitsuya, you realise now, would be a great friend.

there’s so much traffic that it’s another forty-five minutes before the bus finally pulls into the station. you grimace as the doors open, sending a biting blast of cold air and sprinkling rain into your face.

“can we just stay here?”

“you want to loop all the way down to the sea?”

it’s enough motivation for you to grudgingly struggle to your feet and swing your bag over your shoulder, body complaining after having been cramped up for so long. you follow takashi across the platform to the steps leading down to a tunnel that cuts across underneath the railway. he’s walking way too fast; it’s his long ass legs, you’re sure of it. it’s raining lightly outside, but the wind rakes the water across your face like shards of ice no matter which way you bow your head.

“you good?”

he’s slowed down to let you catch up - no, he’s walked back to you - despite the buffeting of the wind and the murderous droplets of water. oh, takashi. even though you’re supposedly now ‘chill’ and ‘just friends’, your stomach still does a little pirouette.

“i’m good,” you grumble. “just this weather.”

he hums in agreement, walking decidedly slower beside you as you pick your way through the crowd and down the slippery steps to the tunnel. you both breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief as you get out of the rain, brushing off the droplets from your clothes. there’s no opportunity for conversation in the crowded space but you stick close together anyway. you’re half expecting him to turn onto another corridor that leads up towards the train, but he doesn’t.

guess we’re both taking a bus again.

most people have cleared off to the trains by the time you struggle the short distance to the end of the tunnel. you take in the set of stairs soaked in rain, the biting air, and the puddles on the winding pathway up towards the road. 

“well, this is great,” you say. your shoes are going to get soaked.

and then it starts bucketing.

out of nowhere, the skies open up, and rain comes tumbling down like the sky’s reuniting with the earth as a long-lost lover. it’s deafening, and so thick you can barely see through it.

takashi elegantly strings together a set of curse words you’ve never heard in that particular order before. “why did you jinx it?”

“i did not!”

“you don’t happen to have an umbrella, do you?”

you roll your eyes. “no, i’ve just been subjecting myself to this for fun.”

“i dunno - some people enjoy that.”

“you seem to think very lowly of me.”

(“i don’t,” he says quietly.)

you eye the curtain of water plummeting from the heavens. it eyes you back. there’s nothing to it.

“well, i guess we’re just gonna have to go for it,” you say, inhaling sharply.

“huh? no, wait—”

you sprint out from under cover, and the rain hits you like a bucket of ice, instantly sticking your shirt to your skin and chilling you to the bone in a way that snatches the breath from your lungs. you tuck your chin to your chest and power up the stairs, limbs trembling. oh my god, i hate this. i’m gonna get sick. i’m literally going to die.

“wait, wait, wait—” takashi calls from behind you, yelling over the rain, and of all things he’s laughing as he catches up to you - and then suddenly the rain stops.

you look up and halt abruptly, your heart missing several beats. takashi’s shrugged his jacket off and is holding it above your heads; water streams off his hair, down his face and the contours of his body, where his white shirt has obligingly turned transparent and clings to the muscles of his torso. 

“i got you,” he says, voice low next to your ear.

his presence, his proximity, his body heat. you’re going insane. you’re going feral, blood rushing through your head and joining the thundering of the rain. thebonly ‘chill’ thing about this is the weather because it feels like the entirety of your body is alight, drowning in fire, and you have never felt so un-chill about something in your life. every nerve ending, every cell, every atom. you’re poised to implode.

“let’s run,” he offers, and you do.

you don’t know what sets you off - maybe it’s the image of how you must look, him holding the coat above your heads, you with your face scrunched up, heads bowed against the rain as you sprint up the slope - but once you start laughing, neither of you can stop, even when you reach the shelter of the bus stop. you collapse into the side of the stop, struggling to catch your breath. 

“it’s really not that funny,” he gasps.

“it kinda is,” you return - but your laughter dissolves fairly rapidly into coughs as the wind suddenly picks up with a passion. you shiver, arms uselessly wrapping around yourself in an attempt to save your dignity (wet, clinging shirt) and possibly your life (freezing to death).

takashi’s positioned between you and the wind - not by design, you’re sure - but it’s not helping much either way. you shudder again and hunch forward, a stray gust blowing rain into your face. as you blink the water from your eyes, you feel a heavy weight drape over your shoulders.

“takashi, i’m fine—”

“you’re obviously not, so just - don’t,” he says amusedly as he pulls his coat tighter around you, and you try not to think about his hands on you, or the way his scent and warmth envelops you.

he’s focused on adjusting the collar around your neck with careful precision, so you have ample time to study the droplets clinging to his eyelashes, the locks of wet hair falling into his eyes, his flushed cheekbones, the slope of his nose and jut of his chin, his lips—

“when’s the next bus?” you blurt, tearing your gaze away. get it together.

he glances up over your shoulder, leaning forward a bit. “um. twelve minutes.”

“what?” you say, hoping you misheard over the rain. 

“twelve minutes.”

oh, good lord.

“i’m going to die,” you say, horrified. “i can’t survive another twelve minutes in this.”

“doesn’t look like we have a choice,” he says grimly.

there’s a moment of quiet dismay. 

“well!” he says, with an attempt at cheeriness. “since we’re captive here, i might as well bounce off a couple of ideas for that project with you, if you don’t mind.” 

“i’d love that,” you say miserably. 

luckily for you, it’s genuinely interesting. takashi’s not the type to stay silent about things that matter to him - something you were quick to realise after working with him last year - and that extends to what he creates. his current project’s focused on sharp cuts, statement pieces, and blaring, accusing colours - red, green, black, white. 

“political fashion,” he tells you. “clothes that really say something.”

unfortunately for takashi, his professors aren’t too pleased with what he does have to say, and he’s ruffled more than a few feathers in his department. characteristically, it only spurs him on to do more. say more. go bigger. he's sweet, but he doesn't take things lying down either. 

“to be honest, i don't even know if they'll let me submit this one,” he says frankly. “but i'm gonna make a fuss either way.”

it certainly helps that he’s a genius with fabrics and cuts and shape language, and after some convincing, he shows you a few of his finished pieces on his phone as you huddle together, unsuccessfully shielding the screen from the rain. 

“you’re going to go big,” you tell him. “you've already won a few competitions, right? it's only a matter of time before people take notice.”

“i hope so,” he says. “i'm definitely going to do my best.”

you don't doubt him for a second. 

the white noise of rain fills the brief silence between you as another load of people trickle in to join you underneath the meagre protection of the shelter. takashi opens his mouth, closes it; considers you for a moment, head tilted, and then the words rush out.

“y'know, i really think you should model for me sometime.”

“oh, of course,” you say sarcastically, laughing it off, until he holds your gaze for a moment and you realise he’s being serious. dead serious. you've never backtracked so fast in your life. “oh, no, i don't think i'll look good in—”

the words spill out of his mouth, one after the other. “that's literally my job. and you'd probably look good in a trash bag so there's nothing to worry about. i have to work on my fashion photography anyway. might as well be with someone pretty.”

your heart stutters, stops, restarts. you must’ve misheard him over the rain - not one, but two compliments.

“what was - huh?”

his ears are flushed, probably from the cold. “i said, might as well be with someone who works pretty good with me.”

“oh. yeah. i’ll consider it.”

you really shouldn’t be getting your hopes up this easily. pretty? really? (though he undeniably did say you'd look good in a trash bag. surely he was just being polite.)

the rain’s lessened a bit over the course of your conversation, but it decides to pick up again with a vengeance, as if it's got something to prove. you've never been out in weather like this. there's no build up; it's coming down so hard and fast that the road in front of you, completely devoid of the bus that should be here soon, starts looking more like a river. the wind buffets the rain along the surface of the asphalt in wild patterns. 

“this is insane,” takashi yells through the downpour.

you pull a face at him in agreement due to lack of faith in your vocal projection skills, feeling goosebumps settle over your skin despite the weight of takashi's jacket over your shoulders. perhaps you should put your arms through it, but that feels a little pretentious, like you’re taking ownership of it. that’s girlfriend behaviour - something, horrifyingly, you’re not.

the train's arrived and a steady stream of people are adding to the crowd already under the shelter, shaking out their umbrellas uselessly amidst muttered curses. you're not usually fazed this easily - but what with the lurking anxiety of the many minutes left for the bus to arrive, the horrific weather, and the crowd inexplicably crushing you, you're slowly losing it. takashi mouths an apology as someone shoulders past and shoves him backwards, his side knocking into your chest, your back hitting the cold glass of the shelter.

his body. solid against yours. for a moment you're sure you've never felt so warm in your life. but the brief giddiness that courses through you is wholly overshadowed by the tight space you've been cornered into, by no fault of takashi's. the frigid air freezes your airways as you struggle to heave in another breath. it's suffocating. agonising. you need oxygen. 

and then takashi's arm lifts up to rest on the glass above your head, forcibly creating a small bubble of space around you, his body acting as a wall against the rush of people. he's got a small tattoo on his hand. a rose and stem. your eyes follow the neatly inked lines before they disappear out of your line of vision.

you exhale. 

“you okay?” 

when you look up at him you realise your faces are mere inches apart.

you can feel his breath fanning on your face, the warmth radiating from his body, count each droplet of rain on his eyelashes. he seems to realise it at the same moment you do, eyes darting up to yours, but for some reason neither of you move.

step away, you think, but he doesn’t. and you don't. like a strange magnetism is holding you in place, gluing his eyes to yours like he can’t look away either. every nerve ending in your body is firing, locking your knees; you're trembling. that stupid song's rotating just one verse around and around in your head—

and gettin' caught in the rain

you're sure he can hear your heartbeat even over the rain with the way it's thundering in your ears. his body frames yours against the shelter, trails of water dripping from his hair to trace his face, from the rise of his brow to the curve of his cheek to his lips, slightly parted as his breath comes out in uneven puffs—

don't goddamn look at his lips, idiot, but your brain's caught up a moment too late. your face burns as you wrench your gaze back up to his eyes. surely he didn't notice, right? but the look on his face steals the air from your lungs all over again. his pupils are dilated; eyes wide, uncertain as they hold yours, flickering, wanting, but even so it feels inevitable when his gaze unmistakably drops to your lips. oh, god help me. it's taking every ounce of self control to not surge forward and close the gap between you and jump his bones, but it feels like you're barrelling towards that anyway. his face and neck are flushed, eyes hooded. the space between you has shrunk even further; your lips part, his head tilts, your lashes flutter, and the bus pulls up at the stop in a shower of puddles.

“oh,” you say stupidly. “the bus.”

“yeah. the bus.” 

it’s a small comfort that he seems even more dazed than you. he’s just - standing there. in the middle of a late summer storm. staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world. and it’s flattering and your heart is still galloping in your chest and once you get home you’re going to half-believe you hallucinated this entire thing (because there is no fricking way you nearly kissed takashi fricking mitsuya in the rain - what is this, a romcom?) but you really do need to actually get home in the first place.

“i should—”

“the bus,” he says again, and comes to his senses enough to move backwards a little - to drop his arm from above your head and twist his torso away, giving you as much space as he can. “you should get on the bus.”

“i will. i am.” you’re focused on maintaining basic dignity as your arm presses firmly against the warmth of his chest in your attempt to squeeze past him. you’re getting on the bus, and then you’re crashing out. 

you blame the delay on your takashi-induced brain freeze, but it’s only once you’re free of the crowd and one step away from boarding the bus that you realise what’s wrong - he’s not behind you.

you twist around, coat swinging on your shoulders. “you coming?”

“oh, no, i’m taking the train to a friend’s house,” he calls back. you open your mouth to protest but he’s already adding, “the next one’s in two minutes; i’ll be okay.”

he’s taking the train. he’s taking the train? so he was waiting with you this whole time just for you? he chose to be outside in this ghastly weather when he could’ve been halfway home by now?

“any reason why yer floodin’ my bus?” the bus driver barks irritably, and you register the unfortunate fact that you’ve been standing stock still in the doorway like a fool as the rain washes rivlets of mud down the steps around your sodden shoes.

takashi looks a bit too amused as you blunder out an apology and stumble onto the bus, head entirely muddled. there’s barely standing space left, let alone any seats, so you’re resigned to being suffocated between a crush of drenched and irritated people. and it’s only after the bus pulls out of the station - after takashi gives you a smile goodbye before ducking back out into the rain again - after you twist your head to watch his figure receding into the distance until he’s inevitably blocked from your view - that you realise his coat still hangs from your shoulders.

[instagram: (4) messages from mitsuya_tkshi]

takashi :) (19:14) home yet? (19:14) warm? (19:14) dry? (19:14) alive?

you (19:22) what level of double texting is this

takashi :)  (19:22) using simple arithmetic id say prob lvl 2

you you reacted :thumbs-down: to ‘using simple arithmeti…’  (19:23) i got home 10 mins ago, hby?

takashi :)  (19:23) still in train 😟

you  (19:23) free u omg  (19:24) also i just realised i still have ur coat im so sorry i didnt give it back 😭 completely slipped my mind (19:24) i was a bit all over the place

takashi :)  (19:24) dw, me too (19:26) i’ll be on campus tmrw we can get lunch too ☺️

you  (19:30) sounds good!

takashi :) (19:32) !!!!!

you  (19:32) !!!!!!!!!!!!!

takashi :) (19:32) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!@#$z5ty

you (19:32) ???

takashi :) (19:33) ?? who knows. (19:34) see u tmrw then :))  (19:34) and u can get back to me about the modelling too if you’ve thought abt it 

you  (19:35) oh nah there’s not much to think about, i’d love to

takashi :)  (19:35) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

you  (19:35) stop. (19:35) (!!!!!!!!!!!!) 

you stare at the screen for a few moments longer until it becomes clear that the conversation’s over, at least for now. you need a hot shower, and you really need to lock in on a lab report, but there’s only one thing on your mind right now. you put down your phone, bury your face in your hands, and - finally - crash out.

takashi fricking mitsuya might certainly be nice to everyone, but something tells you that a near-kiss in the rain is probably a bit more than just friendly - and not only that, but rather than ignoring you for the rest of the semester, he actually wants to see you tomorrow?

maybe you’re not insane. maybe you weren’t hallucinating. maybe you weren’t reading into things.

maybe you do have a chance.

i've got to meet you by tomorrow noon / and cut through all this red tape / [...] you're the lady i've looked for / come with me and escape

in my head they're very chill at lunch very nonchalant the whole jazz, but things get a lil, y'know, when he offers to show you what you'll be modelling for him...

based entirely on very real occurrences in my life

general taglist open - leave a comment or ask !! @revyuu @fushiguruuzzzz

© rfyu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work into ai.

[jasperxkuromi]

Play ideas for chronically ill, disabled, or otherwise bed bound/low energy littles

Hi all! I am chronically ill. I am not comfortable sharing my specific diagnosis, but I am more than okay with talking about disability in general. Everything below is based on my own personal experiences and activities I like to do while stuck in bed. Everyone's body and experiences are different. I may list some things that just aren't an option for you, and that's okay. You are more than welcome to add on to this post with activities you do too!

🐛 Open the curtains and cloud watch! I like to look for clouds that remind me of animals or characters and day dream a story about them. If the weather is nice, consider opening your window a little bit and letting some fresh air into your room.

🐦 Bird watch! I have a bird feeder outside my window that I painted myself from a kid's kit. There are also bird feeders that have suction cups that can be stuck right on your window. You can also make your own seed ornaments. You could pick yourself up a kids book or two on learning to identify birds.

🌷 Get a window planter. You may need someone's help to set one up, but once they are in place they are fairly easy to care for. I like pansies and marigolds because they remind me of childhood, and they are low maintenance and do well in containers.

📖 Audiobooks are great for middles who want to read chapter books. If you have a library card you can borrow tons of audiobook, ebooks, and comics through hoopla and Libby for free. There are some audiobooks for younger kiddo books, but honestly I think YouTube is better for that.

🖼️ Scrapbooks and journals! Being penpals with another little is also an option, but I do recommend using basic internet safety and common sense. (I don't think you should do this if you are under 18). You could always scan/take pictures of your letter and send it digitally to your penpal instead.

🛏️ If you spend a lot of time in bed, and have the money to do so, I really recommend getting items to make your time in bed more comfortable. Extra pillows, or even a reading pillow can be helpful. Lap desks or bed tables can give you space to color or set up play scenes with small toys.

🌟 You can also decorate the area around your bed to make it more child like! Fairy lights, glow in the dark stars, bed canopies, posters, and the like.

🪑 I have a floor chair I use for times I am playing outside of my bed. Being close to the floor helps me feel small, but not having back support hurts after a short while. I have an adjustable one that I can lay flat on the floor as a sleeping mat. Very helpful for the times when I need a quick nap after playtime.

🎨 Check the seasonal and kids sections at dollar stores and Five Below. I usually find fun craft kits that can keep me occupied for a bit for really cheap.

🧶 Do your own crafts! I like the knit and crochet. Some people can do them in bed, but I find it difficult to find a comfortable way to do that. However making friendship bracelets in bed works out pretty well. They make great gifts, even for non little friends. Or you could make matching ones for you and your CG or favorite plushie!

🪀 Make your own sensory bin! You can find tons of tutorials and ideas online. Bonus is you can get most of the items you would use at the dollar store. There are tons of other DIY sensory toys you can make as well if you look around. Glitter/shaker bottles are pretty popular too.

🐇 Cuddle with your stuffed animals. Tell them stories. Play pretend. Read to them. They will appreciate all of it.

🎮 If you have an old 3DS stuffed away in a drawer somewhere, pull it back out. 3DS are fairly easy to install homebrew and there are toooons of kiddo friendly games you could get (check 3ds.hacks.guide for this, do not follow tutorials on YouTube or random websites as they very well could be outdated)

💊 Decorate your medicine organizers with stickers. If you use mobility aids you can decorate them as well! Fake flowers are great for decorating mobility aids and there are tons of ideas you can find online.

🍼 I have stomach problems that makes it hard for me to eat enough. I often drink Ensure to make sure I am getting enough calories/nutrients. I get the strawberry flavor and sometimes put it in my sippy cup and pretend it is strawberry milk 😋

😴 If you need rest, rest! You deserve to get as much sleep as your body needs. Babies and toddlers take naps all the time! Trying to just exist with chronic health issues is difficult enough. You don't need to push yourself.

[rhettabbotts]

shelby my darling! i’m so happy for you, congratulations! i would love a little somethin’ somethin’ with our beloved old man, dilf rhett, and this prompt from the age gap list: ❛ look at how well you take me. even though it's been so long. ❜ 🩵

fast times - dilf!rhett abbott x babysitter reader

18+ only. mdni. warning for slightly problematic age gap (15 years). face fucking. dirty talk. rhett is a dirty old man.

you nearly cried from relief as you hit ‘submit assignment’ on your last paper. ever. you were nearly a college graduate. four years of busting your ass, finally coming to an end. and for once, you were excited to go back home.

your school was far away, nearly seven hours from your family and friends. and it sucked. the last time you were home was christmas. the last time you saw rhett was new years.

the last time you felt his touch. his arms around you. his kisses.

long distance worked for you both but it was still difficult. you can only do so many facetime dates and phone sex before you start feeling a ping of longing and loneliness.

it was still a secret to your family. with rhett’s age and him being close with your father, you weren’t ready to give him up. or your family up. so it was just you and him. and his girls of course. they adored you. you watched them every summer you were home. grace begged you for show jumping lessons and ellie demanded on you showing her makeup tutorials. it was sweet.

the evening went on as you packed the last of your things into boxes and ate your processed mac and cheese for dinner. kraft should get an award for how much it helped you through the last four years.

you hadn’t heard from rhett all day, which was to be expected. calving season was in full swing and he was busy on his ranch wrangling ranch hands and two wild daughters. but still, you missed him.

the last bite of the pasta was making its way into your mouth when you heard a knock on your apartment door. slowly chewing the food, you set your bowl down on your oak coffee table and looked out the peep hole, nearly busting your face with the door as you threw it open and threw yourself into the arms of the man standing on the other side of it.

“hey, baby,” rhett’s marlboro laced voice rumbled into your hair, strong arms wrapping around your frame. “surprise.”

“what are you doing here?!” you squealed, not pulling back to allow any space between your bodies as he backed you through the open door, kicking it shut with his boot.

“figured i lend a hand and help you move back home. being a good friend of your dad’s and all,” he said, a lazy smirk on his lips. god, he looked delicious. his face had a pink shade to it, barely visible white lines from where his sunglasses typically rest across the bridge of his nose. the gray hairs that grew from his temples were nearly bleached white from the sun. the smattering of freckles on his cheeks. you wanted to fall to your knees.

and you did.

you pushed him back the few steps it took for him to be flush with the front door and fumbled with his obnoxious belt buckle, desperation clouding your last thought.

“needy little girl,” he murmured as his hands joined your own to pull his jeans down enough to expose his hardening cock. a small whimper escaped you as you wrapped your hand around the length through his boxers, his length growing beneath you with each stroke. “g’on. i know you want a taste.”

your mouth attached to his already leaking tip barely a second after his boxers were pulled down to his muscular thighs. his head slammed against the door as you suckled on the pink flesh, kitten licks to the slit. you missed teasing him like this. missed his taste. all musk and all rhett. you craved it.

it took several minutes of coaxing your throat to open for him but when he hit the back of your throat and your nose was nuzzled into the hair at the base of him, he moaned your name so loud you were sure your remaining neighbors heard.

“fuck, babygirl. just like that. missed that hot mouth. look at you,” his hand held the back of your head as you bobbed up and down on the length. you knew what he wanted and there was no denying you wanted it as well. your hand met his on your head and you pushed on a downstroke. that’s the only hint he needed.

his hands cradled both sides of your face as he started to slowly thrust his hips, causing you to gag slightly at the pressure.

“you know what to do if it’s too much. one tap for a break, two taps to stop.”

you just nodded, a trail of drool escaping the corners of your mouth. rhett’s eyes darkened and he entered another world. his hips began to piston against your face, cock going deep into your throat. he was all grunts and moans through gritted teeth as he used you for his pleasure.

“look at how well you take me. even though it's been so long. so fucking good for me. always good for me. best thing i’ve ever had,” rhett rambled, signaling he was close to his peak. it hit you both a bit unexpectedly. his warm release coated your throat and his hips stopped as your face was pressed against his soft stomach.

“fucking christ,” he heaved as you slowly pulled off the softening length. “never had a welcome like that before.”

rhett helped you up from the floor, noticing the wince that spread across your face from kneeling on the cold wooden floor.

“my turn.”

and you let out another squeal as he landed a heavy hand on your ass and nearly dragged you to your bedroom. all you can think is thank god the bed was still put together. and thank god you didn’t have to wait another second to be with your man.

[copperbadge]

I have a lot of feelings about the use of AI in Everything These Days, but they're not particularly strong feelings, like I've got other shit going on. That said, when I use a desktop computer, every single file I use in Google Drive now has a constant irritating popup on the right-hand side asking me how Gemini AI Can Help Me. You can't, Gemini. You are in the way. I'm not even mad there's an AI there, I'm mad there's a constantly recurring popup taking up space and attention on my screen.

Here's the problem, however: even Gemini doesn't know how to disable Gemini. I did my own research and then finally, with a deep appreciation of the irony of this, I asked it how to turn it off. It said in any google drive file go to Help > Gemini and there will be an option to turn it off. Guess what isn't a menu item under Help?

I've had a look around at web tutorials for removing or blocking it, but they are either out of date or for the Gemini personal assistant, which I already don't have, and thus cannot turn off. Gemini for Drive is an integrated "service" within Google Drive, which I guess means I'm going to have to look into moving off Google Drive.

So, does anyone have references for a service as seamless and accessible as Google Drive? I need document, spreadsheet, slideshow, and storage, but I don't have any fancy widgets installed or anything. I do technically own Microsoft Office so I suppose I could use that but I've never found its cloud function to actually, uh, function. I could use OneNote for documents if things get desperate but OneNote is very limited overall. I want to be able to open and edit files, including on an Android phone, and I'd prefer if I didn't have to receive a security code in my text messages every time I log in. I also will likely need to be able to give non-users access, but I suppose I could kludge that in Drive as long as I only have to deal with it short-term.

Any thoughts, friends? If I find a good functional replacement I'm happy to post about it once I've tested it.

Also, saying this because I love you guys but if I don't spell it out I will get a bunch of comments about it: If you yourself have managed to banish Gemini from your Drive account including from popping up in individual files, I'm interested! Please share. If you have not actually implemented a solution yourself, rest assured, anything you find I have already tried and it does not work.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

Summary: FUTUREDAD!ANAKIN x PREGNANT!READER

TW: none, fluff :3 Reminding everyone that today's the last day where you can send a request for BUNNYCEMBER

ANAKIN SKYWALKER was muttering under his breath, frustration evident on his face as he fought with the cake batter that just wouldn't stick. His brows furrowed, and his tongue poked out slightly as he concentrated, clearly on the verge of giving up. But he didn't, not for you.

You were everything to him—everything. And since he found out you were pregnant, he'd gone into full-on protective, spoiling, I-need-to-make-her-happy mode. Because you deserved all of it. So, he found himself baking a cake (with questionable results), trying to make mochi (disastrous), and even stirring noodles for your favorite Chinese dish. Whatever you craved, he’d try his best to fulfill it, even if it meant his cooking was... less than stellar.

Now he was cursing quietly at himself and the cake that refused to stick together with the ice cream. His brows furrowed in frustration, yet his focus never wavered. He was putting everything into it. For you.

"Shit, shit, shit... what the hell is that?" Anakin muttered under his breath, watching a tutorial on his phone. The woman on screen clearly wasn’t doing a good enough job, in his opinion.

Meanwhile, you, still a little hazy from your nap, sniffed the air. Something burned—something... off.

You blinked, disoriented, but the scent was enough to bring you to your feet. Stumbling down the stairs, you wondered if maybe you’d left something on the stove? No, that didn’t make sense. The last time you had cooked was weeks ago, thanks to Anakin’s insistence that you take it easy. So, what was going on?

You rounded the corner into the kitchen and, to your surprise, saw Anakin’s back, his strong frame clad in an apron. An apron. An apron, which was a rarity in your home, especially given his feelings toward cooking.

As you rounded the corner into the living room, you caught sight of Anakin’s back, clad in an apron. “Annie?” Your voice was hoarse from sleep, still sweet but laced with confusion. “What are you doing?”

He turned around at the sound of your voice, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well, I—” He paused, glancing at the tutorial still playing on his phone, then at the cloud of smoke escaping through the open windows. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

He let out a heavy sigh. “...making you happy.”

Your eyes scanned the kitchen. The burnt cake, flour scattered across the floor, and the flour that now decorated his cheek.

“...Oh.”

Anakin scratched the back of his neck, looking almost guilty. “Yeah, so, uh, I kinda.. sorta.. tried to bake you a cake, make that Chinese dish you’ve been craving so much, and I tried to make some mochi, but...” He trailed off, visibly embarrassed by the chaos he’d created.

You glanced at the mess once more—burnt cake, flour everywhere, a trail of noodles... it was chaotic, but it was also so-him-coded

You smiled, stepping forward, your tired eyes softening as you took in the sight of your husband standing there, all pouty and disheveled, like a lost puppy, trying so hard to make you happy. It made you adore him even more.

Raising yourself on your toes, you grabbed his shirt for balance and placed a gentle, loving kiss on his lips. “It’s perfect,” you whispered, your smile wide, meaning it with all your heart.

"You always say that," he murmured, his eyes flickering over the mess in the kitchen, then back to you. "I just... I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to do something nice."

You wiped the flour off his cheek “Well, you did surprise me, Ani.” your voice full of love "You do it every day."

"Not like this," He grumbled, running his fingers through his messy hair. “I was trying to be sweet for you. To make you happy and satisfied. Not to make you ‘aww’ because I suck at doing some things right.”

You cupped his face, bringing him closer. "Ani, most guys wouldn’t even help their pregnant wives. And you? You’re doing far more than just helping. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me."

Anakin’s face softened at your words - brows coming back to it's place, eyes flickering to reflect this sweet, sweet side of his. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before nuzzling into your neck - the favorite activity this man ever had. "Love you..." he murmured, voice muffled against your skin.

"Love you too," you whispered, your heart full of warmth as you held him close.

But then—

“A-Ani... the noodles!”

Anakin’s eyes widened, and in a flash, he rushed to the stove where the pot bubbled dangerously. “Shit!” He quickly turned off the burner. “How the hell did I forget about those...”

In his rush to save food, he grabbed the pot with his bare hands, immediately regretting his decision. He yelped as the hot metal seared against his skin. “Agh! F-fuck... shit...” His voice cracked with the pain as he quickly placed the pot in the sink, his palms stinging.

“God, are you okay?” concern lacing your voice.

“I’m fi-fine! Fucking fine...” He bit back another curse, holding his hands under the cold water, hissing at the burn. “Hhhgh... fuuuuck...”

After minutes of putting his hand in the cold water and bandaging the burn, you two stood in silence, calculating all the mess before he mumbled shortly "I’ll get better at this, I swear" which only brought a small smile on your lips

You shook your head gently "Oh, ani.."

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez

[wendichester]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ highway to heaven,

summary. if god created weed, it was to be experimented with. and who better to smoke your first joint with, than with an unexperienced angel?

pairing. castiel x reader genre. crack

wordcount. 653

notes / warnings. drug use (weed), strong language, and dumbassery of the highest order. no actual angels were harmed in the writing of this piece

You honestly don’t know how it starts. One minute, you’re talking about stress, the next, you’re in the bunker’s garage sitting cross-legged on the floor with Castiel, a tiny metal grinder in your lap and a suspiciously dusty joint tutorial video playing on your phone.

“This is... illegal in several states,” Cas says, frowning at the plastic bag you bought from a sketchy gas station two towns over.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “so is most of what we do. Plus, I googled. It’s legal here. Ish.”

Cas watches as you fumble with the grinder like it’s a cursed object. His brow furrows like the fate of humanity is now tied to this little herbal project. “Why are there so many steps?”

“Because the universe hates convenience,” you mutter, finally dumping the crushed flower into a paper and rolling it with the delicate precision of someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing.

It looks... passable. Lumpy, slightly bent, but a joint nonetheless.

“Are you sure this will relax us?” Cas asks, tilting his head like a confused labrador. “It smells like skunk. Evil skunk.”

“That’s part of the charm.” You hand him the lighter. “Here. You can have the honor.”

He squints at it like you just gave him a tiny bomb. “What is this?”

“Oh my God. It’s a lighter, Cas. You flick it.”

He flicks. Nothing happens.

You flick. A spark. “Okay, now suck in while I light it—no, not that fast, you’re gonna—yep. You coughed.”

Cas is hacking like a dying lawnmower, eyes wide, hand flailing at the smoke. “It’s burning me. Why would people enjoy this?!”

You’re already giggling. “Just give it a second.”

A minute later, the two of you are leaned back against a dusty tire rack, joint passed back and forth like some kind of sacrament. The high hits fast, like a slap wrapped in glitter. The world gets a little floaty. Your limbs stop belonging to you. You feel your own smile stretch across your face and it won’t go away.

“I feel... untethered,” Cas whispers, looking at his hands like they’re the secret to the universe. “Am I still in my vessel? Or did I shed it like a snake?”

You wheeze. “You’re not a snake, Cas.”

He touches his face. “Then why do I feel scaly?”

You double over with laughter. “You’re just high, dude.”

“This is high?” He looks around dramatically. “Then where are the clouds? Shouldn’t there be clouds? Or birds? I want to talk to a bird.”

“You can talk to birds,” you say, sobering for half a second. “You’re an angel.”

“Exactly. So where are they?”

You try to stand but forget how knees work and end up just sort of... hovering over Cas like a melting starfish. “Oh my God. We forgot the snacks. What are we doing without snacks? This is a crime.”

“Is this part of Hell?” Cas asks, blinking at the ceiling.

“No, Hell has vending machines that steal your quarters. This is worse.”

The door creaks open behind you. You both freeze like raccoons caught in a trash can.

Dean pokes his head in. Stares.

You’re 85% sure your pupils are the size of Jupiter.

He sighs. “I told Sam they’d hotbox the garage.”

Cas perks up. “Dean! Did you know clouds are not sentient but should be?”

Dean doesn’t blink. “Okay, I’m gonna go pretend this isn’t happening.”

He shuts the door.

Silence.

Then: “I think we blew his mind,” you whisper.

Cas nods solemnly. “I like being a cloud.”

You both burst into another fit of unstoppable laughter. You never get around to snacks. You fall asleep with your head on Cas’s shoulder and a goofy smile plastered across your face.

Next morning? The garage still smells like a Phish concert.

You blame the skunk.

Cas blames the snake inside him.

Dean never looks either of you in the eye again.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[wroetolando]

𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 | 𝚆𝟸𝚂

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: harry lewis x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where you and harry try baking together, leading to a kitchen disaster and cookies that are more chaotic than delicious, but still a lot of fun

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: too sweet - hozier

𝘄𝗮𝗿����𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It had started innocently enough. You and Harry had been lounging around the house, bored out of your minds, and it didn’t help that the weather outside was miserable—rain pounding against the windows, dark clouds hanging heavy in the sky. Harry had been flipping through YouTube, and you were scrolling aimlessly on your phone when he suddenly piped up.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, his voice laced with enthusiasm.

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. “You? An idea?”

Harry was quick to defend himself. “Oi, I’ve got loads of ideas! Not all of them are stupid.” He leaned forward, the mischief in his eyes giving you a feeling you couldn’t quite place. “Let’s bake something.”

You blinked. “Bake? You?”

He shrugged innocently. “I watched a tutorial. I reckon I could bake cookies. You know, chocolate chip. The classics.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “Right, sure. I’m not sure I trust you in the kitchen.”

His grin widened. “Well, that’s what makes it fun. Let’s give it a go.”

You hesitated for a second but found yourself standing up and walking towards the kitchen anyway. “Fine. But if this ends in disaster, I’m blaming you.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun!”

You gave him a skeptical look as he pulled open the pantry and grabbed the flour, sugar, butter, eggs, and vanilla extract. “Okay, so what’s the first step?”

Harry scanned the recipe on his phone for a second. “Uh… well, we need to cream the butter and sugar first.”

You watched as Harry grabbed the butter and tried to “cream” it with the sugar, but it didn’t quite look right. He was using a fork like he was fighting with a stubborn piece of dough, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re supposed to use a mixer, mate,” you teased, leaning against the counter.

Harry frowned, clearly not getting the memo. “Nah, I’ve got this. Who needs a mixer?”

You sighed but kept your comments to yourself. After all, you had agreed to this. You grabbed the eggs and started cracking them into a bowl, only to have Harry stare at you like you were performing some grand, complex task.

“Wait,” he said, his eyes widening. “You just cracked that so easily. I thought that was a skill only chefs had.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “It’s not that complicated. You crack the egg, and the good stuff goes in the bowl.”

His face lit up. “Ohhh. Got it.”

While you were focused on cracking the eggs, Harry was tackling the flour. He poured the entire bag into the bowl in one go, and a white cloud erupted into the air, dusting his entire shirt. His eyes widened as he looked down at the flour-covered fabric.

“Um, Harry… you’re wearing that for the rest of the day?”

He chuckled sheepishly, brushing off some of the flour. “It adds to the authenticity of the moment.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “That’s one way to look at it.”

At this point, you were both getting covered in flour. You couldn’t even remember how, but somehow the kitchen was now covered in a light dusting of the stuff. You had flour on your nose, in your hair, and all over your shirt. Harry, who had an affinity for making everything into a competition, tried to “out-flour” you. Before long, it was a full-on flour fight, with both of you laughing so hard you were barely able to stand.

“Alright, alright,” you said, trying to catch your breath, “let’s get back to it before we turn into flour-covered mummies.”

You turned back to the dough, which was now a bit of a sticky mess. You had to admit, it wasn’t looking much like cookies yet.

“So… what’s next?” you asked, slightly out of breath from laughing.

“Uh, let’s see…” Harry checked the recipe again, only to suddenly drop his phone on the counter in frustration. “This thing’s a nightmare. I think it’s broken. Help me out here, please?”

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly but walked over to check. “It’s not broken, Harry. Just—okay, we need to mix it all together. The wet ingredients first, then the dry.”

As you began mixing, Harry, still trying to look competent, decided he would take care of the chocolate chips. You had to admit, he was doing better now. His usual overconfidence was coming through, and you could tell he was trying to make it look like he was doing more than he was.

“Do you need some help with those?” you asked, eyeing the chips.

He winked at you, attempting to act casual. “Nah, I’ve got it.”

You watched as Harry began pouring the entire bag of chocolate chips into the mixing bowl—without measuring it.

“Mate, what are you doing?”

His face turned red. “What? More chocolate is never a bad thing.”

“Yeah, well, if we wanted to eat pure chocolate and nothing else, we would’ve just eaten the chips straight from the bag,” you teased.

But it didn’t stop Harry. He kept adding more and more chips until the dough looked like it had turned into a sea of chocolate with a touch of flour.

“Well, I think this is looking great,” Harry said proudly, as if he hadn’t just created a gooey mess.

You couldn’t help but laugh, and you started spooning the dough onto the baking tray.

When the cookies finally went into the oven, you both stood back, watching the timer. The kitchen now looked like a disaster zone—chocolate chips scattered across the counters, flour everywhere, and half a dozen utensils left haphazardly on the counter.

“So,” you said, looking at the clock, “what do we do now?”

Harry leaned against the counter, casually glancing over at you. “I guess we just wait for the magic to happen.”

You raised an eyebrow. “If by ‘magic,’ you mean a pile of cookies that might collapse into goo when we try to take them out, then sure.”

Harry laughed. “It’ll be fine. You’re overthinking it.”

The timer dinged, and both of you jumped. You rushed to the oven, and Harry leaned in to peer at the cookies. They were… well, they were cookies. Some were perfectly golden, others were slightly burnt around the edges, and the ones in the middle looked like they were still half-dough.

“I think we may have made… interesting cookies,” Harry said cautiously, peering at the uneven batch.

You both stared at the cookies for a long moment, both of you trying to figure out if this was a total failure. Finally, you grabbed one and gave it a taste. The texture was soft and a bit gooey in the center. Not perfect, but not terrible either.

“Well,” you said, popping a bite into your mouth, “they’re… edible.”

Harry grabbed one and took a bite, his face lighting up in a way that made you laugh. “Hey, they’re not that bad. I’d say we nailed it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Nailed it? They look like something I could have made in my sleep. Half of them are burnt, and the other half are… mushy.”

“Still, they’ve got character,” Harry replied with a grin.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Character, sure. That’s what I’m calling it too.”

“I mean, if we can’t cook, at least we’ve got fun out of it,” Harry said, holding up his cookie in a mock toast.

“True,” you agreed, “I’ll give you that. But I think next time, we’re just going to order pizza and let someone else handle the food.”

“Deal,” Harry agreed, his smile widening as he stepped closer to you. He reached out, taking another cookie. “But this was a good time, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, smiling back at him. “Definitely. Even if we did nearly destroy the kitchen in the process.”

“Next time, we make cupcakes,” Harry said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He winked. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Famous last words,” you muttered, but you knew you’d do it all over again. Because with Harry, even the messiest, most chaotic moments were the ones you’d never forget.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[kumkaniudaku]

TBT

Summary: A young Terry and Patrice spend a Christmas morning together.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: None. Just some holiday fluff.

Previous: Merry Christmas, Baby

A/N: I love this one so much. I hope you enjoy too.

The coldest Christmas in recent history was no match for the overwhelming heat Terrence felt beneath his thick winter sweater as nervousness crept into his chest. The low purr of his uncle’s Honda slowly disappeared into the bitter afternoon chill, leaving him no other option but to press the doorbell to the Ellis home and pray for entry. 

Weeks of planning, sneaking, and tutorial-watching had gone into this mission. Heavy convincing and a shoddy handshake agreement to throw a couple of dollars his uncle’s way for gas had him snatching a poorly wrapped package from beneath the tree and hopping into Uncle Myron’s front seat before his parents could ask any further questions. 

His hands felt wet and slippery under the warm pecan pie he’d begged his mother to make for reasons he wouldn’t share the night before. His heart raced as he carefully adjusted the pretty orange bow on top of a covered box, suddenly nervous about how it looked. She deserved nothing less than perfection and he’d labored over careful folds and clean lines to deliver her his best. 

Rustling and a voice growing louder as it approached made him stop short before he could press the doorbell again. He quickly pulled at his coat and stood a little taller as her father appeared behind a glass storm door.

“Oh! It’s just you Terry. Thought you might’ve been my sister. Merry Christmas, son. You gettin’ big, boy. You benching ‘bout 250 now huh?” 

Terry smiled bashfully. “Yeah, I am. Tryin’ to bulk up a little before Spring.”

“You doin’ it. Next time I see you, you gon' be bigger than me. What you got there?” 

Terry blinked twice, trying to think through a response as Mr. Ellis stared back at him before finally sputtering out a response. “A-a pie! Sorry. It’s a pie from my mama. She sent me over here to drop it off and say Merry Christmas.”

“And that,” Mr. Ellis asked pointing at the gift adorned in the pretty orange bow.

“A gift for Patrice. Is she home? I know she said she would probably be at the store with her mom, but I can wait. Or I-I cou-”

“Calm down,” Mr. Ellis laughed as he stepped aside with the door pushed open wider than before. “She’s in here helping her mama set the table. Come on. She’ll be happy to see you.”

A deep breath that created a white cloud in front of his face calmed Terry’s nerves as he moved past Patrice’s father into the house. He didn’t need directions past the wall of family photos, down the hallway, and into the living area. In four years, he’d spent entire days lazing around that house. He’d shared Sunday dinners at her kitchen table, taken naps on her bedroom floor, and played video games with her younger brother on the living room couch. This was as much his hang-out spot as his own house in his mind. 

Christmas music crackled and popped from the worn record player on a bookshelf full of Black literature, the object flanked by his two favorite photos of Patrice. He gave the framed memory of her fifth birthday party a glance and a soft smile like he usually did before making his way into the kitchen. 

“Baby Girl and Ros, the Richmond boy brought us a pie this morning,” Leon announced on his way through the living room and out of the back door to return to his turkey frying duties.

“A pie! How sweet!” Terry’s introduction made Patrice whip her head around to get a look at her surprise visitor. He offered her a small wave and smile that she returned as Rosalyn approached to give him a warm hug. “Look at you! Have you gotten taller since the school year started?” 

Rosalyn had watched Terry grow from a boy into a young man. Once lanky, slender arms now carried budding muscles and extra weight. The first fuzz of facial hair carefully shaved per his father’s instructions left light shadows. His voice was deeper and smoother than the once cracking alto of his youth. Changing mannerisms had him looking more sure of himself. His development alongside Patrice’s presented further reminders that the only thing certain in this life was the passage of time. She’d never be prepared but embraced it all the same. 

“A little bit. Think I’m at 6’3” now,” Terry boasted, smiling at the newest adjustments in his measurements.

“Six-three! I know your mama can’t keep a lick of food in the house,” she laughed. “You made your decision on college yet?” 

“Not yet. Still considering trying to walk on at A&T. I feel like I’ll like it there.”

Rosalyn smiled, knowing the reason for his switch from UNC Chapel Hill. “Well, that’s good. You and Patrice work well together. You can keep each other on track.” 

“I keep myself on track, mama. Terry too when his head gets all up in the clouds.” 

“She helped me study one time and now she think she my teacher.” 

“You a one-time lie and you know it.” 

Terry’s infectious toothy grin spread to Patrice from across the room, creating a spark almost tangible enough for Rosalyn to reach out and grab. She noticed the emergence of shy glances and extra physical contact where senseless bickering once lived. Knees that occasionally touched while they watched movies on the couch were now shoulders pressed tightly together in the backseat after school without shame. When they weren’t in the same room, cell phones remained pressed to listening ears as they ran down chats about everything and nothing at the same time. Their trajectory was clear. 

More conversations about hormones, love, and the perils of unprotected sex than Rosalyn could count had been passed down individually and as a pair with no care for their obvious discomfort. Both sets of parents could only pray that their children retained at least some information to use when the inevitable took place.

“So, the pie,” Rosalyn pointed out, cutting through the open display of affection. “What kind is it? Smells good!” 

Terry blinked twice to pull his eyes away from Patrice to look at her mother. “Uh, pecan. My mama’s special recipe.”

“Really! That’s Patrice’s favorite. What a coincidence.” 

Terry’s ears slowly turned red as he tried to laugh off Rosalyn’s observation. She winked at him and pulled the dessert from his hands, careful to return the gift on top before making her way to the food table.

Patrice nervously shifted her weight as she leaned against the counter for her first break of the morning, now hyperaware of how her body looked with a set of blue-green eyes following her every move. 

They’d matched unintentionally. Terry’s red sweater complimented Patrice’s white one with both teenagers sporting black bottoms to top off festive looks. Searching for something, anything to say, Patrice pointed at his head. 

“You decided to stop growing your hair out?” 

Terry ran a hand down the back of his fresh fade. “Yeah. My dad was on me about it. Said I looked like a hoodlum. I don’t even know what that means but I guess I don’t really need the extra cushion for the helmet now anyway.”

“Well, my opinion probably doesn’t matter, but I think it looks nice. I’ll miss the widow's peak, though. It was cute.” 

A twinkle of happiness flashed across Terry’s eyes, making his cheeks rise into a proud smile. The haircut was staying. No doubt about it.

“Thank you,” he spoke quietly, still processing the tingles rolling across his body. “You, um…you want some help? My mama showed me how to set a table. Fork on the left, right?” 

Rosalyn watched the pair watch each other with a knowing smile on her face as Terry took slow steps across the kitchen toward Patrice. He didn’t come there to set the table for a family he didn’t belong to. He came to spend a few minutes of stolen time with the only person worth existing in his small world. 

She stopped him before he could get too far. “That’s sweet of you, baby, but I don’t need too many people in my kitchen. P, you can take him to your room. You know to leave that door open. Don’t have me come back there and I can’t see what y’all are doing.”

Neither Terry nor Patrice needed the reminder but ensured they showed their understanding with head nods and verbal agreement. They’d been down this road plenty of times. Leave the door half open, answer when called, and keep your hands to yourself. The first two were easy. Resisting the desire to touch became more difficult as the days flew by. 

Patrice led the way down the hallway toward her room, making small talk before holding the door open for him to enter. The sunny orange and yellow motif hadn’t changed much since they hung out for the first time. Posters and photos of her favorite artists still lined the wall beside her bed. The sunflower plushie she called Sunny rested in its usual spot at the top of her dresser. His favorite spot in the house, a soft yellow beanbag, was empty and awaiting his arrival. He took a deep breath to inhale the birthday cake candle she kept burning on her nightstand before sliding his shoes and coat off to place them in their designated spot. 

She kissed her teeth as she flopped on the bed. “You gon’ stop havin’ your toes out in here.” 

“I should start charging you. People would pay good money to see these. Even in socks!”

“Oh yeah right. People like who? That Cierra girl in 11th grade?” 

“Here you go,” Terry groaned from his spot on the bean bag. He flipped through a random magazine beside him to avoid eye contact. “I don’t like that girl. We just hang out because Xavier talks to her friend and he be needin’ back up sometimes.”

“No way. She was wearing your jacket.”

“She took my jacket out of Zay’s car to be funny and I got it back as soon as I could find her.”

“Say swear.”  

The ultimate test. Saying swear was their way of ensuring the other was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

Terry looked up from the pages of Seventeen Magazine to look Patrice in the eye and confirm his statement. “Swear. She kinda annoying, honestly. Nice girl, but all she ever wants to talk about is reality TV and school drama.” 

“Ooooh. Terry likes a little substance in his conversations, huh,” Patrice laughed, exaggerating her words to mimic their creative writing teacher. “Let me find out you’re out here discussing Of Mice and Men without me. I’m gonna have to put my hands on you.”��

Terry scoffed at her threat. “Yeah, right. Plus, you talk about stuff without me all the time. I heard about you and Robert Mitchell kickin’ it after winter formal.” 

“That’s not what happened!” 

“Let me know what happened then.”

It was Patrice’s turn to explain herself. What started as a night between mixed friend groups turned into Terry sneaking looks at his best friend while she engaged with a guy that he frankly didn’t think was smart enough for her. He’d never share how it made him feel outside of light jabs to be annoying. 

He waited for her to stop chewing her bottom lip and respond. 

“Rob doesn’t like me. He just wanted to see if he could convince me to sneak off with him to the parking lot which I didn’t do. So he left me alone and I rode back with Vicky to spend the night. Nothing to see there, as always.” 

Terry took in her truth with equal parts sadness at the circumstance and anger at the young man bold enough to cause her pain.

“Dang, Treece, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it went like that. Want me to talk to him?” 

Patrice adjusted to sit in front of Terry at the edge of the bed. She kicked her feet as she played with her painted thumbnails. “No. I wasn’t even supposed to tell anybody. Plus, we both know that you don’t talk. Don’t need you getting in trouble because of me. Thanks, though.” 

“You don’t gotta thank me.” He was still gonna have words with Robert when he got the chance, but that was for him to know and Patrice to never find out. Trying to shift the energy, he pretended to use her fuzzy sock-covered feet as a speed bag to get a rise out of her. She rolled her eyes but allowed him to continue. “Wanna see your gift now or should I put it under the tree?”

“I’ll open mine but you gotta open your’s first? Deal?” 

“Deal.”

Terry chuckled as he watched her prance to her closet and back with an excited smile dimpling her cheeks. In her hand, she carried two gifts of differing sizes. They were expertly wrapped in shiny festive paper and a Carolina blue bow so that there was no mistaking who was the lucky recipient. 

She reclaimed her spot on the bed, setting the smaller of the two packages beside her before handing the other to Terry to grasp with two hands. “Okay, do this one first! Hurry!” 

“Alright, alright! Calm down.” Terry made a show of slowly peeling tape and wrapping paper from the large, flat object for no other reason than to watch Patrice squirm impatiently. She tried to rush him along but he wouldn’t give in. 

Their smiles grew in tandem once Terry ended his torture and revealed a framed pristine Francis Edward High School football jersey. 

He used his index finger to trace out the letters stitched to form his last name behind the glass. “How’d you get this?” 

“Coach Robinson let me have it for tutoring his daughter in Spanish. Then my auntie did the letters for free. Look at the pictures!”

Shock at seeing his name printed on a jersey for the first time distracted him from the small collage of photos neatly placed beside it. A picture from his senior night sat next to a photo from his record-setting game as a junior. Another capturing a game-winning touchdown had him reliving the memory in full color. But his favorite, a snapshot of them being crowned homecoming king and queen at midfield, made him smile. 

“Do you like it,” Patrice asked, her eyes wide and expectant as she waited for some indication of his feelings. “You can take all the stuff out if you want. This just seemed better to put on your wall at home.”

“I like it a lot, Treece. Never thought I’d have my own jersey. Especially now that the scholarships aren’t coming.” Terry looked over the gift for a few seconds more before giving her smiling face his full attention. “Thank you. Mean it.” 

She pushed her hair behind her ear and shrugged. “You’re welcome. Mean it.” They sat there, grinning and staring back at one another in silence until Rosalyn called their names for one of her periodic checks. They responded promptly before Patrice attempted to get them back on track. “C’mon. Open the last one!” 

“If I would’ve known we were going all out, I would’ve done more,” Terry spoke, preemptively apologizing for coming up short as he peeled away the crinkling paper. Patrice waved him away. They weren’t in competition. If anything, she’d gone too far in her pursuit of his happiness. 

A final rip of wrapping paper unveiled a small gift box with his name scribbled across it. He carefully lifted the lid and then closed it once he caught a glimpse of its contents. His face began to flush with incoming emotions. 

Nestled inside a plastic key chain was a photo of Terry and his maternal grandmother. His summer had been filled with dread that she may not make it through her sickness to end the year, a fear that was realized before the school year began. He’d all but camped out on her bedroom floor in complete silence, desperately searching for some reprieve from funeral arrangements and repast activities at home. 

For Patrice, it was a no-brainer to use some of her babysitting money to take a photo she’d nabbed from his MySpace profile and turn it into a keepsake. 

Terry stilled himself with a deep breath. “You’re nice when you wanna be.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re my friend and you were sad. It’s the least I could do.”

“Thanks. For real,” he whispered, holding eye contact a little longer before pointing at her gift. “Your turn. It’s only one box but there’s a lot in it. And don’t judge my wrapping skills.” 

“Too late! This bow is super cute though. I’m gonna stick it to Sunny.”

Patrice ripped through messy silver paper, discarding scraps at her feet her that Terry gathered into a small pile to throw away later. She popped the top on a white garment box and then squealed as she pulled a folded sweater from inside. 

Future Aggie. He thought the grey, blue, and yellow sweatshirt would be a fitting gift for someone finally realizing their dream of attending college. Patrice rushed to press the garment against her chest as she looked at herself in the mirror hanging on her closet door. 

She twisted and turned to see all her angles. “I’m wearing this to school on the first day back. Thank you, TJ!” 

Her announcement created a rush of emotions bursting in all directions. Something he’d purchased adorning her body? What a sight. What a feeling. 

The surprises and elated responses continued. A new journal and pens for her to use at her leisure earned him a high five. A bottle of Hollister body mist that she fawned over on one of their many trips to the mall received a wide smile and a few sprays on her new sweater. But her favorite was the gift that cost him nothing but time. 

A CD with “For Patrice” written in thick marker and Terry’s slanted handwriting caught her attention. Try as she might, Patrice couldn’t get him to spill the beans about the disc’s contents, instead pushing her to pop it into her dusty boombox and press play. 

“Uh, this is kinda weird. Recording my own voice for a CD. Feel like I should start rappin’ or something.” Patrice smiled as Terry’s voice flowed through the speaker like a late-night radio host. He listened with his eyes closed, too embarrassed to watch her reaction in real-time. “This is for you, though, Treece. Just in case we never see each other again after high school, I hope these songs are enough to remember me by. If not then all this shit was for no reason and just pretend it never happened. I’m gonna stop talkin’ now. Hope you like it.”

His introduction flowed into a collection of songs that they considered their shared favorites. 

Terry spoke up over J. Cole’s ‘Dollar and a Dream II’. “It’s for when you’re in the car and stuff since you said you hate listening to the radio. I figured you could listen to a little mix of stuff you like instead.” 

“You know I’m gonna bring this everywhere with me now, right? My mama’s car, your car, everywhere! It’s great.”

“That’s like three compliments in a row. You getting soft on me,” he laughed. “I’m wearing you down.” 

“Why can’t you ever just let the nice things happen without saying something? I’m startin’ to think you like makin’ me mad. You sick in the head, TJ.”

Justin Timberlake, T.I., and everything in between told the story of moments spent together, inside jokes, and unspoken feelings that flowed through romantic lyrics. While they listened to track after track as background music to their winding conversation, minutes turned into hours. 

Terry had seen all of Patrice’s other gifts, taken pictures on her brand-new digital camera, taste-tested a few pieces of her aunt’s pound cake, and found time to play a few rounds of the newest Dragon Ball Z game with Junior without the passage of time ever registering in his brain. 

In Junior’s dark, dingy cave he called a bedroom, Patrice and Terry sat next to each other on the floor half paying attention to the television while her brother played video games and half fiddling with the directions and pieces from his newest Lego set. 

Leon knocked twice and poked his head into the room with the family phone in his hand. “Son, your mama’s on the phone. She said she’s been calling your cell phone looking for you.” 

Terry’s eyes widened at the realization that he’d left the small device in his coat pocket across the hall. He scrambled to his feet, limbs flailing and socks twisting as he rushed to grab the phone from Mr. Ellis before the older man stepped away to tend to other business. 

“Ma, I’m sorry!” 

“Terrence James, if you weren’t somewhere that I know for a fact is safe, I would kill you! What goes on between those ears of yours?”

Patrice winced at the non-stop yelling coming from the other end while Terry tried to listen with a poker face. She couldn’t make out all the details of his incoming punishment, but she could tell by the way the call ended that he wouldn’t be enjoying time away from home any time soon. 

Terry hung up and bit his bottom lip as he turned to Patrice. 

“How bad?” 

He shrugged. “Not that bad. She was just worried. I do have to go soon though. My uncle will be here in like 10 minutes.” 

“I mean I didn’t wanna have to be the one to kick you out, but…”

Their loud laughter at Patrice’s joke was enough to get them unceremoniously ousted from Junior’s bedroom with the door shut tight behind them before they could fully re-enter the hallway. Patrice followed Terry back into her room and watched him gather his belongings.

“My cousin Imani is coming later today. I wish y’all could’ve met each other. She’s silly like you.” 

“Yeah,” Terry questioned as he tied his sneakers. “Maybe I could try and come over tomorrow?” 

“That’s okay. You’re already in trouble. I don’t wanna make it worse. Maybe we can all hang out for Spring Break or something.” Terry looked up from his task to smile at Patrice until she mirrored his expression while rolling her eyes. “What are you smiling at?” 

“You.” 

“Why? What did I do?” 

“Just be you.”

Terry wished there was a mistletoe somewhere in the room to aid his cause. If only there were a reason to press his lips to hers as the cherry on top of the scariest confession he’d ever made. Or near confession. He couldn’t tell if his words had made the desired impact until Patrice slowly shook her head. 

She began laughing as she handed over his coat. “You sure you don’t wanna switch your major from math to English since you always talkin’ in riddles?” 

“I know what I be sayin’, you just don’t know,” he laughed to play off his blunder. 

“That completely defeats the purpose of a conversation.”

Patrice waited until he was finished securing the zippers and buttons on his coat before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. Terry stood stunned for a beat, too caught off guard to reciprocate her affection until a switch flipped in his brain to snap him back into reality. 

He jammed his one hand into his pocket while his free arm snaked around her waist to avoid breaching an unspoken boundary. 

“Thanks for coming here this morning. Gift or not, it was fun to have you around,” she spoke over his shoulder. 

He smiled though she couldn’t see. “I know how much you love Christmas so, of course. It was fun being around. I like being with you.” 

Terry held his breath as Patrice slowly pulled away for a look at his face. Her eyes scanned for some indication that he was telling a joke or simply being annoying but found nothing but sincerity in those intense blue-green eyes she’d learned to read. 

A glimpse at his lips made her subconsciously run her tongue over the bottom of her set. Her heart raced. His hand slowly exited his pocket to find a home on her hip. They leaned forward in sync, both of them closing their eyes for whatever came next. 

“Terrence! Your uncle is outside! Get your stuff, baby!” 

Though she couldn’t possibly know the magic unfolding in her daughter’s bedroom, Rosalyn had successfully thwarted an attempt to further break the third rule. 

The pair repelled like opposite ends of a magnet until they were back at their respective ends of the room. Patrice pretended to take an interest in the purses hanging on the back of her door while Terry quickly gathered his gifts. 

He fumbled with the packages on his way out of the door, timidly inching past Patrice in hopes that she would speak to him one more time. 

“See you later.”

“I guess I should go.” 

Words overlapped in a harsh head-on collision, making them both shrink away in embarrassment. Terry chucked and took the lead. “Ladies first.” 

Patrice adjusted the hood on his coat and smiled. “I was just gonna say Merry Christmas, TJ. I hope you got everything you wanted.” 

“Merry Christmas, Treece. This is probably the best one I’ve ever had. Even if my mama is gonna rip my head off when I get home.”

“She definitely will. I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

Patrice didn’t respond with words. She offered him a sweet smile as her thumb brushed stray cake crumbs from the corner of his mouth. Another holler of his name from the kitchen forced him out of her orbit and back into the cold with Patrice hot on his heels. 

She bid him farewell from the front door, watching until the champagne-colored Honda was out of sight and Terry was just the faint smell of cologne far too adult for him on her sweater and the memory causing goosebumps on her arms. 

When Patrice turned to finally retreat back into her room, Rosalyn stood at the threshold smiling at her daughter.

“You two have fun?”

Patrice put her head down to hide the wide smile spreading across her face as she sped past her mother. “It was okay. Did Auntie Mae make the mac and cheese yet? I’m gonna get some.”

“Make sure you wash those hands, young lady,” she called after Patrice. 

The spice of expensive cologne left a trail of secrets in her wake. Rosalyn inhaled deeply and shook her head. 

They’d need a refresher on the rules before New Year’s Eve.

-----

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[catiuskaa]

charcoal, paint, post-its and tape.

SUMMARY: seeing your boyfriend’s messy art studio, you couldn’t help but want to try and surprise him with a painting of the most gorgeous piece of art you knew: him.

REQUESTED! here by my pookie wookie @4ln-stay8, and honey, this was a beautiful idea! i love writing about art and hyunjin and hyunjin and art (and hyunjin) lol, hope you like! <3

CW: hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety, reader is really hard on herself as a perfectionist (which sadly i can relate), crying and cursing, lots of fluffy comfort in the end!

WC: 1.6k

[☆🌷🖼️🌷☆]

You hate it.

Your hand feels cramped, your head hurts and you’re close to breaking the paper if you keep on erasing the same lines over and over again.

But it’s hideous.

It’s a sad excuse of an attempt in art and you hate it.

You were tempted to kick the sketchbook away, but knowing that it belonged to your boyfriend, to hyunjin, who could actually do art, made you refrain from doing so, opting to just harshly shove it away from your lap.

It wasn’t fair. You’d seen tutorials. You had practiced beforehand. You went as far as to use his anatomy books to study it, wanting to be able to do justice to his ethereal, beautiful self by at least getting proportions right.

But no. Art wasn’t accepting your preposterous attempt to join into it.

Hyunjin entered your shared apartment as he hummed a random melody, happy to come back a bit earlier than usual, his head drifting off to how he could surprise you and what kind of activity the both of you could do with the newly-founded time.

But he froze after he kicked his shoes off at the entrance.

“Angel?” He called, and you cursed, but barely had any time to put anything back into place as he followed the sound of your gentle sobs.

“Hyun…” you started.

“My love.” He crouched down next to you, looking at you as if you held the stars and the moon just for him. “Want to tell me what’s wrong? Mhh?” He hummed shortly, his hands traveling to your face and stroking it sweetly.

You stared at him, your heart troubled, so the only coherent response you could come up was throwing yourself to his arms.

The long-haired artist hugged you tightly in response, a part of him appreciating having the type of trust that allowed you to break before him and let him watch you reasemble with a little helping hand.

You sniffed, then shook your head sideways.

“Are we doing the nod and shake?” He smiled in efforts of making you join him, which you did shortly, and he allowed himself to take that as a win. “We can do that, pretty. Nod if you want to.” He snickered.

But you shook your head, staring down at the forgotten sketchbook.

“I-it’s just th-a-at I… I w-wanted… wanted to surprise you… b-because I-I wa-s trying to paint…”

Hyunjin’s face shined upon your confesion.

“My pretty girl was painting?” He chimed back with a gleeful joy. “But you’re not having fun. What happened?”

You just shrugged, sinking your head in your hands. “It’s horrible.”

“Can I see it?”

Watching you nod, it was only then when Hyunjin separated himself from you just enough to grab the sketch, then sprung back to your side.

A silence only broken by your unsteady breathing clouded the house as he viewed the canvas.

“Do you want my opinion, my advice, or my shoulder to keep crying?” He offered soothingly, and you rolled your eyes at his last mention. “What? My shoulders are very comfortable. I don’t even charge if you leave tears on my shirt, you know.” Hyunjin teased with a smile that you were quick to match. Another win for him.

“I just… I don’t know…” you sighed, melting against him. “It’s… ugh.”

He stared at your piece in silence, which you didn’t, only zoned out, playing with your hands as the silence crept up your spine.

What if he hated it too?

“It’s just like how you do with your post-its.”

He interrupted your spiral of thoughts, and you blinked at him, so Hyunjin repeated himself with a gentle smile. You then sniffed, a small chuckle fighting to get out in the midst of frustated tears. “What are you on about?”

“You have your cute organizing board filled with post it notes, don’t you, lovely?”

You nodded, but scoffed, still submerged in the depth of the painting —or rather lack thereof. “What’s that got to do with anyth-“

You trailed off when his hands, still a bit colder from the weather outside, cradled your face, forcing you to look at him, a beautiful sight you didn’t notice you were evading.

“Listen to me for a second. Please?” He pleaded, eyes soft, and giggled sweetly when you pouted, a petty way of letting him know you were listening. You blushed when he kissed you.

“So. Your post it notes.” Hyunjin smiled. “You stick them on the board, but often, they slip down, right?” He asked, to which you nodded. “And when that happens, I noticed your little trick, brains.” He booped your nose, and you couldn’t help but smile coyly. “Tell me, beauty. What do you do when they don’t stick?”

“I… I put a small piece of tape on the back.” “And it works like magic,” he grinned, beaming in a kind of proudness you had never seen on anyone, not when it came from others aside from themselves. And it mended your frustrated heart to see him like this, his now warmer hands stroking your cheeks.

He took one of your hands, and with a strained groan, reached to his pencil cade, grabbed a piece of charcoal and stained your hand with it, kissing your palm sweetly

“These are now the hands of an artist. And artists, just like you and me, can be quite like those little post it notes of yours. We bend right after taking us out of the package.” He chuckled, and you followed along, letting the sound of his voice lift your spirit. “It won’t matter how, there can always be a crease, or the glue won’t stick right, or the color is too blinding, maybe too dull, perhaps the paper got stained with paint or ink.” He stared at you, deeply so, allowing you to see through him, allowing you to understand.

This wasn’t about post it notes. Not anymore.

He continued. “But, just as your post its, sometimes…” he smiled. “Sometimes all we need is a bit of tape to stick in place.”

He kissed your tears away one by one, allowing your breathing to even out, matching and following his as you relaxed against him.

“Let me help you stick back on the board.” He looked at your lips in a flash, then bashfully went back to your eyes. “Let me be your tape.”

He hugged you tightly, and he showed you the sketch.

“To me it looks fine, beauty.” He started. “It’s a really nice attempt. Would I redo some things? Probably, if I wanted to be really perfectionist, because it doesn’t look bad at all. Or maybe I’d let the color do its magic.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “The thing about drawing is that we cannot let it control us, hoping to achieve perfection. That can’t be achieved, my love.” Hyunjin laughed. “Even what we see sometimes doesn’t look right in real life. There are references and references, and if a drawing’s sketch isn’t quite what we’re looking, sometimes we may need another one.”

You stared at him softly, comforted in his honest commentary.

“I can help you. You know were to find me.” He smiled sweetly.

“I…” you sniffed, staring at your charcoal-stained hand.

“I just want a coffee right now.”

You both giggled as you stood back up, and he engulfed you in a bear hug, picking you up and carrying you to the kitchen, determined to make you the best coffe in the whole year.

It wasn’t until the next morning that you found him puting your first sketch next to his. Only this time, instead of his usual messy tape lines, yours han bits of tape glued to the back.

Little by little, charcoal and paint helped post-its and tape, but even with the smallest things, it could certainly be the other way around.

And Hyunjin loved it any kind of way— Hyunjin loved you, post-its, charcoal stains and all.

[☆🌷🖼️🌷☆]

catiuskaa, may 2024 ©

~kats, who will now go to bed with my own cup of hot milk (not coffee lol, and sadly not made by hyunjin either)

[sharenadraculea]

If the primarchs had social media

Lion: There is nothing on his accounts. Not even a profile-picture. Someone is still logging into them every so often. Fulgrim: On all the plattforms. Primarely family-blogger: look at my perfect kids, my perfect spaceship, my perfect partner, my perfect healthy breakfest, my perfect make-up. OnlyFans-account on the side. Get‘s into controversies all the time. Perty: Angry rants. Has spent to much time on Twitter. Old man yells at cloud type of stuff. Jagh: And this is how we‘ll break the speed-limit today! Talks about bikes, how to mod them, drives them around very fast, ect. Occasional horse-pictures. Leman: Puppies! Just cute dog-pictures and -videos, of every canine he encounters in the galaxy Rogal: He isn‘t very good at social media. Sometimes posts bad selfies or pictures of his building projects. Completly ignores all of Pertys hate-comments Konrad: He writes fanfic. Edgy, dark, not very good fanfic. The protag is a clear self-insert and Mary Sue and brings justice to all the settings he puts them in. A ton of spelling errors. The plot barely holds together. He is very proud of it. Sang: He has official accounts with pretty pictures of him everywhere, but he has some private accounts that are just like his art and sometimes cute family pictures. Also why can I see Sang having a Vtuber-persona he livestreams with so people don‘t recognize him? Ferrus: Appears on Fulgrims accounts fairly often. Maybe does some gaming-content on the side Angron: Everything is very sporadic and when it‘s there it‘s pretty angry. Surprisingly talks a lot about issues with his disabilities and that he needs way more help than he get‘s and also all his trauma. Struggles a lot with typing and forming sentences, so it can be hard to understand at times. Roboute: A channel with tutorials for stuff like running a planet or putting on armour. If people ask him to explain something he can just send them a link. Morty: Not very active, sometimes pictures of some funky plants and little texts about them. Magnus: Video-essays. He dissappers for months and then returns with a four-hour-video (minimum) about the most random topic. Hugely popular. Horus: Look at my sexy abs! Look at my huge bicep! Soft-porn-pictures of him and his sons. Probally also had OnlyFans. Lorgar: Social media is great for preaching! So he does that! Deletes all his accounts after monarchia. Vulkan: Food! He loves trying out new recipes from diffrentc cultures! At the start of every recipe is a pagelong story, which people actually read Corvus: Also writes Fanfic. Very, very good fanfic if a bit edgy at times. Kind of has a rivalery with Konrad. Also runs a very active blog, about both writing and justice, with occasional bits about guerilla-warfare Alpharius Omegon: Just the worst trolls. Dozens if not hundreds of sockpuppet accounts. They are having a good time.

[waitingandwishing]

idk if you are writing much for sbg, let alone how to request much, but could you do romantic or platonic sbg (or just Tyler and Ben) with reader with like long curly hair, similar to Sunday kalogeras and she doesn't know what to do with it most the time.

-> context: curly haired girls are so fine

-> fandom: school bus graveyard

-> warnings: none?

TYLER

Sometimes you had no idea of how to manage your hair. You swore it had a mind of its own. Spiraling curls that framed your face like storm clouds. Most days, your let it roam free, more out of surrender than choice. You owned six different hair products, none of which worked the same way twice. One morning it bounced like a shampoo commercial, the next it looked like you'd fought a bush and lost.

So somehow, through all that mess, Tyler still managed to find his own ways of liking it. "By the way, your hair looks good. I like it like that. Just… thought you should know."

That compliment caught you off guard but practically made your whole day. The way you beamed and awkwardly laughed with a small thanks made Tyler want to say more just to see you smile once again.

The wind picked up once again, the sky gray and blinding. Your hair, predictably, went wild once again. "Ugh," You muttered, brushing it back. "I should just shave it off."

Tyler glances at you, thinking for a moment before muttering, "Don’t."

You squinted at him, pausing your walk, "Don’t what?"

"Shave it," He said. Then shrugged, as if it was nothing. "I mean. It’s... Food. Like that. Or however it is. Doesn’t matter."

"You think my hair’s good." You asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He sounds like he’s admitting a war crime. "I mean, it’s a mess, but it works. On you." He shifted on his feet awkwardly and you forced yourself not to chuckle in amusement at his sudden bashfulness. "I like it."

You stared at him for a moment, though he avoided eye contact like it was physically painful. "...You like my hair?"

He exhaled hard. "I like you. The hair’s just part of it. Unfortunately." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking ready to bolt.

She blinks, stunned, before standing beside him once again with a chuckle. "You suck at this," she says.

"Yeah," He sighed. But it was worth it to see you smile at him.

BEN

Some mornings, it feels like your hair wakes up before you do. You've watched enough tutorials to know you're supposed to love your curls. Embrace the volume. Romanticize the frizz. But you’re not sure how to “romanticize” waking up with your head looking like that.

You've tried tying them up, taming them with pins, wrapping them in scarves, only for a stubborn curl to spring free like it’s laughing at your efforts. Sometimes you catch people staring, and you're never sure if it's admiration or awe at how you haven't burst into flames from sheer frustration

You were fussing with your hair, again. You turned to see Ben staring at you with a slight smile before he noticed your gaze. He paused, cheeks tinted pink before he quickly signed 'Beautiful'. HUH?! You opened your mouth to ask him to elaborate before Aiden had caught his attention with a ladybug.

It was late afternoon and you were sitting with Ben in the park. Aiden and Taylor were doing an arm wrestle as Ashlynn begrudgingly recorded and Tyler and Logan watched.

Your curls were frizzy from the humidity, and you were constantly pushing them behind your ears. “I don’t even know why I bother with this hair.” You muttered.

Ben stared at you for a moment before gently reaching out and tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “What are you doing?” You asked.

He held your gaze for just a moment longer before giving you that adorable smile of his you loved. "They're really pretty." He typed on his phone.

You stared at him with slightly wide eyes before smiling bashfully. Warmth filled your chest, making your hands tingle and your legs shake slightly. "... Thanks."

(A/n: keep in mind I DO NOT HAVE CURLY HAIR, so i am unfamiliar with this ask! so sorry if this is wrong and please tell me in the comments!)

[johannestevans]

overworked PhD who has been lusting over the stern head librarian for years even BEFORE someone shares into the PhD group chat a video of him doing a video tutorial on safe whipping technique for a local BDSM forum

headphones in in the library, watching a video of him quietly explaining how to rope a harness without cutting off circulation, how to do a quick release tie, and obsessing

PhD who is torn between his need to return every book he takes out the very next day and also his developed fantasy where he doesn't have the 50c late fee on him so the head librarian spanks him

PhD who is really struggling to find one book for research, an illustrated history of sailships, and has been walking up and down the same aisle when he looks up and the librarian is right beside him

jumps a mile and puts his hand over his own mouth to keep from shouting

stares up at him, eyes wide, as the head librarian studies him. completely neutral face, but he's so Big and Tall and inwardly the PhD is really trying to repress the inner monologue that says "raw me raw me raw me raw me" Just In Case the librarian can read minds

the head librarian reaches for him and he's so distracted he actually LIFTS HIS CHIN so that the librarian can get a better grip on his throat, but the librarian just raises an eyebrow, tilts the PhD's tablet screen toward him, and says "oversized."

reaches up to the top shelf (he doesn't even need a stool! he's barely even on tip toes!) and pushes one of the huge oversized books off the shelf so that it drops into his hand, hands it to the PhD

"Thank you," whispers the PhD.

"Beg pardon?" is the response.

"Thank you," he says, little louder.

The librarian's eyes are boring into his and he feels like he might just drop.

"Thank you, what?"

The PhD stares. he's aware he's so red he must resemble one of the leather book jackets behind him

"Thank you… sir?" he attempts, his voice pitched somewhere high enough to touch stars, and the librarian smiles at him. it's a close-lipped smile, visibly pleased, comes with a neat nod of the head that makes the PhD exhale with relief and delight at having pleased

he feels like he's walking on clouds when he goes back to his desk, and when he looks back and the librarian isn't there anymore, he wonders if he just imagined it