#retro from scratch

[queen-chaos5]

I have. Many Mecintosh doodles....

Here they are!

My notebook is a mess :D It's also an assortment of doodles :3

The Sleepy doodles I remade digitally :D

I am THIS CLOSE to writing a Storage Closet duo fic, I just need to figure out how to write in the first place TwT

I'm surprised I didn't have any more Whiteboard doodles! I should change that :)

Oh! and how could I forget the papercraft fella I made with the swappable faces :D

I also let him take a nap :]

idk how to distribute pdfs so if anyone wants the template for the papercraft hmu ig? I also presume @rubysundaey would want to be tagged? I still don't know how tagging works ima be real here 👍

[pobusart]

[oc] dumb of heart fat of ass. my atlyss character vlargus bioshoque, weird little imp bandit who probably should not be trusted around people's belongings

[laneydayze]

Tests for a big project I'm working on ✨🤞💖

[satorena]

taking nerdjo’s glasses while you’re riding 🥸

cw. 18+. semi public sex. sub undertones. breeding kink.

“—ohhhh fuckkkkk,”

he doesn’t understand it— any of it. he doesn’t understand how he, of all people, managed to get you. the it girl on campus— with pretty hairstyles and cutesy nails, flocks of both girls and boys crawling after you for the slightest bit of your attention, is somehow interested in the least known guy around— the lanky, socially awkward physics teacher assistant with fading digimon stickers glued to the back of his worn down computer.

gojo assumes he’s experiencing one hell of a good dream. that’s the only way to explain the insatiable feeling of wet heat enveloping his aching dick. it’s the only way to explain the pornographic sounds of skin slapping echoing in this empty library. it’s the only way to explain why his balls are begging for release with each grind of needy hips rocking against his own.

he doesn’t want to wake up. he feels the cheap fabric of carpet beneath his fingernails from digging them into the floor. his knuckles are turning white from how hard he’s clenching. there’s an abnormal tightening of a knot in his guts begging to be snapped. he can feel beads of sweat forming at his hairline and his foggy glasses are slipping past his nose bridge uncomfortably—

but he doesn’t want to wake up.

planted on the heels of whatever latest trendy shoes you own, you’re riding his cock as if he were your lifeline. god you feel divine— your folds swallowing him into your cunt with such ease and precision, walls clenching down the moment he’s balls deep. he can feel your acrylics scratching at his undercut with one hand while the other holds your body steady down his thigh.

gojo doesn’t think he’s breathing, and frankly, isn’t sure if he wants to. you’re reckless— moaning freely in the emptiness of the establishment and right into the shell of his ear as if your birthright, careless of the thuds of heavy textbooks hitting the floor. there’s a crease in your brows and your jaw hangs slack, glossy lips parted as they release the hymns of your cries,

“—so deep, can feel you in my stomach!”

your tits bounce in clockwise motions. you’d freed yourself from your top sometime between the flirting behind bookshelves and his pikachu drawls dropping down to the floor. the sound of your pussy squelching with every bounce is a memory he wouldn’t forget even on his death bed— cunt so wet he can hardly feel his own dick in you.

the pad of your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and you lean forward to catch it between yours. he’s frozen stiff— the slip of your tongue in his mouth, your overwhelming sweetness invading his senses. he’s moaning pathetically, growing some security in the muffled sounds, so overstimulated by this insatiable pleasure that his arms start to feel weak.

your tongue swipes at his lips before nibbling on the flesh, “—taste so good,” he feels your lips mouthing against his own, and wishes he was able to focus for a split second on what you told him, but the ache in balls are a telltale that this euphoric dream is drawing to an end.

he squints his eyes shut. he tries to focus on the latest chapter of his latest obsession manga and theories he’s conspired. he recalls the sneak of his wrinkly old professor’s ass crack from his early lecture. he thinks back on this auction he’s seen online for retro limited edition video games. did he ever end up submitting that biochem lab assignment due—

“gojo.”

he snaps his eyes open. he didn’t realize he’d clenched his entire facial muscles until the moment he was able to see you again— only releasing those muscles feeling tightness in his cheeks (amongst other places)(read: his cock).

you’ve slowed down your pace. you’ve switched your movements from bounces to grinding. he can feel his tip prodding at your gummy walls. your breath fans his cupid’s bow and he’s only now noticing how close in proximity you both are. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, and he’s positive you can feel his stomach clenching against your own.

he begins to feel more of your body weight on his, a feeling he definitely wants to get accustomed to, as you shift from your feet to your knees. your hand on his thigh trails upwards past his trail of hair, sliding up past the ridges of his abs, over the planes of his chest and meet at his nape with its other duo. there’s an aroma of vanilla and cherries exuding off you—

heisenburg’s uncertainty principle. star wars mandalorian culture. the roswell ufo incident. fucking neon genesis evangelion’s a cruel angel’s thesis—

“you don’t like me?” you ask him, all doey eyed like. it doesn’t sound like a legitimate question, but his ‘huh’ does draw more into a whine when you intentionally clamp down on his dick. he doesn’t miss the mischievous glint in your eyes.

gojo bites down on his lower lip, fiddling with a loose thread on the carpet. his body releases a shudder at the chills creeping up his spine when you trace a finger down the slope of his neck, “w-what?” he asks weakly, huffing as his toes curl in his socks.

this time, you cock your head just barely to the side, and he watches your gaze trail from his lips to his eyes and back to his lips. despite the agonizingly slow pace, you never stop riding him. his cock is still graced by your warmth, still snatching his soul through his slit. your lashes bat twice before glancing back up at his eyes.

“you don’t like me.” you’re not asking this time, your tone dripping in seduction and like a fool, finds himself swayed. you’re teasing him— he can see it in the way the corner of your lips quirk into your infamous smile. you’ve got him wrapped all around your pretty finger— he knows it and you definitely know it.

as if he was anybody to not like you. your ass cheeks clench when you drive your body forward, gripping on his cock so tight he can feel the wind knocked out his lungs, “no! are you, ngh, crazy— of course i do—”

“because i like you.” it falls short of a whisper, but the vibrations of your words against his lips shoot right to his heart and balls, and he knows his blotchy cheeks are now flushed red for an entirely different reason.

he answers faster than his mind can process, his stomach jumping with butterflies and an oncoming orgasm. your eyes won’t leave his— like a deceiving siren baring deep into his soul and rendering him vulnerable before consuming his entire being. not too far from his reality, hips bucking upwards as desperately as possible to emphasize his immediate answer, “i like you too—”

“you won’t look at me,” gojo hadn’t realized he shied away from your gaze, pouring his entire focus on not spilling both his heart and cum right into you, “talk to me.”

“i-it’s just, um,” he tries to flick his eyes back onto yours, but you’re still staring so intensely behind siren eyes and still rocking your hips. your fluids drip past your cunt and down his sack, before staining the carpet, “i’m a—mmph, nobody and you’re— well, you’re you,” he feels a hot tongue glide over the accumulated sweat on his neck and humps up again, “y’re just so pretty and every time i look at you i get the urge to c-cum but,” your teeth sink into his jugular before nibbling and he whines, throwing his head back, “i want— need you to cum first. . .”

there’s a beat of silence for a while. you’ve even halted your grinding altogether. he prays to god he didn’t mess up the one good thing that’s happened to him in all his twenty one years of living. you’ve even popped his now bruised skin from your lips— hovering right over the mark you left on him. pleasure licks at his limbs feverishly, back arching in hopes to dig even deeper (if possible) in your pussy.

you pull away from his neck and the tip of your nose is back to grazing his own. your usually styled hair is now a mess, your skin dampening from moisture and your lip gloss now swapped for your and his saliva— your overall classic, picture perfect image completely abandoned,

and he doesn’t think you’ve looked any prettier.

“so,” you draw out, freeing a hand from his locks to graze over the throbbing love bite at his neck. gojo sniffs, pushing his foggy glasses back up on his bridge with the back of his hand, and you caress the throbbing flesh, “the problem is when you look huh. . .?”

his neck is suddenly released from blissful torture and he feels his frames coming off his face from no effort of his own. his vision slowly fades and his pupils dilate to accommodate to his now poor quality of sight, “what are you—”

and his breath hitches. he can only make out your shape through your sinful curves but there’s no mistake from your silhouette— your hands, now holding his glasses hostage, press at his chest, “trust me,” you apply firm pressure from your palms to his upper body, and he feels himself sinking into the floor, back meeting the dirty carpet.

trust you? he’d lay his life on the line for a woman like you.

his fingers spread as his palms face the sky, and his breath staggered. the bookshelves, windows and study rooms are all blurry as fuck— which is both off putting and extremely risky since library hours were still valid at this time, but despite it all, it felt as if he could see you clear as day. gojo would usually never put his academics on the line, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of possibly getting caught having sex with the finest girl in school in a public library had his cock twitching incessantly.

god, he is just so happy to be here.

your fingers slide his glasses atop your nose bridge, and your cheeks split into a cheeky smile, hips beginning to roll back into their previous tempo. he feels your hands grabbing his own, before resting them at your hips. he’s a greedy man, and since the opportunity may only come once in his lifetime, he slides his hands further to your ass., and with a gulp, grabs the flesh greedily. damn— it hardly fits in his palms.

there’s a symphony of moans coming from you both when you lift your hips up, and it’s downright disgusting how turned on he gets at your essence trickling down his shaft and past his balls. your pussy lips drool and latch onto his tip tightly, before entirely releasing him and slipping your hand between your thighs. you kneed his nuts, fondling the testicles between your digits expertly and his back arches off the floor, “shouldn’t be an issue anymore, yeah?” you hum.

“y-yeah— oh god, yes,” gojo nods dumbly, toes curling in his socks as you proceed to stroke his cock. his tip is weeping in pre cum blended with your own wetness, and the faster you flick your wrist, the tighter his stomach contracts. he’s lasted quite some time now, considering this being his first time and all, but there’s only so much a man can hold back. his fingernails dig crescent moon shapes into the mounds of your ass as his hips chase after your touch with every stroke. “w-wait, fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

“yeah?” you encourage him, hunching just over his weeping dick, still holding him at his base. you drag his tip in between your lips, back and forth, while your other hand feels him up at his abs. “where do you wanna finish? on my face?” he whines, mindlessly humping and your smirk deepens as you slowly sink down, “on my tits?” gojo shakes his head, and feels drool coming from the corner of his lips. his limbs are on fire and his groin feels like it’s on the verge of explosion, “on my ass?” you’re about halfway down, “or. . . inside?”

“please,” he doesn’t care if he’s begging. snowy lashes bat open as his teary unfocused eyes adjust to the dimmed lights. even your silhouette is sexy, “please lemme cum inside, i-i’ll do anything.”

“hmm, anything?” you purr, knees finally hitting the floor as you straddle him once more. he lets out a guttural groan at the familiar feel of your silky walls entrapping his cock. his mind is fucking hazy and despite never having consuming alcohol, he feels drunk.

“yes,” he pleads, rolling his hips impossibly deeper into you, euphoric pleasure shooting in his bloodstream, “a-anything you want, i swear,” at the sudden intrusion, you let out a loud gasp when his tip bumps into your cervix and drop your body forward, arms giving out.

chest to chest, skin to skin, your lips hover over his as your back dips into an arch, forcing a penetration deeper in your guts. your palms are pressed flat onto the floor at the side of his head, and he can make out his glasses sitting lazily on the ball of your nose. he slides his hands up your sides, kneading at every inch of your flesh, before sliding back down to your ass.

“even my homework? assignments?” you tease breathily, a strangled moan ripping out your throat when his knees push up and fucks into you. your body jerks forward as his feet plant to the floor, hands still gripping on your ass.

when he snaps his hips up, you roll yours down, and the matching intensity sends his brain haywire. he’s desperate for release, forcing your hips down as he nudges his cock languidly into your cunt. his jaw falls slack and he nods again, dumbly, “ngh, for the rest of the s-school year,”

“that easy with you?” you giggle, but is easily interrupted when he leans forward to catch your lips in a messy kiss. there’s a shit ton of saliva involved, some even escapes past your mouths and down your jaws, but he couldn’t care any less—you tasted heavenly. he wishes he had the time to eat your pussy, he’s positive you taste holier down there.

“it’s your world.” gojo moans, snaking his hands from your ass to wrap around your upper body. now caught in his embrace, you let your head fall limply into the crook of his neck as he works his dick in and out of you. he means what he said— it is your world, and he’s nothing more than a happy servant. “i’ll do it all— bring your books to class, rub your feet— i’ll bark if you need me to— just, please, please, please let me cum inside.”

your moans vibrating from his neck run straight to his ears and fuels him further. he’s thrusting relentlessly— there’s no set pace at all, and he’s so close to finishing he’s completely forgotten about wanting you to cum first. he finally understands why everybody obsesses over sex— he never wants to let you go.

your head pushes up from his neck, nosing at his jaw. he feels your hands cradling his hair, and your lips pressing kisses at the corner of his mouth. his heart skips a beat— he revels in the attention you’re giving him, even if it’s just for the moment. he knows he won’t ever be this lucky again, so he might as well enjoy the ride while he’s here.

“you wanna breed my pussy?” you bite your lip, each stroke in your cunt jerking the glasses down the slope of your nose. despite the dense flog clouding the lens, he can feel your eyes on him. he nods desperately, tightening his hold on you, and the new angle has your clit dragging against his pelvis, “mmph— okay, yeah — put a baby in me, freak.”

and so he does. he thrusts as spurts of cum shoots inside your womb. his balls tighten as his hips rut, arms clutching onto your body with every fibre in him. you smell good, feel good, look good— and your cunt milks him dry for whatever he’s worth.

his orgasm feels short of an eternity yet simultaneously a second, his soul having transcended into an outwardly dimension. and it’s only when you scoot your ass upwards, sliding a hand between both warm bodies, that you collect his cum on the pad of your fingers. he blinks hazily, zeroing his focus when he sees you pop your fingers into your mouth.

“mhm,” you hum at the taste. he’s panting heavily, body riding a euphoric high he’s yet to come down from. you don’t seem to mind, leaning forward to catch his lips once again. and he lets you, moaning at the taste of himself on your tongue. when you pull away, there’s a thin string of cum induced saliva pulling at your lips. “‘s my world, right? want my pussy in your mouth.”

and he instantly hardens.

[twodeluxe]

love that rhythm games are, in many ways, "timeless" - the core gameplay of any variant of ddr is going to be the same, and older versions may actually be preferable depending on your preference for tracklist

[impostoradult]

YES! Yes yes yes.

LA and SF both have huge sprawling tent cities of homeless people next to virtually empty office buildings. Like...the solution is RIGHT THERE.

In New York and London, owners of gleaming office towers are walking away from their debt rather than pouring good money after bad. The landlords of downtown San Francisco’s largest mall have abandoned it. A new Hong Kong skyscraper is only a quarter leased.

The creeping rot inside commercial real estate is like a dark seam running through the global economy. Even as stock markets rally and investors are hopeful that the fastest interest-rate increases in a generation will ebb, the trouble in property is set to play out for years.

It's amazing how little I care.

I recall stories about house-flippers who were drowning in high-interest mortgages they never expected to need to float for more than a year, simply leaving the keys to perfectly good homes in the mailbox and walking away.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Hear me out…

Variants finding out that reader who is their S.O in their universe is dating somebody else in this one

All the possible reactions from them ESPECIALLY if the seeing reader again was their main motivation for coming to this dimension in the first place

(Pretty please can you include No goggles Mark and the variant that got blown up with Rex,,,,he had such an evil yet sweet and soft voice it still scratches my head so good)

Warnings: every red flag imagineable, forced relationship, abduction, manipulation, canon-typical violence + death, not proofread

He's calm. Too calm. Because he knows exactly how to resolve this.

You'd surely hate him if he was to kill your mate - which wouldn't be a hindrance, but still bothersome - so instead he resorts to more sophisticated measurements.

Got your partner dangling helplessly in the air while making it crystal clear that if he was to ever approach you again, the consequences would be worse than death.

Of course he'd be there to comfort you immediately after you get broken up with 'out of the blue'. You'll never know.

Surprisingly, I think he'd be the most chill about it. After all, he knows best what it's like to try and fill the void with meaningless partners.

But anyways, it's time you stop this bullshit, because your real soulmate is here now. He wouldn't even feel threatened by this nobody, confident that you'll eventually see just how much better he is in every way.

However, he is not a patient man. If you take too long to accept your fate, he might have to become a little more aggressive in his attempts.

Oh, so you want to make him jealous? Cute. Challenge accepted.

But don't be fooled by his confident facade, on the inside he is seething with rage and heartbreak. There's no way to calm him down, couldn't care less and didn't ask for your opinion, feelings, or whatever excuse you'd come up with to soothe his hurt pride.

He'd keep your 'pathetic attempt at replacing him' around, torturing him for his own amusement, and also as means of punishment because you 'cheated' on him. To 'mark his territory', he will constantly force your partner to watch the things he does to you.

In between his cruel way of venting his anger, he'll have brief moments of weakness, revealing just how desparate he is for your affection.

Won't harm your partner if you comply and come with him. They're insignificant either way.

He's pretty chill about the whole situation, certain that given time you'll surrender to your new circumstances. Treats you strict yet caring - as far as he is able to be - and gives you clear instructions of how to act around him.

Other than that, you'll be granted a rather peaceful life with as much freedom as he is possible to give to make you adapt easier. Asks you to never mention your ex in any way, though. Sore topic.

As far as he's concerned, your life before his arrival never existed.

This whole situation is weirdly amusing to him. He'll have a fit of laughter seeing you with this fucking loser, slapping his ankle and acting all silly, while degrading them and also you for choosing someone like this.

Will challenge your partner to a 'duel to win your favor' just for the fun of it. Might even let them land a hit or two, just to toy with them. We all know how this ends, but hey, it got the point across pretty well.

Afterwards he'll act all cheerful and whimsy, twirling you around and expecting you to be thrilled that he's here and got rid of this 'disgrace' for you.

Would be very underatanding. You are not to blame, after all. It's just that your kind is so weirdly obsessed with the concept of love, that you'd rather stay with the wrong companion than be all alone.

But now he has arrived, and by Viltrumite logic you should practically launch yourself onto the superior choice.

Acts as callous and neutral as always, claiming that this union is strictly strategical, but in reality it's eating him alive that he keeps failing to recreate a bond similar to the one you had with your partner.

At some point he pours out his heart, despite having a hard time to verbalize those feelings he was never taught. It's a beginning, though.

Amused, at least initially. But his mood is pretty erratic in general and can switch drastically.

Depending on your reaction, he might either adapt to the situation pretty easily or do something he regrets later. It's a thin line honestly, and there's no right or wrong action.

Most likely he's a petty bastard and will disregard your partner completely. Flirts with you constantly like a damn bully that tries to steal someone's girl in the most disrespectful way possible. And given his power he just knows neither of you have the guts to resist his antics. If you do play hard to get however, it only spurrs him further!

He can work with whatever you decide on doing.

This is his breaking point.

As soon as the reality of the situation sets in, he'll have a complete mental breakdown. You're finally in reach and yet so far away, with someone better that can provide a normal life for you.

Without any hope to hold onto, he'll start destroying everything in his path in a nihilistic fenzy. Without you, nothing matters anymore - it's better to end it all and take everyone with him.

You'll sacrifice yourself by making the heroic offer to stay at his side if he spares your world - and really, he'd rather have you like this than not at all.

Abducts you right then and there, no questions asked.

This man is so lost in his delusions that he seamlessly continues where he left off with his world's version of you. He refuses to acknowledge that you're a completely different person and gets unstable if you act any different than he expects you to.

The most horrifying thing is that he's a talented manipulator without even trying to be. Gaslights you into obedience by claiming it's the only way to keep you safe, and his gentle way of tending to you in huge contrast to his true nature. Over time he's able to actually make you care for him in a twisted way.

His intentions might be pure, his methods on the other hand are anything but that.

But hey, he never seeked out to be absolved anyways. All he wanted was to have you back.

Be prepared to hear all insuslts in the book being hurled at you.

Kills your partner out of a whim, but regrets his approach later on since he should have made them suffer way more. You can be glad he has a soft spot for you in his heart, otherwise would've died right then and there together.

Better make up to him after your 'mistake' by every means necessary. Get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness - even though you have no idea who he is or what he is talking about.

But hey, luckily he just can't be mad at you for too long.

Bonus: Retro Invincible

"I'm not mad, just disappointed" he states flatly with that smooth, balmy voice of his. He is definetly mad. Run.

Takes his sweet time ending the life of the person that dared defiling you with their unworthy touch, making you watch the entire thing so you'll 'learn your lesson'. And don't you dare to scream or even cry for them, or he'll unleash pain a thousand times worse.

Becomes awfully possessive afterwards. Even while holding you in captivity he'd still find reasons to lash out randomly at people he deems suspicious. You are always under his scrutiny, and the fact that you'll never truly be his is slowly driving him insane.

What a cruel turn of fate for both of you, eh?

[cuntyji]

i got #senti watching my neighbors do this...may this love find every desi baddie reading this

the fan whirrs lazily in the corner, moving more air than it cools, but you don’t mind—none of you do. it’s the kind of heat that sits low on your skin, not scorching but ever-present, softened by the scent of coconut oil that fills the room like a balm. the door is wide open, letting in a golden blaze of sunlight, and with it, the gentle drone of cicadas and the occasional bark of a neighborhood dog.

your legs are folded beneath you on the old cotton mat you’ve both been using since before the kids were born. it’s faded at the edges, patterned with sunflowers, and there’s an oily stain near one corner where suguru always sets the bottle down with too much trust. he’s sitting in front of you, bare shoulders gleaming slightly from the oil you’ve already worked into his scalp, thick black hair catching the light like strands of ink. "you always start too close to the nape," he says lazily, voice dipping in amusement, “you just like seeing me flinch when it gets cold.” 

you smile, fingers parting his hair into sections with practiced ease. “i like making you behave.”

“hm,” he hums, tilting his head back slightly, “if that’s your idea of discipline, i think i’ll misbehave more often.”

he sighs contentedly as your fingers move—strong, slow strokes from root to end. the rhythm is meditative, almost sacred. the oil leaves your hands slick, warm. you twist his hair into thick, even braids, tugging gently at the ends to neaten them.

somewhere in the back of the house, there’s the sound of small feet slapping against the tiled floor, and then she’s there—your daughter, in all her boldness. her curls are wild, one braid half undone, and she throws herself down beside her father with all the flair of a reigning queen.

“papa! me next!”

“line up, my highness,” he murmurs with a grin, patting the spot between his knees. “you’ve got more tangles than a bird’s nest today.”

“it’s not a bird’s nest!” she pouts. “it’s fluffy!”

before you can even chuckle, a quieter pair of footsteps follows. your son lingers in the doorway, hands wrung together, hair still too short to hold any kind of braid, but eyes hopeful all the same.

“…mama?” he asks, almost whispering. “can i do it too? even if mine’s short?”

you pat the mat beside you without hesitation. “baby, in this family, everyone gets their hair oiled. now sit.”

he scurries over, settling between your knees, and you catch suguru’s soft glance from across the mat. the love in his eyes could melt you.

the radio crackles to life just then, an old retro track sliding through the speakers—smooth, swaying guitar riffs and crooning vocals from a bygone summer. you sway a little to the beat without thinking, the coconut oil thick between your fingers as you gently rub it into your son’s scalp.

“this one’s your mom’s favorite,” suguru says to your daughter as he parts her hair.

“you say that about every song!”

“because she’s got good taste,” he replies, matter-of-fact.

her laughter is all bubbles and sunshine, filling the warm air between you like it belongs there. he gently untangles her curls, and you work slowly, tenderly through your son’s shorter strands, making sure the oil touches every root. the scent of it mixes with the smell of sun-heated wood and the faint sweetness of something sugary waiting in the fridge.

“when we’re done, can we drink the sugarcane juice?” your son asks.

“only if you promise not to spill it like last time,” you tease.

“that was one time!!” he protests.

“you turned the whole kitchen floor into a sticky swamp,” suguru adds. “we almost lost a slipper to it.”

the kids erupt into giggles, and you lean back on your hands, looking at them. looking at him.

four mats. four people. a lazy sunday that smells of oil and love and everything you’ve built from scratch. 

this is it. this is the win.

and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[mothmanssweetsucculentass]

ZZZ Headcanons

Help this game has taken over my free time I love these characters sm <3 Billy Soukaku and Ellen my beloved

Nicole: has a not so secret hobby of bedazzling anything and everything. It’s a real problem in the Cunning Hares apartment, nothing is safe from pink rhinestones and stickers

Anby: cracked at rhythm games to an alarming degree. Can do a 2 person extremely hard DDR song all by herself

Billy: I don’t know how they did it but they programmed an android with autism. Has his own version of a skincare routine which is basically just maintenance on all of his tiny mechanical parts. Can also gain power multiple ways, including solar power. The apartment complex where the Cunning Hares live had a blackout once and everyone used Billy as a personal charging port. Nicole promised to pay him in Starlight Knight merch.

Nekomata: cuts her own hair and offers to do it for other people. DO NOT trust her when she says she’s good at it

Grace: did gymnastics as a kid which is why she’s able to pull off a ton of backflips and flexible maneuvers in battle

Anton: uses actual cement to keep his hair spikes in shape. Koleda caught him in the act once and instead of chewing him out, she decided to apply some to her own hair and now they’re cement combover gang

Ben: is completely vegan and loves chilling at hot springs a lot. Still sleeps with stuffed animals btw

Koleda: I’m making it canon right now Koleda is trans and you can’t do shit about it. Also has welding as a hobby and made most of her accessories from scratch

Corin: when not in Victoria Housekeeping Co uniform, is a Jfashion junkie. I’m talking super dedicated Lolita fits, menhera inspired clothing, the whole shebang. She ofc designs a lot of her own stuff like her bear backpack and is also responsible for a lot of the accessories Victoria Housekeeping Co wears (Rina’s bows, Ellen’s shark jaw head and neckpieces, Lycaon’s eyepatch and tail straps). She also has a massive crush on Ellen and is too scared to admit it

Rina: has a fur allergy and can’t keep animals around. Which also means she’s allergic to Lycaon. She has to take so much Zyrtec before clocking in but has such a good poker face that Lycaon has no idea. Ellen knows tho

Lycaon: specifically wears the heeled boots and has his odd posture because he’s self conscious about his digitigrade legs, he thinks they’re unsightly for a butler of his standing to have. He also tries to encourage Ellen to wear a long maid dress like Rina does to hide her tail.

Ellen: coincidentally falls into a lot of shark stereotypes. She loves seafood, has to constantly be fidgeting or she feels like she’ll go mad, and the kicker, she gets frenzied around blood, or if the thing she’s fighting puts up a struggle. Corin accidentally cut her hand while repairing her saw blade once and both Lycaon and Rina could barely hold Ellen back once Corin began bleeding. Ellen feels awful for scaring the already timid girl. Corin secretly thought it was hot and would die on the spot if anyone knew that

Soukaku: despite being a huge foodie this girl cannot cook for shit. Is also physically cold to the touch and during the summer her coworkers will ask her to hold their drinks because they’ll stay cold. Soukaku always secretly sneaks sips every time they do this to her.

Miyabi: has the worst sleep schedule known to man. Sometimes you’ll find her awake at 3AM and conked out by 4PM, other times she goes to bed at 8PM and wakes up at 4AM. It’s inconsistent and irregular and a gamble trying to contact her outside of work because she might not even be awake

Harumasa: GAY GAY HOMOSEXUAL GAY. Also pretty cracked at chess and other strategy games. Is also a major old fashioned guy and doesn’t own a lot of modern technology. He’s not into retro or old stuff, he just doesn’t like new stuff

Yanagi: her glasses are fake. When she was younger she needed them, but her vision had naturally gotten better over the years, so she now wears contacts, but for some reason still insists on wearing her glasses. Loses them constantly during battle.

Lucy: even though she was forced to play piano as a kid, she really wanted to be a sporty girl and play stuff like soccer and baseball. Now she has the freedom to take part in the sports she likes and watch them surrounded by the people she likes

Piper: insanely picky eater to the point it drives Lucy up a wall. Is also picky about a lot of other things, like how different fabrics feel, different comfort levels of chairs and beds, girl is a complainer and will always find something to complain about

Lighter: has a side gig as a tattoo artist, has really stable hands too

Soldier 11: has 5 younger brothers, a younger sister, and 2 older siblings who she doesn’t see super often. Has divorced parents who also liked to adopt, which is why she has such a huge family. Her younger brothers love it when she comes home and plays secret agent military with them

Seth: can’t drive. That’s it send tweet.

Qingyi: is outwardly dismissive of meditation tricks and hacks and tips but utilizes that shit in private ALL the time.

Zhu Yuan: shares the vegetables she grows in her garden with all her neighbors. Is also a REALLY good cook to the point people have encouraged her to potentially consider a different career path

Jane Doe: the rat girl has pet rats go figure. But in all seriousness she’d die for her little guys. She has a white one named Cocaine and a brown one named Tobacco and a gray one named Crystal Meth. She thinks the names are hilarious and every time she introduces the rats to other people their facial expressions are priceless

[c4tluver02]

scoops ahoy!

wc: 2k

summary: Taking a walk around the mall on your break you end up meeting Steve at Scoops Ahoy. After waiting days for him to come visit you, you can't help but think he doesn't like you. How will Steve fix this?

warnings: none!

a/n: fluff cutie stuff right here!!

After already working for a few hours you decide to venture out of the small store to see the rest of the mall. Despite your love for books it seemed people didn't come to the mall to go to a bookstore, which meant it’s been empty practically all day. It was a small space that looked rather homey and soft than the other neighboring stores.  That's exactly what made you want to work there, to get discounts on books and not have to deal with people but also getting paid? Sounded like a dream to you. However, after a while the reading wasn't doing enough and your break was nearing. Boredom started taking over which is why you are walking around the mall window shopping. Simply looking into other stores to see their items and their set up. Until you found an ice cream place that seemed to be pretty packed. 

It had a retro vibe to it as the walls lined with white and blue stripes. The glowing sign somehow worked on you and you found yourself in line thinking of what flavor you want. But knocking you out of your thoughts you hear a loud voice.-

“Ahoy, ladies! Didn’t see you there. Would you guys like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I’ll be your captain. I’m Steve Harrington.”  

Somehow when you walked in you missed the insane attire the workers strutted. A hat coupled with a blue shirt that had a tie around it. Then following the blue shorts that connected to long white socks. A perfect sailor fit if you will. You immediately bite your lip to stop a laugh from coming out at the outfit along with the long introduction. Feeling extremely grateful that you just have to sit in a cozy area in regular clothes. The girls ahead of you ordered and found a table leaving you as the next customer. But the guy, who you now know to be Steve Harrington, was no longer near the front of the register but talking to a girl through a window in the wall. It wasn't until she cleared her throat and brought her eyes to you that Steve realized someone was there. 

Steve comes back to the counter and after letting out a sigh goes to say his line “Oh sorry I didn’t see you there-” 

“You don't have to do the whole intro. I just heard you yell it out a minute ago..” You say with a warm smile trying not to laugh as you recall the whole scene that played in front of you. 

Steve's shoulders fall, a tension he didn't realize he was even holding as he lets out a gentle laugh. “Thanks, they make us say it so..” He says scratching at the nape of his neck.  “It’s even worse when I have the hat on.” He smiles at you trying to come back from his act a moment prior. 

“Oh wow, a hat huh?” You cover your mouth with your hand trying to stop the laughter that is already coming out. Steve rolls his eyes in a playful manner at the action. 

“Yeah yeah, as if this outfit wasn't enough.” He says as you take in the details of his outfit. 

“I have to say I don't know many people here who introduce themselves to customers with their first and last name..” Your cheeks are starting to hurt, and you realize how much you've been smiling from this interaction. 

“Hey don't knock it till you try it!” Steve is quick to defend but then notices something you said. “People here? Do you work in the mall?” You could say Steve is grasping at straws here but he hopes he can see you more and if you work here that could be his way in. 

“I do, I work on the 1st floor at the bookstore?” It comes out as a question, as if to ask if he even knows about it. 

Steve hasn't looked around the mall ever, this job tainting the whole thing not wanting to spend even more time in it. But a smile is plastered on his face, thanks to his detective skills he has a reason to talk more with you. 

But before Steve can ask you more questions a loud cough is heard behind you. Three customers are waiting and it would seem they have grown impatient. 

Turning your head back to Steve you whisper an ‘oh shit’ and order your ice cream. It’s a safe flavor you know you like but you hope to come back and try more. Well that and maybe talking to the sailor boy. 

-

Three days have passed since your time down at Scoops Ahoy. Steve hasn’t come by the bookstore and you can't help but think you were reading the situation wrong. It wasn't like you invited him up to the store but you thought the conversation was good enough perhaps on his break he'd come to you. Would going back just to talk to him come off as desperate? Because that's what you were feeling like. You talked to this man for no longer than a few minutes and you're already three days into thinking about him. Getting all upset you haven't seen him. You look for a new book wanting any other thoughts to plague your mind. 

Although Steve was having his own set of problems. 

“You weren't even there Rob, the way the conversation flowed and her laugh. Oh man, her laugh. I would die to hear it again.” Steve is now confiding in his best friend Robin on his new found crush. 

She can't help but roll her eyes at his statement. “You can hear it again. She’s right above us, why don't you just go up there?” Robin was surprised Steve had finally found someone who played into his jokes, she had so many tally marks on her white board saying different things.

“Yeah but she didn’t say to come up and hang out she just told me where she worked. I would be a psycho stalker to go up there.” He says letting a huff of air come out. 

“You were just saying how well the conversation was, I doubt she’d be upset by it. Also I hate to remind you but your luck with women hasn't been 10/10 so to turn down this would be crazy.”

Steve knows Robin is right. He has been having a bit of trouble with girls recently and it say its putting a damp in his mood would be an understatement. 

-

It has now been a whole week since you and Steve had last talked. Yet Steve couldn't stop thinking about you, or how his anxiety is stopping him from going up an escalator and into your store. He decided to finally man up and on his day off go see you. He doesn't even know if you're working but Steve thinks if you're there and he gets that lucky it must mean something. 

Steve walks into the shop and there's no one by the cashier. It’s dead silent besides someone in the back of the store. He goes back to see if by some chance it’s you but it’s not. It’s someone stocking the books up which switches Steve's mood instantly. You weren't here. Maybe this is Steve's sign that he's been looking for. Maybe it wasn't meant to be and- 

Ouch. 

Steve turns around to see who just walked into him, noticing a stack of books that hit him and fell due to the impact. As the books fall your face is revealed. Steve's frown from the lack of your presence along with the pain of the books falling on his feet quickly turns into a smile. You are here, you were just in the back.

While Steve's smile is bright, your frown and pinched brows share a different story. You didn’t look happy to see him. And in your opinion it was fair to be upset. You had been waiting for him for a whole week and here he is out of the blue right as you were getting over it all. 

Steve is quick to bend down to pick up the books as you go to the counter to set the rest down. Steve then does the same copying your movements. 

“Thank you.” You say in a monotone voice, you could be upset but manners should never falter. 

“Yeah, no problem. This store is really nice.” Steve is trying to start up small talk and for some reason it's not flowing the way it did when you were at Scoops. 

You decide to humor the situation by replying. “It was a major selling point for me working here. It's a great atmosphere.” There's a gentle tone that you have when talking about the space and Steve immediately picks up on it. 

“Well it's a million times better than dressing in a sailor outfit with kids begging for ice cream.” Steve laughs trying to lighten the conversation. 

“I think anything is better than that Steve.” You say looking at him and Steve thinks he might melt right then and there. That's the first time he’s heard you say his name and he wishes he could hear it a million times over. 

“I just realized I never got your name. We were interrupted by my job.” His smile is wide, ready to absorb any information you are willing to give him. 

You tell him your name and finally let out a smile. “Very true I think it's okay though I could have been there for hours yapping away if someone didn't stop me.” You say in a playful manner. But Steve wishes that was the reality and that he could have experienced that. 

“Well I would have stayed there for hours listening.” It comes out so gently in fear of him being too bold. The fear still lingering that you actually didn't want anything to do with him. 

You smile at his response as a wave of silence washes over the two of you. Both looking at each other unknowing what to say next. 

“Steve?” You ask, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah?” 

“Why did it take you so long to come in here?” You ask the questions that's been gnawing at you. A question that's been making it hard to read or hard to do work. 

His eyes widen at your question, the feeling of being called out nerving. “I- I just.. I didn’t know if you wanted me to. I wanted to but I didn’t want to come in like a weirdo and creep you out because you never asked me to come visit you.” No explanation will help stop the guilt blooming in his chest. He wishes he didn't put you through this mental game.

The explanation is so simple and nothing like the things you've had spinning around in your head. It had nothing to do with what you said or what you looked like, it was just a simple thing. So simple that you felt bad for the rude attitude you've been sporting since he's come in. 

“Oh.. I guess I should have been more specific huh?” You look at him with soft eyes, he can tell you feel bad but you shouldn't. 

“Hey, no don't blame yourself I should have just came in anyways. It’s my fault, but at least now I'm here? That is if you still wanna talk..” Steves looking at the ground now, how you're going to decline his offer already stirring up in his brain. But instead you say something different.

“I'd love to!” You have the biggest smile on your face and Steve knows he looks shocked. Because he is. How could you want to talk to him after this whole mess?

“Yeah? Really?” 

“Well.. Maybe not right now I am working but, maybe saturday?” You end the question with a higher voice. Asking a question mixed with hope. 

“Can I pick you up on Saturday at 7?” Now he's the one with a high voice asking a question. Thankfully it works perfectly for you. 

“Yes, that's perfect.” You write down your number and your address to give to Steve. He takes it and stands still. He doesn't want to leave but you're right, you are working. 

“Okay I’ll see you then.” This is said firmly. Like a fact, like it's 100% going to happen and it’s set in stone. Because it is. And you couldn't be happier but Steve would argue he is.

[sevarchive]

bllk headcanons! #4

nagi seishiro! on your first date together

a/n: this piece was written for a ticket from the ask roulette carnival! the requester got their surprise prompt, and this was the result. to see what their emoji unlocked (or check your own entry), visit their original ticket here!

starring: nagi seishiro

NAGI SEISHIRO doesn’t like crowds or fancy setups, so he chooses something casual and quiet: a cozy gaming café tucked in a quiet neighborhood (okay but let's be real, reo probably gave him a list of suggestions).

it’s got floor cushions, mood lighting, a soft-serve machine, retro game consoles, and snack shelves you can raid without needing to talk to a single staff member. bonus: free wi-fi and beanbags big enough for two people. he didn’t plan it to be romantic, but in a weirdly perfect way... it is.

he shows up in a soft oversized hoodie (probably light gray or washed-out blue), slightly wrinkled, with black joggers and worn-in sneakers. his hair’s a little messy, clearly didn’t try too hard. but you do notice that he smells faintly like his shampoo.

he also wears your favorite color on something small—his phone case, bracelet, or even the graphic on his hoodie. you don’t think it’s on purpose... but maybe it is.

no flowers, no dramatic gestures. but he brought an extra phone charger in his pocket for you, and your favorite drink, true nagi fashion.

the two of you settle into a cozy corner. he lets you pick the first game, anything cooperative or funny, so he can watch you react. he’s not trying to show off. in fact, he purposely plays a little slower so you don’t feel left behind.

but when you catch on, he grins a little and says, “oops. guess i’ll try hard now.”

you take a break halfway through and go to grab drinks. when you come back, he’s holding up his phone to show you a blurry picture.

“you looked cute concentrating,” he says. just drops that and returns to the game. like he didn’t just end your whole soul.

at some point, he leans against your side without warning. his hair brushes your cheek, and he doesn’t move away. just sighs softly and stays like that.

when a game gets frustrating, you groan, and he leans close, eyes glued to the screen. “i’ll get it for you. just watch.” he does. on the first try.

outside, the air is a little chilly. he shrugs off his hoodie and casually drapes it over your shoulders without saying anything. you try to protest. he shrugs.

“you can give it back next time.” (that’s his way of saying he wants another date.)

he walks you home. doesn’t hold your hand, but his sleeve brushes yours every few steps, and he doesn’t pull away. when you reach your door, he hesitates.

“thanks for hanging out. it wasn’t lame like i thought it’d be.” then he scratches the back of his neck. “you… make stuff fun, y’know?”

he leans in—not a kiss. just rests his forehead lightly against yours for a beat, warm and heavy and quiet.

“see you soon, yeah?”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdedicated to @sinsxo

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[clipitcutout]

hi! would it be possible to get a lil set of scratch n' sniff stickers from the 80s/90s? :3

I had so much fun making these! I'm sorry for my delay! Tysm for the request!

80s/90s retro stickers nostalgia (scratch and sniff stickers) pngs!

...

If you love aesthetics/pngs/moodboards/ check out my pinterest at magicloopsdotart

[bewitchedarchive]

snuck glances.

peter parker x gn!reader, 1.2k

warnings: none

a/n: enjoy!

You didn’t actually know his name yet.

You were too shy to ask.

But that was okay, because it wasn’t like you were ever going to actually talk to him. He was just ‘chemistry boy’. Cute, slightly mysterious chemistry boy.

It had been about a week and a half since you’d started in this class, and it was quickly becoming your favorite. Not because you had a particular passion for the subject, but because you didn’t mind having a pretty person to sneak glances at for an hour each day.

He sat to your left, his table slightly in front of yours, making it easier for you to observe him without him seeing- which you most definitely did. You were sort of able to get to know him this way, without ever talking or making eye contact for more than five seconds. As it turned out, he wouldn’t volunteer himself a lot in class- he was pretty closed off compared to some other, more obnoxious classmates of yours. But you were able to know him in other ways.

He was charmingly awkward whenever you did see him interact with someone. Once, another student asked for a pen and he fumbled with his case for a minute straight to retrieve it for them, apologizing over and over while other supplies slipped out of his hands. He would jump about a foot in the air if anyone tapped him on the shoulder, and was always very hesitant in conversation if it wasn’t with a friend.

During the first lab you’d done, his hair had gotten stuck in the strap of his goggles, and he didn’t notice till he was yanking it out. It left him with an extremely visible dent all around his head, his curls all flattened and wonky and sticking out in weird directions.

In the moment, as you watched him fight with the goggles, you couldn’t help but think that it was quite possibly the most endearing thing you’d ever seen. Though he wasn’t the biggest social butterfly, he was cute, truly.

However, he was the opposite of awkward with his lab partner, whose name you were pretty sure was Ned. He seemed nice too, and the tiniest bit more socially aware. Not by much, though. With Ned, he was excitable and outgoing.

They were always whispering and conspiring with each other when the teacher turned her back, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about. You were able to catch snatches of their less secretive conversations, though, which seemed to center around a lot of retro media and niche, nerdy interests. And Legos, sometimes.

There was another thing he did, though, that caught your attention. From the very first day of class, chemistry boy had made a habit of peeking and fiddling in the drawer of his table. It wasn’t all the time, but it was at least once a day. He would open it, look down, then take a note on his paper. Or he would reach in and twist and tug at something you couldn’t see- he would place it on his wrist, too and play with it some more. Sometimes he’d pull out his calculator, even when you weren’t doing any math in the instruction for the day. You wondered constantly what he could possibly be doing in there, but didn’t dare ask or look in the drawer yourself. It would be a major invasion of privacy.

A month later, you had- of course- learned his name. Peter Parker. A very interesting name, if anyone asked you. (Which they didn’t.) It was perfectly alliterated, and would be fun to say if you ever got to use it.

In late September, he finally caught you staring at him during class like you always did. It was honestly a wonder he hadn’t done so sooner, considering how obviously interested you were in him.

It was during a quiz. Everyone was silent, the only sound in the room being that of scratching pencils and the clickity-clack of people punching numbers into a calculator. You’d gotten slightly distracted when you caught a glimpse of Peter, ever so focused on his work, brow furrowed, hair messily falling down the side of his face. You were happily admiring him for a few moments, until his shoulders just barely tensed up and he turned to look at you. You supposed he had sensed your gaze on him. You locked eyes and you thought, wow, his eyes are really brown, before remembering yourself and lowering your head to pretend like you were focusing on your gas law equations.

From then on, he was peeking at you, too. You pretended not to notice, while secretly taking note of each time he did. Soon enough, the two of you were caught in this unique dynamic where you both knew the other was stealing glances, but you didn’t acknowledge it. A lot of your attention in chemistry was now directed towards him and the looks you two shared.

He would grin at you when you both got a high score on a test, would glance back at you when your partner said something a little too loudly. He would roll his eyes at you when the teacher gave the class extra hard work. And sometimes, if you cracked a joke or did something embarrassing, you could catch his shoulders moving up and down, and his cheek would look a little rounder, because he was laughing with you. Secret and private interactions, just for the two of you, every day. It was lovely.

However, perhaps you spent a little too much time concentrated on Peter Parker, because you found yourself struggling a bit more to focus during instruction and work, and that was an issue.

It did, though, finally give you the perfect excuse to talk to Peter. You’d never seen a red mark on any of his papers, and even with the amount of time he spent either fiddling in his drawer, talking with Ned, or looking at you, he seemed to excel in the class somehow.

You could ask him to tutor you.

Two days after the idea struck you, on a foggy, otherwise ordinary Friday, you were sitting next to Peter, as always, after the teacher had introduced a topic you were finding particularly difficult to wrap your head around. Now was as good a time as any, you supposed. The bell was going to ring any second, anyway.

You snatched your notebook and pencil and packed them away, then took a quick breath. You tapped Peter on his shoulder and, true to form, he jumped slightly before turning around. His face was open and curious and beautiful as ever, so you decided you might as well ask. “Hey, Peter! Um, I’m not really doing too great with this new unit. Stoichiometry is kind of kicking my ass, but you seem pretty good at it,” You let out a nervous laugh, “Do you think we could maybe study together and you could… tutor me?”

A slow smile spread across his face, and your heart skipped several beats. “Of course! Anything you need. Do you have time tomorrow?” You nodded. “Okay, great. I’ll give you my number so we can figure out details.”

Just as you handed his phone back to him, the bell rang. He slung his bookbag over his shoulder and was halfway through a step towards the door before he turned around with a half-smile, “Tomorrow!”

[p0orbaby]

Why Do I Give You the Worst of Me (1)

summary: love and bad decisions collide as you struggle to balance a tour and a relationship that’s spiraling out of control

warnings: 18+ adult themes throughout

a/n: another series i’m hoping i don’t regret committing myself to… not sure how many parts it’ll be, i don’t plan anything

word count: 3.1k

-

You wake up face-first on a sofa that smells like cigarettes, spilled beer, and faintly, vomit. Not yours, you think. The synthetic fabric is scratchy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, it takes a moment to realise it’s morning—sunlight cutting through the cracked blinds, striping the floor with dusty light. The sofa is mustard yellow, ugly in a deliberate, trying-too-hard-to-be-retro way. It doesn’t belong to you. Nothing in this flat belongs to you.

There’s a girl in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she pours cereal into a bowl. You don’t know her name, but you know she wears Chanel No. 5 because it’s all you could smell last night when she leaned too close, whispering something you didn’t quite catch. Her hair’s a mess now—like spun gold caught in a tangle of barbed wire—but her makeup is still pristine. She’s the kind who sets her eyeliner with setting spray before going out, even if it’s just to the pub. You admire the commitment, if not the execution.

Your head throbs—a deep, insistent ache behind your eyes that reminds you of last night in bits and pieces: the gig (decent, though the sound guy fucked up your monitor levels), the afterparty (loud, sweaty, a haze of bodies and smoke), the lines of coke on a chipped coffee table, the bartender who kept giving you free shots because he recognised you from that NME interview last month. At some point, someone tried to fight you, though you’re not sure why. You vaguely remember smashing a bottle of tequila against a wall and laughing as glass shards rained down like confetti.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, which is peeling in a way that suggests years of neglect, a building held together more by stubbornness than actual structural integrity. There’s a stain in the corner that looks suspiciously like mould, but you don’t care enough to investigate. The flat isn’t yours, after all. You were invited here by someone whose name escapes you now—a bassist from another band, or maybe it was their girlfriend? They’re gone this morning, anyway, leaving behind only the detritus of a night well-lived: empty bottles, crushed cigarette packets, a single black stiletto abandoned near the door like a fairy-tale gone wrong.

You light a cigarette, despite the pounding in your head and the fact that you’re pretty sure it’s technically illegal to smoke indoors here. The girl in the kitchen glances at you but doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if she’s annoyed or indifferent; you don’t care. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the quiet. Mornings like this are rare—where everything is still and soft, where the chaos of your life is temporarily held at bay by the thin walls of someone else’s flat.

Your bass is propped up against the armchair, scratched and battered in a way that tells a story if you care to look closely enough. It’s a Fender Precision, black with a white pickguard, the same model Sid Vicious used to play—not that you’d ever admit that’s why you bought it. The neck has a gouge near the third fret from when you threw it at a sound tech who deserved it (and missed). The strap is leather, worn smooth where it rests on your shoulder, and the bridge still has flecks of blood from the time you played so hard your fingers split open mid-song. You keep meaning to clean it, but you never do.

You check your phone, which is cracked and sticky with something you don’t want to identify. No new messages, except for a text from your drummer that reads: “u alive?” You don’t bother replying.

-

You’ve been in the band for five years now, though it feels longer. It started as a joke—a group of friends fucking around in someone’s garage, trying to see who could play the loudest, the fastest, the most obnoxious. Somewhere along the way, it became serious. There was a DIY EP, recorded in one manic weekend on borrowed gear, and a string of gigs in dingy pubs where the audiences were more interested in drinking than listening. Then came the break—a slot supporting a bigger band, one of those industry darlings who’d already started to hate themselves for selling out. The kind of band that wears matching outfits ironically, even though everyone knows it’s not ironic at all.

Now, you play sold-out shows to crowds who scream your lyrics back at you, though most of them probably couldn’t name your second album. Your face has been on the cover of Kerrang! twice, though you didn’t bother reading the articles. You hate interviews, but you do them anyway because your manager insists. You’re better at the photoshoots—smirking at the camera in a way that suggests you don’t care (you do).

The band is your life, though you wouldn’t call it that. Calling it your life makes it sound like you have some sort of plan, and you don’t. You’re just here, playing gigs and writing songs and doing whatever it takes to keep the wheels from falling off.

Your bandmates are a mixed bag of personalities, each one a walking caricature in their own way. There’s Matt, the drummer, who swears he’s been abducted by aliens and won’t shut up about it. Alex, the lead guitarist, is constantly high and insists on bringing his cat on tour, which you find deeply annoying. And then there’s Holly, the singer, who somehow manages to be both the most chaotic and the most responsible member of the group. She’s the one who organises rehearsals, books the studio time, and keeps you all from self-destructing entirely. You love her for it, even if you’d never say it out loud.

The girl in the kitchen finishes her cereal, rinses the bowl, and leaves without saying goodbye. You watch her go, not because you care but because there’s nothing else to do. When the door slams shut, the flat feels even smaller, like the walls are pressing in on you. You stub out your cigarette, grab your bass, and leave too.

-

Outside, London is already alive, though you wouldn’t call it awake. The streets are sticky from last night—spilled pints and kebab wrappers crushed into the pavement, cigarette butts floating in puddles of something that smells suspiciously like piss. The air has that distinct urban flavour: exhaust fumes mingling with fryer grease and the faint tang of wet concrete. You pull your leather jacket tighter around you, not because it’s cold (it is), but because it completes the look.

The jacket is vintage��or at least you tell people it is. In reality, you bought it at a high-street shop three years ago, and it’s held up surprisingly well, considering the abuse it’s endured. The lining is torn, the cuffs are frayed, and there’s a mysterious stain on the back you can’t quite place. But it’s yours, and it feels like armour. The boots, on the other hand, are real vintage: a pair of Dr Martens from the ‘90s you found in a thrift shop in Brighton. They’re scuffed to hell, and the left one squeaks when you walk, but you refuse to replace them because they’re authentic.

You head toward the Tube station, your bass slung over one shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. People stare, but only briefly. In London, no one has the energy to care for long. The morning commuters are a mix of suits and students, their faces blank, their eyes glazed over as they clutch takeaway coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. You feel out of place but also weirdly superior, like you’ve cracked some code they haven’t even realised exists yet.

You hop on the Northern line, ignoring the signs that politely request passengers to “refrain from eating or drinking.” You’re not eating or drinking, but you do pull out a cigarette, which is arguably worse. It’s a roll-up, so you convince yourself it doesn’t count. An old woman glares at you, clutching her handbag like she thinks you’re about to mug her. You offer her a crooked smile, which she does not return, and you put the cigarette back in your pocket because she reminds you of your nan.

The train screeches into motion, and you pull out your phone. The lock screen is a photo of your bass, which says a lot about you. There are a few notifications—mostly spam emails and an unread message from Holly: Rehearsal at 2. Don’t be late, dickhead.

You glance at the time. 11:47 a.m. Plenty of time.

-

The rehearsal space is in Camden, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and unwashed socks. The walls are lined with egg cartons painted black in a half-hearted attempt at soundproofing, and the floor is sticky for reasons you’d rather not think about. The room has seen better days—probably in the ‘80s, when it was still a nightclub and not a haven for struggling musicians. There’s a single fluorescent bulb overhead that flickers ominously, and a space heater in the corner that’s never worked.

Holly is already there when you arrive, tuning her guitar with the precision of someone who takes this far more seriously than you do. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered in patches for bands you’ve never heard of, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looks up as you walk in, her expression equal parts exasperation and relief.

“Christ, you smell like an ashtray,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s called branding,” you reply, dropping your bass onto the floor with a thud.

Matt and Alex show up ten minutes later, looking even worse than you do. Matt has the kind of face that always looks slightly hungover, even when he’s not, and Alex is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, now with an impressive new stain across the front.

The rehearsal starts late, as it always does, and quickly descends into chaos. Matt insists on playing a drum solo during every song, despite the fact that no one asked for it. Alex keeps stopping mid-riff to check his phone, claiming he’s “waiting for an important call,” though everyone knows it’s just his dealer. Holly shouts at both of them until her voice cracks, then turns her frustration on you for being “completely fucking useless.” You take it in stride, plucking random notes on your bass and pretending to care.

-

At some point, Holly storms out, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Matt immediately pulls out a joint, which Alex lights with a lighter shaped like a naked woman. You lean back against the wall, your bass resting against your thigh, and watch as they argue over which fast-food place to hit up after rehearsal.

“McDonald’s is closer,” Alex says, taking a drag.

“But KFC’s got the gravy,” Matt counters, waving his arms for emphasis.

“It’s not even real gravy,” Alex snaps.

“None of it’s real,” you interject, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re all just cogs in the capitalist machine.”

They stare at you for a moment, then go back to arguing.

-

By the time rehearsal ends, it’s dark outside. You pack up your gear, ignoring Holly’s death glare as she reminds you for the millionth time that you need to take this more seriously. You nod, mumble something about “artistic integrity,” and leave before she can yell at you again.

Back on the street, the air is crisp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin and makes you wish you’d brought a scarf. You light another cigarette, even though you’ve already smoked half a pack today, and head toward the pub.

The pub is your sanctuary, a place where time slows down and the only thing that matters is the next round. It’s a dive, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your shoes and the jukebox is permanently stuck on a rotation of The Clash and The Smiths. You know the bartender by name, though you’re not sure if he knows yours.

You order a pint and settle into a corner booth, your bass case propped up beside you. The first sip is like a warm hug, washing away the stress of the day. You’re halfway through your second pint when you see her.

-

You don’t notice her at first. Not properly. She’s part of the blur—the dim bar lights catching on glasses, the low hum of half-drunken conversation, the vague sense that you’ve been here before even if you haven’t. She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink, and it’s not until the bartender—a man whose name might be Pete but who you’re pretty sure is just “Oi, mate” to everyone who comes in—hands her a gin and tonic that you actually see her.

And it’s a gin and tonic. Not a lager, not a rum and coke, not something ironic like a snakebite or one of those craft beers with names like Hops and Robbers. It’s a G&T, clean and crisp, with a slice of lime balanced on the rim like it’s posing for a stock photo. The glass is crystal clear, and so are her nails—short, practical, painted the sort of soft pink that suggests she doesn’t chew them during stressful moments (unlike you). She takes the drink with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, and there’s something about that—the deliberateness of it—that hooks you.

You tell yourself you’re just looking because she’s there. Because it’s either her or the guy at the next table who’s been droning on about Bitcoin for twenty minutes straight. But it’s more than that. There’s a stillness to her, an odd kind of clarity that doesn’t fit in a place like this, like she’s wandered in from a parallel universe.

She turns slightly, and you catch her profile: sharp nose, strong jawline, cheekbones that could cut glass but probably wouldn’t because she seems far too polite. Her hair is blonde—not platinum, not peroxide, but the kind of natural gold that makes you think of expensive shampoo and childhood summers. It’s tied back loosely, wisps framing her face in a way that seems accidental but probably isn’t.

She’s not wearing makeup. Or maybe she is, but it’s the invisible kind—the kind that takes forty-five minutes to apply but looks like you’ve just rolled out of bed looking flawless. Her jumper is navy, oversized enough to suggest she might have nicked it from someone else’s wardrobe, paired with jeans that sit perfectly at her hips without being skinny. On her feet are white trainers—clean, like freshly ironed bedsheets—Adidas, the classic three stripes in black, laces tied neatly, no fraying ends.

You’re staring. You know you are. But she hasn’t noticed, so it doesn’t count.

The bartender mutters something to her, and she laughs. Not the loud, performative laugh you hear from most people in bars, but something softer, like it’s meant for her and her alone. The sound is so out of place in this dingy pub that it feels almost sacrilegious, like someone’s brought a cathedral choir to sing in a nightclub.

You tell yourself to look away. You don’t.

Instead, you light a cigarette, even though the pub is strictly non-smoking. You do it for the aesthetic, the same way you do most things. There’s a half-empty pint in front of you—lager, flat and warm, probably with someone else’s fingerprints on the glass—but you take a sip anyway, because what else are you going to do?

She turns then, her gaze sweeping the room, and you’re caught like a deer in headlights. For a second, you think she’s looking at you, but she’s not. She’s looking past you, at the dartboard on the wall behind your head. Her expression is curious, like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would bother playing darts in a place like this.

Then her eyes meet yours, and the world tilts.

It’s not love at first sight, not really. Love at first sight is for Disney films and Hallmark cards and people who shop at Waitrose without looking at the prices. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Like you’ve seen her before in a dream or a half-remembered story someone told you once. Like you’ve spent your whole life waiting for this moment without knowing it.

She holds your gaze for a second longer than is polite. Then she looks away, back at her gin and tonic, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

-

You don’t approach her right away. That would be too obvious, too predictable. Instead, you wait, watching her out of the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll through your phone. It’s a shitty phone, cracked and outdated, but you’ve never bothered upgrading because you secretly enjoy the low expectations it sets. No one looks at you and expects success when your phone screen is held together with Sellotape.

She moves to a table in the corner, near the radiator, and sits down alone. No book, no laptop, no visible excuse to be here other than the gin and tonic in her hand. She sips it slowly, methodically, like she’s savouring it. Like she’s savouring this.

You wonder what her story is.

Is she waiting for someone? A friend, a boyfriend, a clandestine meeting with a lover? Or is she just one of those people who can sit alone in public without feeling like a target? You’ve never understood that kind of confidence—the kind that lets you exist without an audience, without a role to play.

You take another sip of your pint, then decide, fuck it.

You stand, grab your bass (because leaving it behind would feel like abandoning a child), and make your way across the room. Your boots squeak against the sticky floor, and you curse them under your breath. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

“Mind if I join you?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from her.

She hesitates, just for a moment, then nods.

“Sure.”

Her voice is soft, but not shy. Measured. Like she’s weighing every word before she says it.

You sit, placing your bass case carefully against the table leg. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re not sure what to say, and she seems content to let the silence stretch. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy, either.

Finally, she breaks it.

“You’re in a band,” she says, nodding toward the bass. It’s not a question.

You smile. “Yeah. What gave it away?”

She raises an eyebrow, and you realise it’s a stupid question.

“What’s the band called?”

You tell her, and she nods, like she’s vaguely heard of it but couldn’t name a single song.

“I’m Alessia,” she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, and for the first time in a long time, you actually mean it.

[monarchberrysblog]

❈ — 𝒜𝓃 𝐸𝓍𝓉𝓇𝒶 𝒟𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒

❧ Chapter One | Parasite & Host

Pairing — Medical Student! Miguel O'Hara x Fem! Reader

Synopsis — When Joseph Rodriguez gets a full-time position in his internship, he asks his best friend, Miguel O'Hara, to babysit his baby sister. After insisting on paying him back the favor and being under the impression that he would care for a toddler, he agrees. But the moment he sees you, a twenty-two-year-old burnt-out college student, he begs Joseph to take his word back, but the damage has been done. He's now stuck with you and an additional one hundred eighty pounds.

Content Warning / Tags — Rocky start, Miguel is a germaphobe, reader has no form of understanding boundaries, introduction to many characters

Author's Notes— The positive feedback for this series is breaking my heart 🥺 thank you for your positive comments. I am going to cry and vomit. It means so much to me to read your comments and reposts. Here is the first half of Chapter One!

The retro bowling alley is rowdy, even for a Monday night. The sound of crashing bowling pins fills the space, varying from different bowling alleyways. The exclamations were not left behind. Exclaims of celebration differ from person to person. But one exclaim stands out— a groan of frustration.

The young man scowls at the screen with gritted teeth and drunkenly flips at the monitor. “I was so close!” He babbles, looking at the broken streak of strikes he had missed beforehand. “I almost made a perfect srtike record!” He stumbles back to his seat and reclines back on the uncomfortable sofas like he owned the place.

“It’s not that deep, man. It was better than last time. You were… somewhat close.” A rich, mellow voice reaches the young man’s ears as he reaches for a swig of his beer bottle.

“I’m talking about the principle…” He mumbles into the small opening of the bottle and swigs. “What principle?” He scoffs. He stops his words when he internalizes the words he wishes he could take back. The man is about to go on a tangent.

“The “Beat my own record” Principle, Migs. You don’t get it.” The young man slurs out before taking a nacho from the platter and plopping it into his mouth. “It shows the dedication and effort I was willing to put in for this simple goal. You may think that it is stupid, but it isn’t! You don’t get it, and it shows, Mister, “I can diagnose what you have,” guy!”

Miguel rolls his eyes high enough that if he pushes a bit more, he can see the inside of his eyelid. “Whatever, Joseph, you’re too wasted to converse.” The young man, Joseph, elbowed at Miguel’s shoulder with a nudge, enough for Miguel to feel a small bruise blossoming from the blunt sensation and shrug it off. Silence fills the space as they sit with the bottle in their hands, with Joseph getting a familiar glint in his dark eyes.

“How are things with Roe?” he manages to mumble a comprehensible sentence for once that night. “Tempest? She’s doing great. She’s about to get out of nursing school. She might work in the best NICU unit down in Brooklyn.” Joseph dismisses Miguel’s words with a flick of the wrist, a gesture that he knew all too well from his mother. “No, nothing like that,” He sits on the stiff couch and reclines on Miguel. “Like, are you two a thing, an item, a pair?”

Miguel raises his brows to the ceiling, almost to the point that he might as well leave them there on the dark popcorn texture from above.

“What? Oh, no… I mean… I don’t know, man. She’s been giving me mixed signals.” he places the glass bottle down and reclines. “She says it’s not serious, but then says that I have to meet her family, which sounds crazy as she doesn’t have any direct family in Brooklyn, let alone in Nueva York. Her family lives in Nueva Jersey, which means it’s only her and her dumb cat, Binx.”

Joseph hums and ponders for a moment. His lips purse into a thin line before he scratches at his stubble. “I don’t know, man, it seems like she’s reading your signs pretty well—you just suck at delivering them.” the tone he delivers is passive-aggressive, but the tone screams common sense. Common sense that he lacked thereof. “I know how to read the signals.” Miguel grits through his teeth.

“You? Please.” Joseph sneers and kicks his feet up on an empty spot on the table. “Remember when Dana, that chick in high school, had a crush on you in senior year, and you made it your job to avoid that poor girl like the plague.” The recollection is enough to raise heat into his ears and cheeks. The poor girl always looked at him with doe eyes, but he only did one thing he was good at: running away from his conflicts instead of confronting them.

“She wasn’t even my type, and it would be weird if I dated her after she cheated on my brother.” Miguel shrugs his answer. “True, but you could have let her down easily instead of actively avoiding her. It’s a bit of a dick move, even for me.”

“Says the one who said no to weird Ashley after she wanted to go to the prom with them.”

“Fuck off.”

---

The night is a sobering wake-up call, especially with the fact now that the weight of one hundred and eighty pounds is against Miguel’s body. The heat from Joseph’s body felt like a preheating oven in a pizzeria, warming anything up in its area. “Joseph, I’m not your bed, Jesus Christ.” He shrugged his intoxicated friend off but felt him faceplant into his shoulder instead, letting his drunken friend rest on him. “No, stay still. You’re comfortable like this, even if you’re built like a boulder.” Miguel shudders in disgust as he shrugs him off again and allows him to rest his head on the dirty window of the subway.

The rumbles of the track filled the space as the few passengers on board kept to themselves, glued to their devices, reading whatever was on their screens to pass the time. Sure, there would be a subway crazy at this hour, but it was quiet, even on a weekday.

“Miguel~” The gurgled slur snapped Miguel out of his dazed state as Joseph patted his shoulder with a heavy palm. “I forgot to mention.” His tone shifted, like something in his mind sobered in him immediately. “I got an internship down in Seattle with a Neurosurgeon.” Miguel raises a brow and nods slowly. “Congrats.” He scoots away from his sobering friend slowly but is stopped when a favor weighs the conversation drastically. It seemed the realization sunk in too much as his sobriety shined in his eyes— he remembered something in that pea brain.

“And I need you to do me a favor. I need you to take care of my baby sister…” And there it is…

Miguel freezes. A baby sister? He has never mentioned her existence or any of his family. Sure, he mentioned that his father had an affair in the past but a there’s a half sister?

“Please, that’s all I ask.” Joseph swallows dryly and clings onto Miguel’s bicep for support. His trimmed fingernails dug crescent designs on his tan skin. “I know I don’t mention my personal life this often, and you probably don’t care that much, but please.” He then swallows dryly, clears his throat and then weakly sniffles. “I can’t take her to Seattle as she still is in school, and I can’t risk that.” The sniffles soon morph into ugly, drunken sobs as his friend reaches for the sleeve of his shirt and uses the fabric as a handkerchief. He blows his nose out obnoxiously loud, drawing the attention from passengers nearby.

“Dude, quit it! You’re too drunk.”

“Please!” He blurts out his drunken words, enough to attract the attention of the other passengers. “Please do this for me, and I won’t ask for any more favors!”

The dry, yet strong smell of beer and margaritas wafted back at Miguel as Joseph tugged his sleeves once more, drying away his snot and tears.

The hysterical sobbing should have been considered a crime, especially with how comically loud he was as a drunken man in the godforsaken hours of the night. Instead, he sucked in the shame. “I promise, please!”

Miguel grimaces, seeing the clear snot on his polyester sweater, enough to physically recoil at the sight, but he keeps quiet, keeping it to himself. But the drunken, drowning sobs make it ridiculously impossible to ignore. His eyes wander around the subway cabin, feeling the judging eyes of the other passengers. At the same time, some overlook the show Joseph put up, seeing this as if it were another typical day in Nueva York.

With sobering shame and embarrassment, along with the rising color of red like the devil, the weight of taking on the responsibility overwhelmed him. “Alright!!” Miguel caves, his voice filling the subway. I’ll take care of her!”

Joseph gives him a lopsided grin that is barely comprehensible to read, but the subtle sign of bliss is enough to know. “Thank you, Migs. No wonder Roe loves you.”

---

“I can’t allow that now, Roe. Joseph is always dropping stuff at the last minute. I can’t take care of his baby sister!” Miguel spits out as he reclines back on Tempest’s couch, holding a leaf-shaped cushion in his arms. It had been days old since he accepted the favor, but the temptation to take it back is steering his moral compass.

She hums a soft, melodic tone of understanding before a soft pop comes from her direction. “I think you can,” Her tone is always warm like honey, enough to endure the sugary substance easily if stuck in the brain. And damn, it got him good. “You need to soften up on those broad shoulders.” She fights a smile and bites the bottom of her lip while working on the tin can in her grasp.

“C’mon, Binx.” She beckons, waving the tin container out. Miguel grimaces at the sight of a confident, white fluffy tail. The white feather like duster tail swayed about, showing his purposeful stride across the apartment. But the trills of the feline only confirmed it, expressing comfort in the tiny space. The feline steps into the dining area with a stride, but the felines immediately seize its trills, sensing Miguel’s presence. “Binky, dinner time.” Tempest places the mushed-up meal into the clean ceramic cat bowl and places it down on the floor with a gentle tap. She squatted down with ease as Binky strode across the floor, keeping his head turned towards Miguel’s direction before nibbling on his mushed-up meal of chicken and gravy.

Miguel darts his eyes away from Tempest and onto her clean load of laundry. “I don’t need to soften up, and I think I’m doing fine.” Miguel scoffs, continuing the conversation as he eyed the grippy socks waiting to be paired up with their identical twin. “Really?” She chuckles, making her way to the couch next to Miguel. “Last week, you scared one of the patients you cared for.” Her hands work quickly with the colorful array of socks.

Miguel sneers, letting go of the decorative pillow. “I don’t need to “soften up,” Roe. The patient demanded another doctor because they didn’t want a Mexican doctor.” She snorts a laugh, her nose crinkling at the mere bullshit in his claim. “Migs, you know it’s somewhat common that patients unfortunately ask for different doctors, and it’s not your fault.” She places the last pair of socks into her laundry bin before placing a firm hand on his forearm. The pad of her thumb is enough to calm the storms in his blood, even with his anger.

“You have to be more,” She pauses and licks her teeth. “Más amable.”

A smile tugs her lips before pulling her closer and wrapping an arm around her. “Look at that, you’re learning.” He gushes, pulling her close. “You’re getting there.” He gently moves her braids to the side and away from her face. “I’m still pretty bad.” Her tone softens. Her acrylics gently trace the veins in his arms, but she continues when her fingers trace the black ink on his bicep, her finger following the ribbon-like design on his tan skin. She grasps the tense muscle and adjusts herself on his lap. “Damn right, you are,” Miguel whispers.

His heart was racing and pumping at his ribcage. “Miguel!” Her exclaim is silenced as he pulls her onto her couch, gently resting her head on the decorative pillow. The tension between their racing hearts ghosts each other, blocked by undisguisable nerves racking up one another. His lips gently ghost her cupid’s bow, itching to land on her lips. A greedy wish from within, but the retrain of rational thoughts held back. She closes her eyes, her lashes resting against her skin, occasionally fluttering like a butterfly wing.

He stops, anxiety gurgles into his stomach, enough to empty his stomach, but he bites his tongue. He inhales a shaky breath, gently pulling her close.

A yowl fills the space as Binky jumps onto the couch and nuzzles his way in between Tempest and Miguel. He lets her go and moves away from the hissing feline. “Binky!” Tempest scolds, gently taking the Maine coon off the couch. She gently eases off of him, her warmth moving away from him, leaving him longing for the familiarity—the feline trills before hissing and showing his little canines at the man before him. “I swear…” She huffs and grabs the feline. “You are going to the kettle.” She demands, feeling the marine coon purr against her chest.

Miguel props himself up from the couch, adjusting himself. “Cockblocker.” He paused his hushed words and covered his face in mere frustration.

The stir in his gut is restless. The familiar uncertain sensation returns to the back of his mind. It enveloped his brain like a parasite, nibbling away at his sobering psyche. It nibbled at the comprehensible side of him, enough to make him starve the logical side of things. But he ignores the hunger in his gut, his attention back to the present time. His stomach always got butterflies whenever she smiled or how she could make anyone smile with a simple quip. His chest tightens, a small bubble of air trapped in his esophagus — a sensation he got from drinking too much cocktails.

He clears the tight airway with a forced cough, his eyes back on her. Her smile grounds him, reminding him of the warmth coursing through his veins. Even in her most comfortable state, she was the sunrise of his life, her warmth always inviting him back in. But her words remind him again why he came over, to begin with. But her walk from the feline’s kettle back to the living room sobered her back to the situation they were speaking of.

She gently pulls at the hem of her shirt, her pink manicured nails moving under her oversized shirt, hiding away. She plops herself back onto the couch, inches away from him, a contrary from where they were before. She tucks a braid behind her ear, the charms that decorated her braids clink against one another. She exhales a sigh, resting her hands on her lap and away from her shirt, running her palms on her thighs. Silence fills the space as she moves her laundry bin onto the coffee table and reclines back. With a quaint smile, she breaks the silence.

“It can’t be that bad. It will only be a kid staying over with you for two semesters. What can go wrong?”

---

Having to mop his penthouse was not part of his plans for Sunday evening. Especially when the mere idea of a kid staying with him drove him mad. The constant questions, the demand for attention, and the unruly notion of them getting sick out of nowhere. He grimaces, carrying the dirty mop water into his bathroom and flushing the dirty water. He shivers at having to clean sticky surfaces and new loads of laundry almost daily instead of weekly. He groans as he disregards the bucket and goes into the corner of the bathroom.

He rubs his face with one hand and looks at himself in the reflection. The sunken features of his eyes greet him; waking up at five in the morning, doing nothing but deep cleaning, drove him up the wall. But he didn’t want this younger sibling of Joseph to yap about how filthy Miguel is, especially to Tempest.

His five o’clock shadow peeked at him as his dry hands massaged the prickly area.

He groans, but the sound of the doorbell buzzing snaps him back to his senses. Time for the most extended two semesters of his entire life…

His large strides take him to the front door sooner than he wanted, but he nods to himself, exhaling a heavy sigh. When he opened the door, he was expecting many things but wasn’t expecting you.

A messenger bag is filled with textbooks and journals, while a suitcase stands beside you. Your eyes stay on your phone's screen as you swipe the screen without looking up at Miguel. “Are you O’Hara?” It is the question that escapes your lips. Miguel freezes, his eyes tracing you from head to toe.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“My moron brother, Joseph, told me here to stay here with you while he’s gone doing his nerd thing.”

[springholly]

Part 1

More Mouthwashing Alien AU? Maybe.

This is the very first sketch I made for it:

The first sketch of the crew:

- Just some simple headshots, trying to get the feel for the characters.

- I kind of wish I had kept Curly's longer hair to go with the late 70s aesthetic. Also, Anya is supposed to have a Ripley esque early 80s perm, that is why her hair is so big.

- These were done without reference so that's why some of them are a bit unclear as to who they are supposed to represent in the story of Alien.

More Anya:

- Flamethrowers are a pain to draw.😔

The aftermath of the chestbursting:

- I really enjoy how Curly's corpse turned out in the fourth panel. I've never drawn a character from that angle before.

How the facehugger impregnation was supposed to go:

- I originally wanted Jimmy to cause Curly's infection to parallel him causing the crash. It would've been an intentional act that would've incapacitated Curly from the story just like in Mouthwashing.

- I however realized that the facehuggers don't exactly cause memory loss (don't believe even Curly is a big enough doormat to let that one slide)

and that Ash (Jimmy's parallel in Alien) wasn't out with the others investigating the signal.

- Thus, I decided to scrap it.

AU infodump:

- The characters are still space freighters working for Pony Express. (Yes, Polle the cat is a company provided luxury. Of course he'd be named Polle.)

- The characters still retain their personalities, for example, Anya isn't as outspoken and headstrong as Ripley, she's more stoic. And Jimmy is still the same demeaning asshole, not a sly british weirdo like Ash.

- Slight dialogue changes to fit the characters' voices better.

- Unlike in the film, Ash (Jimmy) isn't the last minute newcomer, instead it's still Daisuke (Brett). I wanted Jimmy to have the status of being Curly's best friend for plot reasons.

- The ship the crew are in is still called the Tulpar, but it's interior aesthetics follow the retro-futuristic look of the Nostromo.

- In this AU Pony Express has gone under far before the crew is informed about it. Of course, it has been bought out by Weyland-Yutani, and Jimmy has been programmed to join the crew and get into the captain's good graces.

- Weyland-Yutani know about the xenomorphs and want to study them, the crew is to be possibly sacrificed to retrieve the necessary info.

- The crew find the alien signal coming from LV-426.

- Curly is hesitant to approach due to possible danger.

- Jimmy appeals to the fact of them all losing their jobs anyways. Maybe whatever they find could prove to be a big payday?

- Curly yields to make Jimmy happy, thus dooming them all. They go and investigate.

- Curly gets facehugged and falls into a coma, the others (Daisuke and Swansea) want to bring him back in but Anya (like Ripley) wants to uphold the quarantine protocol.

- Jimmy (like Ash) breaks the protocol, putting them all in danger but appearing as a hero to the others.

- The same stuff happens. They study it: acid blood? Yikes! We are not getting that thing off Curly's face.

- It falls off on it's own, dead. Curly wakes up, all's well that ends well. Except for when he begins convulsing at the breakfast table and then promptly births a chestburster right from between his lungs.

- Panic ensues. At some point Jimmy deems the others too much of a danger for the mission and (for a few other reasons too) tries to kill Anya. Swansea saves the day and accidentally severs Jimmy's head.

- Turns out he's an android! They plug his severed head back online and learn what his mission was all along.

- Fuck that guy, we're blowing up the ship.

- Scratch that, Anya is blowing up the ship because everyone else dies.

- Our final girl escapes with the cat and all's well that ends well.🎉🎉🎉

Take a breather, I know that was a lot. I will write some more for this later, going more into the characters themselves and their relationships.