#this was drawn on a tiny notepad

[skylertheminish]

Behold! A crappy doodle of Ceru (and me figuring/practicing more rounded features for a female Ceruledge). Baby Ceru then child Ceru then highly spirited adult Ceru :)

Good grief my lack of skill is real.

Like it? Reblog it! :)

[water-lemon-alex]

i love you season one

[myrleius]

what remains when the sound fades — bakugo k.

timeskip bakugo k. x patient fem!reader│wc: 3.8k

synopsis: Bakugo’s almost deaf now. But at a hospital he never meant to care about, with a girl who falls asleep without warning, he learns that maybe silence isn’t the end.

cw/tags: fluff, angst, hard of hearing!bakugo, made-up illness for fem!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers

The doors slid open with a sound Bakugo couldn’t quite hear anymore. He just felt the pressure shift in the air, a faint vibration under his skin. 

He stepped into the hospital lobby anyway, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders drawn tight beneath the fabric.

No appointment today. No injuries or bruises to patch up either. But somehow, this visit felt heavier than the others combined.

His boots tapped against the polished tile—at least, he assumed they did. These days, sound was more of a memory. His hearing aids buzzed softly in his ears, letting in pieces of the world like light through cracked glass. Voices blurred, distant and muddled. Sharp one moment, swallowed the next.

He still wore them though. Most days. When he remembered.

He stopped by the reception desk. The nurse glanced up, clearly recognizing him. Pro-hero Great Explosion Murder God Dynamite wasn’t exactly subtle, even in civilian clothes. 

He didn’t bother speaking.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly wrinkled sticky note—bright yellow with a tiny inked flower blooming in the bottom corner. Yn had given it to him months ago, back when he'd muttered—half ashamed—how much he hated asking people to repeat themselves.

The message was simple:

Hi. I’m hard of hearing. Can you write things down for me, please?

He held up his phone next, showing a photo of yn—caught mid-laugh, paint smudged on her wrist, eyes shining with something quiet and untouchable.

The nurse smiled gently and scribbled something on a notepad, turning it toward him.

She’s on the third floor. Art event today.

He nodded his thanks and made for the elevator, the paper note folded carefully back into his pocket.

As he waited for the elevator doors to open, he let himself replay the conversation from this morning.

“I’m losing my hearing,” he’d said, blunt and brief. “It’s almost gone.”

He expected disbelief. Or pity. Or those strained silences people always gave when they didn’t know what to say.

But it didn’t come.

Kirishima just slammed a hand on his shoulder, grin bright and unwavering. “Damn, man. That’s rough. But you’re still gonna kick ass, right? You’ll figure it out. And if you need backup, we’ve got you.”

Kaminari blinked, then leaned forward, curiosity overtaking any hesitation. “Wait, so does this mean you won’t hear me when I’m being annoying? Sweet—uh, I mean, not sweet, but—can I learn sign language just to mess with you?” He grinned, dodging the half-hearted swipe Bakugo took at him. 

Sero snorted. “Dude, you already ignore us half the time. What’s the difference?” When Bakugo glared, Sero held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. But seriously, if you ever need us to repeat shit or write stuff down, just say the word.”

Mina didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, new rule. We’re all taking sign language classes. Also, don’t think this gets you out of game night. We will mime everything if we have to.”

And Deku—the one who’s known him longest, who’s seen him at his worst and his best—didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained steady, analyzing, before he nodded once. “You’ve already been adjusting, haven’t you? The way you’ve been positioning yourself in fights, relying more on visuals…” Of course he noticed. “You’ll still be one of the best. And… if you want help finding resources, or training workarounds, I’m here.”

No one stiffened. No one treated him like he was broken. And that hit harder than he’d thought it would.

And now, standing alone in the quiet of the hospital, he wasn’t sure if it made the weight in his chest had eased or fucking doubled.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped inside, pressed the third-floor button, and leaned back against the wall. He wasn’t here for anything urgent. Wasn’t even sure what he planned to say.

He just… needed to see yn.

They’d met a few months ago when his hearing started going to shit. She was always here, a familiar figure in the waiting rooms and hallways, worn hospital bracelets like second skin. At first, she was just a girl with the tired eyes and bright laugh who somehow made the place feel less suffocating. 

But she was more than that. 

She understood, really understood, what it felt like when your body turned against you.

He hadn’t expected to find someone like that in the middle of this nightmare.

Yet there she was. Her presence, gentle and steady, made it easier to breathe. She didn’t pry. Didn’t talk just to fill the silence. And she knew exactly how to sit with this kind of slow pain that didn’t have clean answers.

But when he needed it most, she always seemed to know what to say to help him hold his shit together.

The doors open, scattering his thoughts like startled birds. Before he could gather them again, his feet carried him out.

The third floor was loud.

Not in sound—Bakugo barely caught snippets of laughter and the thuds of feet—but in color, in motion. The hallway was lined with drop cloths and plastic sheets taped across the walls and floor. Furniture had been pushed back. Paint buckets sat open, and kids ran by waving paintbrushes like flags.

It smelled like wet acrylics and masking tape.

Bakugo didn’t need to ask who was responsible.

“Hey! No paint in anyone’s eyeballs, got it?” came a voice from further down the hall. “We want windows, not lawsuits!”

He turned the corner just in time to see yn balancing a tray of mini palettes, swerving between kids and elderly patients like it was a practiced dance. A brush was tucked behind her ear. Paint dotted her sleeves. Her smile was effortless.

And then her eyes met his.

She brightened instantly. “Bakugo,” she called, walking over. “You don’t have an appointment today, right?”

Bakugo shook his head and signed stiffly, fingers sharp with feigned disinterest, “Had extra time. Figured I’d see what you’re up to.”

Yn didn’t miss a beat. She was fluent by now, between her own years in this hospital and months of chatting with him.

“Oh, so you missed me,” she signed back with a cheeky grin, handing him a clean smock. “Got it.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t refuse it. He slipped it on, its sleeves straining around his biceps, while surveying the windows. Every one of them, long panes stretching the whole corridor, was already a riot of color—splashes of sky blue, cartoon suns, stick figure heroes, one ambitious mural of a dragon and a bakery somehow mashed together.

“What the hell is all this?” he asked aloud this time.

Yn adjusted her stance, instinctively positioning herself so he could see her lips, just in case he hadn’t caught her words. They’d practice this enough that she didn’t even think about it now. 

“Window canvases,” she said. “They’re replacing the glass soon, so I asked if we could paint on them instead of just throwing them out. Figured it’d be good fun for the others. Plus, my friend’s gallery agreed to exhibit them, so they get recycled and displayed. Cool, right?”

Bakugo folded his arms. “Let me guess—you bribed the staff, didn’t you?”

“Hey! I got permission from the hospital director,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “Now quit stalling and help me out.”

They spent the next hour darting between stations. Yn played the ringleader—passing out fresh brushes, hyping up shaky stick figures like they were masterpieces. Bakugo kept a closer eye, steadying ladders, pulling kids away from spilled paint, reminding a particularly rowdy pair of teens not to paint each other’s faces again.

It was loud. It was uncoordinated. It was a mess.

And it was… nice.

He wasn’t giving orders or chasing down villains, but he could still do something here. Still be useful.

One of the older patients tugged on his sleeve, holding up a brush. She pointed to the top corner of her window, then mimed her arm not reaching.

Bakugo didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed a chair, climbed up, and filled in the empty corner with simple strokes of yellow.

When he stepped back down, the woman gave him a toothy grin and signed, slowly but clearly, “Thank you.”

He blinked. Then nodded, almost sheepishly.

Yn watched it all with a warm, quiet smile.

By the time the last of the patients shuffled off to their rooms, the floor had fallen quiet.

The sunset bled through the painted windows in long, glowing streaks. Everything was bathed in amber. Where once there was sterile white, there was now a wash of color—skies, forests, tiny heroes flying beside flowers, scrawled messages of hope and names written with confidence.

Bakugo stood at the center of it all, arms folded, head tilted back. Even the ceiling had caught a few stray splashes. The low hum of his hearing aids filled the silence, a steady static he’d grown used to. Tonight, it felt less like noise, and more like… presence.

Yn drifted to his side, her shoulder nudging his.

“Think they’ll let me do this again next year?” she asked, voice light and teasing.

Bakugo huffed. “Not if they see what you did to the walls.”

“They’re covered. Mostly.” She gestured to the plastic sheets still clinging to the walls, though tiny paint splatters had seeped into the creases. “Besides, they're repainting the whole floor anyway. I just… sped things along.”

He shook his head, a low laugh slipping out despite himself. He glanced over. Her hair clung to her forehead, cheeks flushed, fingertips stained in streaks of color. Despite the exhaustion weighing on her shoulders, triumph sparkled in her eyes.

“You did good,” he signed. Hands slower than usual, but sure.

She didn’t hesitate to sign back. “You helped.”

He looked away at that. His hand twitched at his side before he shoved it into his pocket.

A moment passed.

Then another.

“I… told them,” he muttered, more to the empty hallway than to her. Fuck if he knew why. Maybe just to prove it mattered. “The other heroes. Told ‘em I can’t hear for shit anymore.”

Yn didn’t react. She just waited, giving him space to let it out.

Bakugo stared out at the windows, jaw tight. “I didn’t think I’d be able to say it. But I did. Told ‘em I’m still learning sign, still working on reading lips. But I’d still… probably need someone to help interpret if my aids crap out. Might miss shit or mess up.”

A pause. And his throat worked again. “I didn’t expect them to—to take it so well. Just an, ‘Okay. We’ll adjust.’ They didn’t even look at me like I was broken.”

Yn’s hand settled on his shoulder, the touch feather-light. “Because you’re not.”

“But I’m slower now. I can’t do the same field work. Can’t hear civilians shouting. That used to fuck with me so much.” He exhaled sharply. “But they said they’d work with me. That they’d adapt or whatever.”

“Then that’s their call,” she said, shrugging. “They know what they’re signing up for. And they asked you to stay anyway.”

His gaze flicked to hers. Something tight and uncertain lingered beneath the surface.

“You ever think people say that shit just to be nice?” he asked, voice scraping low. “Like, they believe it now, but deep down, they still think you’re… a liability?”

Yn paused, thoughtful. Then tilted her head. “Would you?”

Bakugo blinked. His mouth twitched. “Fuck no.”

“Then why assume they would?” she asked, sliding her hand down his arm to catch his hand. “They’re not stupid, Bakugo. They’re pros. They know what a liability looks like. I don’t think they’d risk the safety of people on someone they didn’t believe in.”

His brow furrowed, mind scrambling to find the flaw in her logic. There had to be one.

As if sensing his spiral, she cut through with quiet certainty. “You’re not weak, Bakugo.” The word landed deliberately, dismantling his unspoken fear. “You’re just changing. That doesn’t diminish who you’ve always been.”

Bakugo was silent. He let her words sit, feeling its weight. Then, slowly, his hand turned, fingers lacing with hers.

“I just… I get scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about being deaf. About being fucking useless.” His thumb brushed her knuckle, an unconscious plea. “I thought it meant I was done. That I couldn’t be a hero anymore.”

“You’re not done. You’re just learning a new way to fight,” she said, her voice was softer but the steel beneath it never wavered. “And if anyone’s stubborn enough to make it work? It’s you.”

She leaned in until their shoulders touched, forcing his gaze up. “Imagine it—first deaf hero in the charts. Kids with hearing loss seeing someone like them up there.” Then her smile widened, teasing again. “Unless… you’re actually considering retirement?”

He snorted, real and unguarded. “No fuckin’ way.”

“Then you’re not done.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Because you get to decide that.”

Her words sat in his chest like a live wire.

Bullshit. 

Heroism was supposed to be hard. He'd welcomed that—the broken ribs, the sleepless nights, the impossible choices. But this wasn't another challenge to overcome. It was a permanent fucking handicap. Deafness wasn’t an enemy he could punch. It was a door slammed in his face.

But.

His hands flexed against his thighs. The same hands that had once sparked with explosions now knew the shape of signs. The same body that had lunged into battle without hesitation now calculated angles, light, vibrations—workarounds.

Was that weakness? Or just another fight?

The hospital hallway stretched too bright, too quiet. He could still see the other heroes’ faces when he’d told them. No flinching. No whispers. Just nods, quick adjustments. They planned to work around it. Like pros. Like equals.

Bakugo slowly felt the warmth of her hand then.

He gritted his teeth. Fuck. A long-buried memory resurfaced—one he’d almost let slip away.

Heroism wasn't about perfection. It was about persistence. About dragging yourself through hell with whatever pieces you still had, just to keep the light in others’ eyes.

A breath shuddered out of him. Fine. Fine. If the world wanted to count him out over something like this, they’d learn the same damn lesson they always did.

Because Katsuki Bakugo didn’t lose. Not to villains. Not to fate.

And definitely not to himself.

He breathed out slowly. His heart beat steady in his chest.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he reached out and ruffled her hair with excessive vigor, fingers combing through the strands just to wreck them completely. 

“The hell?” he asked, voice full of forced insult, but his touch was gentle. “Since when did you get smart enough to say shit like that?”

Yn squeaked, batting his hand away. But she didn’t move far. Because she felt it, too—the way his hand hovered for a moment too long. Shaking, not from strain, but from everything it took to admit he was scared.

She could’ve called it out. Could’ve gone soft. Instead, she smirked and poked his cheek. “Says the guy who needed me to spell it out for him,” she fired back.

He scoffed, but his hand lingered, sliding from her hair to cradle her cheek. His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone—lighter than his usual rough handling, but just as deliberate. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping to something dangerously close to tender. “Guess I needed that.”

He barely heard it, but he saw her breath hitch.

“Oi.” His squint was all mock-suspicion as his thumb brushed the flush spreading across her skin. “The hell's this, huh? Sunburn?”

“Shut up.” She tried to twist away, but his grip shifted to her chin, holding her in place.

“Ain't wearing makeup,” he mused, leaning closer. “So unless you're running a fever—”

“I swear to god—”

“—must be me.” The smirk in his voice was audible. “Damn. That's embarrassing for you.”

She huffed, but didn’t pull back this time. Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, right over his chest.

The light from the painted windows spilled across her face just then, making her eyes look like they were glowing. Blue paint smudged her cheek, a messy contrast to the red flush beneath it. And her lips, damn it, they looked so soft. So inviting.

He’d imagined this. More than he’d ever admit. Would she go all soft and sigh, feeling warm like her hugs or laughter? Or would it be all teeth and fire, like when she’d snap a comeback with that infuriating grin, leaving him itching for more? God, either would ruin him.

Bakugo leaned closer, their noses brushing. “Hey… I’ve been thinking—”

And then her body tipped.

His reflexes moved before his thoughts did.

He caught her easily, arms looping around her middle as her knees buckled. Her head dropped lightly against his chest, her weight sudden but familiar.

“Shit,” he muttered, adjusting her in his hold.

Her breathing was soft, even. Completely out like a light.

Right. Her sleep spells.

She’d explained them the first time it happened—some kind of neurological disorder with no warning signs or real triggers. One moment she was awake, the next she was out cold, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. She’d joked that her brain had a faulty “off switch.” Nothing dangerous, just… inconvenient. That’s what she called it.

But it still scared the hell out of him every time.

“Ruined the moment, idiot,” he mumbled, brushing her hair back.

She didn’t respond, obviously. Just nuzzled unconsciously into his chest like she always did when this happened.

Bakugo sighed and looked around.

The hallway was empty. Lit gold. Quiet

He stood there for a long minute, holding her steady, his heartbeat slow in his ears. Her weight wasn’t heavy. Just… warm.

This wasn’t the kind of saving he was used to.

No villains. No collapsing buildings. No flash of cameras or crowd roaring after.

But maybe… that was okay.

Maybe saving people wasn’t always about being the strongest. Sometimes, it was holding someone when they fell. Watching over a hallway of kids so they could paint suns. Catching a brush before it hit the floor.

He looked back at the art. 

At the handprints. 

The names. 

The hope.

Bakugo exhaled.

Yeah. He could still be a hero like this, too.

When yn woke up, the first thing she noticed was the dim lighting. It was night outside, the curtains pulled but still faintly glowing at the edges. The overhead light cast a soft halo around the room—just enough to see by.

The second thing she noticed was the dry taste in her mouth and the dull ache in her back, which meant she’d been out for a while.

The third thing she noticed was the very broad figure slouched in the chair beside her bed, arms crossed and chin tucked low against his chest.

Bakugo.

He was fast asleep. His hearing aids were out and tucked into a little case on the table beside her water cup. His hair was messy, a smear of green paint still streaking one forearm like a leftover memory of the day.

Yn blinked at him, a slow warmth blooming in her chest.

“You could’ve gone home, dummy,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond. Of course not.

She pushed herself up slowly, limbs stiff but cooperative.

The motion must’ve stirred him, because Bakugo’s eyes cracked open a second later. Red, sleep-heavy, a little bleary.

He blinked, squinted at her. Then straightened with a quiet grunt, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re up.”

“Was I out long?” she rasped, reaching for the water.

He grabbed his hearing aids and slid them in. “Five hours.”

“Mm. That’s not bad.”

He gave her a flat look. “You missed dinner.”

She smiled, unbothered. “Worried I wouldn’t get my pudding cup?”

“I ate your pudding cup.”

She laughed. “You thief.”

“It was melting,” he said, smug.

She looked at him for a long moment.

The curve of his shoulders. The stupidly hot smirk. The stubborn warmth in the way he always stayed, even when it wasn’t convenient.

Then, she held her arms out with all the drama she could summon. “Pity hug. Now, you monster.”

He gave her a look—half amused, half exasperated—but stood up anyway and leaned down to hug her, arms looping around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands found the back of his neck, fingers toying lightly with the tips of his hair.

He didn’t pull away. Just rested his forehead against hers, eyes half-lidded and soft.

“Did I miss anything?” she murmured.

“Mm. Something pretty major,” he murmured back. “Life-changing, even.”

She chuckled. “Can I still experience it? Or was it a one-time thing?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a lifetime thing.”

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect. There was too much grinning, too many half-laughs between presses of lips. But it was good. Warm. A tiny pocket of peace carved out of everything else.

And then, it changed. Just a little. He leaned in again, his hand sliding lower, and lips parting with unsubtle intent.

Yn made a sound of protest, half chuckle, half warning, and pressed a hand to his chest.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “We are in a hospital.”

“No one’s watching,” he muttered, cocky. “I’ll be quick.”

“Bakugo,” she warned, trying to look stern.

His grin went lopsided. “Be glad I waited ‘til you were awake. I was tempted earlier.”

She groaned. “Oh my god.”

But she was still tangled in him, still laughing, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment—gentle, polite, and clearly a nurse’s way of saying wrap it up, Romeo.

Bakugo sighed dramatically. “There goes our chance…”

“Text me when you get home, all right?” she said, hand still on his chest, ignoring his whining.

He leaned in, kissing her forehead. “I can smuggle you out, you know.”

She flicked his arm. “Out. Go. Before they revoke your visitation rights.”

He laughed and headed toward the door, pausing just before he stepped through.

“Oh,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder. “By the way. You’re my girlfriend now. Just letting you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh. That’s it? No asking?”

He shrugged. “I figured the kissing made it pretty clear.”

She tried not to smile, but failed. “Fine. But you’re buying me pudding next time.”

“Noted.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

Yn lay back against the pillows and let the silence settle.

Officially dating a half-deaf, overly-confident exasperating pro hero with a pudding problem.

Not exactly how she thought the day would end.

But it felt good. Solid. Like something she could lean into without fear of breaking it.

And even if he was a thief… At least he’d finally stolen something she’d wanted him to all along.

[feelfreetopleasemexo]

I may or may not have added another fanfic carrying on the book of love request I got.....

The book of love, part two

That was the start of something....strange? Hilarious? Beautiful.

As the days passed, he continued to come to your desk and ask more outrageous requests.

"Fighting a dinosaur. Fighting Godzilla. Fighting with all might." As he studied your quick drawings he began to ask quiet questions.

"Why did you use that pen this time for the dinosaur? How did you make the smoke look so realistic? How would you make the eyes look angrier..." He was desperately trying to figure out how you managed to create such realistic drawings in a few seconds. The smile crept on your lips as you explained your techniques, you didn't dare take your eyes off the page as you felt the warmth of his questions deepen.

The next day, you noticed that he pulled out his own little notepad. It was small, one he'd probably stolen off midoriya after pummeling him for asking why he needed a note book. He didn't come to your desk all day, instead you noticed he was scribbling things down, furiously screwing it up and exploding it in his hands before scribbling again. Eventually after your last class ended, he walked past your desk as you were packing your books away and dropped a tiny piece of paper at your hands and stormed off. It was a tiny picture of two stick figures crudely drawn fighting each other, you assumed it was him and midoriya as one had big red eyes and the other was crying blue specks all over the place. Your heart swelled at his drawing, he had clearly tried to copy your methods as the sky was lightly shaded grey with the side of a pencil, the building surrounding the figures was lightly sketched, and the stick figures had a darker outline with flicks of lines to imitate movements around them. He had really tried with this picture, you could see how the page was crumpled slightly,  how he'd tried his best to be soft with the pencil, tried to use different line weights and tried to make the stick figures less....stick like. You carefully folded it and put it in the back of your book, a tiny envelope style pocket lay at the back of it for notes.

The next day? He scribbled again. This time, he dropped it off before lunch, another drawing of a stick figure getting a medal that said 'best hero ever' it's hair sharp and yellow, it's eyes dark and red, the medal slightly gold as he tried his best to colour in the lines, you knew he found slowing down and concentrating difficult so to see how he'd taken his time was impressive. After lunch he slumped at your desk again, pulling out his book in front of you, tapping yours to open it as well.

"Show me how the fuck you do faces, I can't ever get it right. They always end up looking like shit." His voice demanding, but something sweet laced underneath it. You smiled as you opened your book, the opposite page had drawings of birds laced all over it, his eyes glanced at it then to the window next to your seat.

"You can draw birds TOO?!" His voice louder, more impressed at your artistic skills.

"Yes, I don't just do cartoons yano..." Your cheeks suddenly flushed as the memory of him seeing your detailed profiles of him flooded your brain. You tried to shake it off as you flipped to another open page, but he stopped you, putting his hand on the page with the birds on.

"You're really fucking good..." He whispered, staring down at the detail on the wings, the close up of the eyes as they seemed to twinkle in the sun. He shook his head slightly, remembering that he had his own book under his other hand. "Anyway.... Teach me how to do faces." It almost felt like a 'please' lingered on his tongue, seconds away from slipping out. You playfully rolled your eyes and smiled at him, pulling a fresh set of pencils out from your bag. You handed him one and started to sketch an oval shape slowly, looking over at him to copy you. He pushed the pencil hard into the paper and drew a wobbly circle, huffed angrily at himself and ripped it out, burning it up instantly in his hands. He pressed the pencil to the paper again, slightly softer this time and tried to sketch an oval, eventually he decided it was good enough and stared back at your page, waiting for you to continue. Your smile pulled tighter at the corners of your lips as you sketched out the intersecting lines, his face visibly confused as to why you just drew a line down the middle and a few across the oval.

"What the fucks that for? You just ruined the circle...." His voice low, confused, like a child studying how you'd pronounce words if you didn't say the first letter.

"It's to plot the face, yano, where the eyes go, the nose, the mouth etc." You tried to calmly explain, putting your hand on his pencil to help him draw the lines on his paper. He looked down at your hand on his, the tops of his ears slightly flushed, as he shook his hand and stared deeply at how his pencil moved. You helped him lightly trace the lines, pulling his hand back a bit so the lines were faint, explaining to him how you'd rub these out later, that these were just a rough guide to help you. Eventually you helped him draw a basic face, nothing particularly hard, but just to help him with how big the features should be, how over exaggerated they could be if you were doing a cartoon. Eventually he got the idea, turned a page and tried his best to follow the instructions you'd just show him. He proudly puffed his chest out as he finished his wobbly drawing of All Might.

"Yeah that's right. I fucking smashed it. Im gonna give it to him. He'll fucking love it, probably cry." The smug look on his face was incredibly sweet, seeing how proud he was of his drawing made a knot in your stomach grow, it tightened with every raised eyebrow, every proud exclamation. He lowered the page from his face and flashed you a sweet smile, before pushing himself away from his chair and stomping towards the door, "Thanks nerd!" He explained, kicking the door open and wandering off to show All Might his new picture. You giggled to yourself, turning a new page and sketching a photo of him proudly smiling, holding out the photo in one hand towards the page as if he'd just found out he was actually Van gogh.

After a few more sessions together of you teaching him how to draw different profiles, how eyes looked different when the face was sideways, how to draw a face looking up, down, confused, angry, kaminari waltzed over and put his hand on katsukis shoulder.

"Whatcha love birds drawing n....BAKUGO! That's actually really good!" Smugness took over katsukis face as he pushed kaminaris hand off him,

"No shit. I'm good at everything I do, extra." You smiled tightly, trying to stifle your laughter as he shot you a dark look. "Look, I'll even draw you." He started to scribble a face with a stupid expression on it, spikey blonde hair and tiny eyes, a massive dumb grin and electric zaps dancing around it. He quickly shoved it in your direction, looking for praise as if he needed your approval before declaring it was finished, you nodded over exaggeratedly, your eyes closed and your smile wide. He let out a tiny sigh of relief and shoved it into kaminaris face,

"See. Even made you look like a fucking idiot too." His smile wide, his eye crinkled slightly at his proudness beaming across his face. Kaminari took it, laughed loudly at it and ran to show the other bakusquad, as bakugo looked back down to his paper and continued to draw kirishima as a shark. You looked over at him and smiled, your eyes softening at his excitement. He didn't even have to look up at you as he spoke,

"Stop staring idiot. Whatcha gonna do, draw me looking down now or...?" The laughter from his voice was soft, low, he wasn't trying to openly mock you, instead he kept it as a little personal joke saved for the both of you. You rolled your eyes and tried to hide your growing smirk, taking your pencil to the paper and indeed, drawing him looking down. His eyes darted slightly to your paper as he noticed you drawing the spikes, his own smirk growing more too.

Suddenly mino jumped up from her seat and exclaimed a proposition.

"YOU TWO SHOULD DO A COMPETITION! WHO CAN DO THE FUNNIEST PICTURE OF PRESENT MIC!" The class suddenly erupted in a sudden roar of laughter and agreement. He looked up at you and flashed a devilish grin, he really never could step away from a competition. You narrowed your eyes and let your own devilish smirk cross your face, as determination to crush him enveloped you.

"She has to use her left hand though!" He shouted, clearly a bit intimidated by your skill and lack of his own. You agreed and both flicked to a fresh page, as mino started a count down.

"THREE...."

"I'm betting on y/n." Kaminari whispered to Kirishima.

"TWO...."

"Bakubros gonna crush it!" He whispered back.

"ONE....GO!"

And with that, you both started scribbling. After 30 seconds of katsuki ruffing and puffing, scribbling profusely, sweat almost dripping from his brow, Mina suddenly exclaimed that time was up. You both handed your pictures to her as she waltzed to the front of the class, holding them behind her back.

"FIRST we have this one." She held out the first picture, it was present pic at a desk with headphones on, looking like he was doing a podcast with all might crying with laughter opposite him, as mic was screaming at him, a little voice bubble next to him read

'so you're telling me you HAVENT thought about what it would be like to be a woman?"

The class's laughter roared as katsuki smirked proudly, clearly thinking his was going to win.

"Look at his mouth oh my fucking God! That's brilliant!" Her laughter eventually stopped as she pulled out the other photo, "NEXT we have this one!" Again, holding out the paper in front of her, the picture was of mic up a tree, screaming with big bundles of tears rolling down his face and splitting everywhere, as bugs started to crawl up the tree towards him. A voice bubble reading,

'Aizawa! Please save me my strong, handsome husband!'

Again, the class's laughter erupted, classmates almost falling off their chairs at the expression on mics face, and the fact he and aizawa were apparently husbands. Your smile making your cheeks hurt as you looked over to katsuki, who tried so hard to hide his laughter behind the hand on his mouth. Eventually the class quietened down, and began their discussion on which photo was better. Midoriya started mumbled about how the artist skills of the tree mic was far better, but the podcast mic's quote was funnier, everyone crowded around each other as they tried to decide which was best. You leant back on your chair, holding your hand out to katsuki, offering a handshake,

"May the best artist win." You giggled, he pushed your hand away as he smirked,

"I'm totally gonna win." He crossed his arms as he sat back on his chair, kicking his legs up so they crossed over the top of his desk. Suddenly it was time.

Mina walked up to the front of the classroom, holding both pieces of paper out front of her again, her eyes gleaming as she slightly started to raise your photo up and lower katsukis. You very slightly shook your head that she should pick the other one, the movements of your head so subtly but luckily she noticed, and then flung katsukis up in victory. He jumped from his chair and cheered, overly excited that he had won and bestest you, won another competition like he always did. The class roared in congratulations at him, kirishima patting his back with a strong swift smack, and Ochaco flinging her arms around his shoulders, proud that he had won. You sat there smirking, nodded slightly to Mina for listening to you, as she then ran to katsuki and congratulated him.

After the class has settled down slightly, all staring at both pictures again and laughing, you started to pack your bag up and put your book away. He placed his hand on the table and as you looked up, you saw his smug face looking down at you.

"Congrats on your win, I guess I AM a pretty good teacher after all..." You laughed, pushing his hand off the paper underneath him and putting it into your bag.

"Thank you." He whispered, leaning down slightly, making sure that only you and him heard his appreciation. He wasnt stupid, he saw the back of your head move slightly as Mina held the pictures up. You shook your head, pretending not to know what he was on about.

"No idea what you mean, you won fair and square katsuki. Now, tomorrow I'm gonna get you to draw anatomy..." Your voice trailed off as you looked down at your desk, he twitched his hand slightly so you'd look back up at him.

"Fuck off idiot." His smile beamed down at you as he then nodded his head slightly and turned back around, indulging in the shower of appreciation that still flooded towards him.

[mintfullyyours]

something borrowed

The poll results leaned Simon but since Johnny was second, I'm gonna go ahead and post his version first because I love him and the quiet way obsession creeps into my Johnny boy.

Also because Si's might be a multi-fic?? And I envisioned Soap's as a one and done.

I appreciate everyone that's been reading and dropping replies. I love chatting with y'all so much!!! lmk if you want to be included in my tag list too.

happy reading! check out my master list too :)

cw: obsession, slight stalking if you squint

The airport was a blur of movement—exhausted travelers rushing past, the murmur of announcements overhead, and the rhythmic whir of the baggage carousel. You had just arrived in Scotland, today marking the start of your new life on a work visa. It should have been exciting, but between the long flight, the bustle of customs, and the sinking realization that your pre-arranged apartment wasn't ready yet, all you wanted was to collapse in a bed—any bed.

At least your luggage made it.

Or so you thought.

You barely registered the weight as you pulled the black suitcase off the belt, adjusting your grip while balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear. "Yes, Mom, I landed. No, I haven’t seen the place yet—there was a mix-up, so I’m in a hotel for now. You're right, I should've called my land lord sooner. Yes, I’m being careful." You sighed, nodding along to the well-meaning concerns before finally managing to end the call.

By the time you reached the hotel, all you could think about was a hot shower and fresh clothes. You unzipped your suitcase, already reaching for your toiletries—only to pause.

Unzipping the case, you blinked down at neatly folded clothes that were absolutely not yours. A few button-ups, dark-wash jeans, a military-green hoodie that smelled faintly of something clean but masculine. A leather toiletry bag sat on top, half-unzipped to reveal a razor and cologne. Your stomach twisted as you rifled deeper, hoping— praying — that this was some bizarre mistake.

And then you found it.

Dog tags.

Your breath hitched as you held them up to the dim light of the hotel room. They clinked together softly, the name engraved on the metal stark and unmistakable.

John MacTavish.

You sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, flipping open the worn leather notebook you'd found in his suitcase. You hadn’t meant to snoop, truly. But after realizing the mix-up, frustration had led to curiosity. Tucked within a few shirts, a thick notepad. When you opened it, the first few pages were filled with intricate sketches—landscapes, weapons, and then… faces.

Your fingers hesitated as you turned to a drawing that sent a chill down your spine.

It was unfinished, but the shape of it was eerily familiar. The curve of the jaw, the way the hair fell just slightly out of place—your features were there, just vague enough to make you question if it was truly you or just a coincidence. Your pulse quickened. Had he seen you before? Had he drawn this from memory?

Or worse… from imagination?

You swallowed, flipping another page, half-expecting to find more sketches of yourself. Instead, there were tiny notes scribbled in the margins, barely legible in places. Soft eyes. Always moving, like she’s thinking of a thousand things at once.

Your breath caught in your throat.

This was insane. It had to be. He didn’t even know you… did he?

And yet, here you were, staring at proof that maybe, just maybe—

He’d noticed you first.

Now somewhere on the other side of the city, Johnny MacTavish leaned against the counter of his hotel room, watching as the ice in his glass shifted with the slow swirl of whiskey. His other hand rested on the suitcase he’d taken from baggage claim— your suitcase.

He’d told himself it was an accident. And maybe, technically, it was. He’d grabbed the bag without checking the tag, too distracted, too caught up in the chaos of the airport. That was the version he’d keep if anyone asked.

The zipper gives way with a low hum and Johnny flips open the suitcase. Soft fabrics. His fingers brush against the sleeve of a sweater, thick and plush, the kind that looks better stolen off a lover’s back. There’s a silky dress beneath it, something smooth against his fingertips that have been through too much brutality, and he exhales through his nose, jaw tight.

A well-worn hoodie that smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla, the kind of scent that clung to someone effortlessly. He brought it closer, inhaling before he could think better of it. It was comforting.

This isn’t his.

But it’s yours.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t move to close the suitcase just yet. Instead, he lets himself indulge—just a second longer.

His knuckles graze against something rigid in the side pocket, and when he pulls it free, his breath catches. A photo.

It’s you.

The first thing he notices is your smile—wide, radiant, unrestrained. You're laughing, holding a little girl who’s absolutely covered in melted ice cream. Sticky fingers curled around your arm, a mess on your shirt, but you doesn’t look like you mind. If anything, you look like you're having just as much fun as the kid is.

Something tugs in his chest. Tight.

He swallows.

This is stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve already called the number on the luggage tag and set up the swap. But instead—

He turns the photo over.

Scrawled in messy, uneven handwriting, a child’s marker bleeds into the back of the paper:

“Best day ever.”

It’s like a punch to the gut.

Something in his chest clenched. Not just because the words were sweet, but because they felt like confirmation. Even the kid knew —you were good. The kind of person who made life feel lighter, brighter. The kind of person who deserved to be cherished. He could picture it too easily—you're in his kitchen, a little one on your hip, laughing as you wiped ice cream off their face. His kid. Their kid.

Christ.

His fingers tighten on the edge of the photo.

Call it luck that your luggages were swapped & maybe this really was an accident.

Or maybe, just maybe —

Johnny MacTavish saw you at baggage claim first.

And maybe, just maybe —

He took your suitcase on purpose.

tag list

@ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101 @galactict3a @star-buck-barnes @synamonthy @vylaris @vvenus-child @negomisan @heretoreadanddrinktea @mocalocha @icommitwarcrimes @readingcatinacorner @just-lilita @blackhawkfanatic

[electric-shoop]

apparently it's 'make a terrible comic' day, so here !! i can neither draw nor did i have anything but a notepad i stole from work and one single pen. that i stole from work. :]

[id: a very badly drawn five panel comic. It's important you know the lines of the panels aren't even straight, or evenly sized.

panel one, text: "I know sheep don't think the way we do." Underneath it is a doodle of a sheep's head slightly tilted, with a "?" in a speech bubble next to it.

panel two shows a sheep with a thought bubble. the bubble contains a bunch of scribbly lines (grass) and is labeled "thinking of a patch of grass to graze on".

third panel, text: "But. Every now & then I like to imagine them..."

fourth panel, text: "...looking up at the stars..." underneath it: a sheep standing underneath a starry sky, looking up at it. text beneath the sheep: "...and understanding, just briefly,"

fifth and largest panel, text: "just how small they are". the text is surrounded by a lot of stars. standing at the very bottom of the panel, tiny, a vaguely sheep-shaped scribble. /end id]

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Can't Stay Away, Can't Look Away - Steve Raglan/William Afton X Female Reader

Title: Can't Stay Away, Can't Look Away

Steve Raglan/William Afton X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Pete the Chef OC and Marie OC

WC: 2,917

Warnings: A bit of obsession, maybe stalking maybe not?, Reader is a waitress and is mentioned wearing a skirt for work, teasing, flirting?, serial killer stuff mentioned very briefly, Reader has very brief negative thoughts, age gap, mini angst, and fluff

The uniform beat of the clock was the only sound in the room as it ticked away. It seemed to echo throughout Steve Raglan's office. The silence was unnerving, and the ticking of the clock seemed to be a constant reminder of the fact that time was indeed slowly crawling forward with each minute that passed.

Sitting in his swivel chair, Steve glanced over some client files, occasionally humming to himself as he used his feet to turn himself in his chair; side to side. Letting out a silent sigh, he closed the dull yellow file and sat it on his desk with the others. Pushing up the bridge of his gold-framed aviator glasses, Steve looked up at the clock. Upon reaching his scheduled lunch break, he pushed himself off the chair before grabbing his coat and shrugging it on. Adjusting his tie as he left his office, he walked down the hall, passing other offices before exiting the large building. 

It was a bright afternoon, though Steve hardly noticed as he made his way down the sidewalk, a certain confidence in each step. As he walked, he passed by the local flower shop, which stood beside a small bookstore, before crossing the street and the busy intersection to pass by the park. This was a part of Steve's routine, every weekday since about a couple of months ago. He always left his office at the same time for lunch, passed the same shops and stores, and entered the same diner for that said lunch. 

Pushing the glass door open, Steve walked in, only to sit down at his usual spot. Though the restored diner from the 1960s was practically in new shape, the edges of the red leather booth where Steve sat were beginning to peel from age. The menu board was still hung up behind the counter, along with other posters, antique metal signs of cars, and other things that had been in the diner longer than Steve cared to really care about. The jukebox in the corner was softly playing a song, ‘Put Your Head On My Shoulder,’ a song by Paul Anka. The walls were a pastel blue, red, and white, with some white tile detailing here and there. 

Going to the diner was routine for him, as said before, he went there every weekday to get his lunch. But he didn't go because the food was out of this world, or to appreciate the aesthetic of the place or anything like that. No, he came for you. 

You were a waitress at the tiny diner, dressed in the typical 1960s waitress attire, you scurried to the awaiting people, pouring their drinks and serving their food. Sure, there were other waitresses there, but they weren't you. No, there was something special about you that made Steve want to come there every day for the sake of seeing you. You were beautiful, with bright, sparkling eyes, and soft lips that spoke words so sweetly. You just gave off a feeling that made you stand apart, an aura of warmth and affection. So Steve took a liking to you. And he couldn't understand why he did, no matter how hard he tried. He just felt drawn to you. Like magnetite to a magnet.

Walking out of the backroom, you froze, seeing Steve sitting in his usual booth, hands clasped, looking out the window. Letting out a breath you didn't even know you were holding, you felt your heart begin to race. Oh, what that man did to you, even just his presence alone brought a smile to your face. Brushing down your waitress skirt, you didn't bother to grab your notepad and pen from your skirt pocket as you walked over. You knew his order well. Well enough that you had it memorized; a BLT and a cup or two of black coffee.

Stepping in front of the table, the man looked up, your smile softened slightly, "Good afternoon, Steve. Do you want your usual?" You asked, and what you had asked him practically every day since he came into the little diner a couple of months ago. 

The man gave you a small grin back, his clasped hands shifting slightly, making you look down at the movement; his sleeves were pushed back above his elbows, strong forearms exposed. Steve noticed your gaze, his eyes glancing down at your mouth as you bought your bottom lip in between your teeth, "Good afternoon, Y/N. Yes, I would like my usual." He answered, his words making you look back into his blue eyes before you cleared your throat nervously.

You gave him a nod, bits of stray hairs falling in front of your face as you did so, "... Alright, I'll make sure that it arrives soon." With one last look at him, brushing the stray hairs behind your ears, you headed towards the kitchen. 

Steve watched you go, staring after you until you disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. He sighed quietly as he leaned back in his seat. Meanwhile, you leaned against the wall near the kitchen door, letting out a breath as you pressed your hand on your chest, feeling your racing heart pound and hammer against your chest. Taking one last breath, you got a hold of yourself, pushing through the large kitchen to find Pete, the chef. 

Peering past a metal counter, you smiled at the old man who was mixing some sort of salad, "Hey, Pete," You grinned, "We got a seven and a black coffee." You spoke, gaining the man's attention. Pivoting his weight to his hip, he placed a hand there, tilting his head as he took in your expression; but mostly your eyes. He could tell that something was going on. 

"He's here, isn't he?" Pete asked, watching your face flush, as you glanced and looked everywhere but at him, his grin widened. 

"Yeah, Pete, he is. Can I please just get his order? Please, no teasing." You begged with a slight whine to your voice.

Pete, an old man in his sixties, had been working at the diner since he was in his twenties; and had been sort of a cool uncle figure to you, only shrugged his shoulders. Turning back around, he began to prepare Steve's order. "Sure thing, dearie," He replied softly, chuckling lightly. "You should probably head over and get him his coffee, don't want Marie to get to him before you do. She won't be so merciful."

Nodding your head you rushed out of the kitchen, heading behind the counter, passing Marie, who only grinned as you passed by her. Pouring the black coffee, you let out one last breath, mentally hyping yourself up before you walked back over to Steve. 

He raised his head, meeting your eyes as you carefully sat the coffee down in front of him. "Thank you, Y/N." He spoke, giving you the same small smile that made you want to melt. 

"You're welcome, Steve. Is there anything else you'd like while you wait? We just added a blueberry pie to the menu this morning." You asked, but the man just shook his head, his intense gaze unmoving as he gave you a small toothy grin.

"No, I'm alright."

Nodding, you gestured back to the kitchen, "I'll, uh, go check up on your food then."

Rushing back to the kitchen, you found Marie inside, Pete still working on the bacon portion of Steve's order. Marie turned to you, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. "He's here." She sang in a soft sing-song voice, smirking.

Throwing your hands up, you huffed, "Yes, that's quite obvious. He's here every day at twelve-thirty on the dot." You retorted.

Marie laughed, shaking her head, "I just find it funny is all."

You furrowed your eyebrows, watching as Pete began to chop up a tomato. "What's funny?"

"That you get so flustered around him." She answered, making you look down at your feet.

Marie had been your best friend since you were both in high school. She had been in the same few classes with you, and the both of you had gotten along great, even going to the same college. Later, you both tried going your separate ways, but this town had some pull on the both of you - so you both ended up working at the diner after a while of job searching. She was usually the voice of reason, the one you looked up to whenever you had a difficult question or task. She really was a great friend.

"I try not to be." You answered simply, turning to Pete, "Is his sandwich ready?" You asked as the man nodded, stabbing the red foil-tipped toothpick in the center of the bread; topping it all off. 

“This might be the best one yet.” Pete marveled, staring down at his sandwich with pride, but without another word, you grabbed the plate with the BLT and pushed the kitchen door open.

Walking over with his food, you felt your irritation fade away as Steve looked up, his grin growing. Placing the food down in front of him, you noticed that his coffee cup was empty. Gesturing to it, you spoke, "Would you like a refill?"

"Yes, thank you," He spoke, watching as you quickly grabbed the coffee pot from the counter across from him, pouring more of the coffee into his cup. "How has your day been, Y/N?" He asked, you had been preparing yourself for today's conversation.

"It's been alright," You said, your voice soft. A nervous chuckle escaped you before you continued, "Just trying to keep busy. How's everything with you?" You asked, hoping to change the subject a bit.

“The same as usual, I'm afraid." He answered, similar to what he told you every time you asked him how he was.

"Well," You cleared your throat, "I'll let you eat. Let me know if you need anything, okay?" You asked, smiling slightly, giving him one last look before walking back to the counter.

"Of course..." He muttered, mostly to himself, watching as you slid behind the counter with your co-worker, grabbing a rag and beginning to clean the marble with it. 

Looking down at the table, his sandwich seemed to stare right up at him. Picking it up with both hands, he bit into his BLT, taking a moment before letting his eyes wander the room before they settled on you once more. Watching as you talked with your co-worker, a smile on your face and hers. The co-worker occasionally glanced over at him, making him turn back to stare at his table, chewing his sandwich slowly. Straining his ears, he tried to listen in on your conversation.

"He's staring at you again," Marie spoke under her breath, "It's kind of creepy." 

Hitting her arm with the rag, you lightly glared at her, "Don't be rude. Or too loud… He might hear you…" 

"What?" She asked defensively, "It is, he's looking at you like a creep."

"And what about that? Should I be worried?" You challenged, raising an eyebrow as you went back to rubbing at the counter in front of you. “I think it’s sweet,” You muttered, and Marie didn’t seem to notice.

Sighing, she shook her head, crossing her arms, "I mean, maybe? Who knows? Maybe he's some serial killer."

You sputtered a laugh, raising your hand to cover your mouth, "You're ridiculous, Marie. He may be a bit… Antisocial, but that does not mean he’s some crazy murderer.”

Marie sighed again, glancing back over at him, "He’s still staring."

"I doubt it." You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I'm not someone to stare at."

Marie stared at you, raising her eyebrow, "Girl, you're gorgeous. Shut up. And he is, look."

Rolling your eyes at her, you worried on your lip as you glanced over at him, noticing that he was indeed staring at you. It wasn't hard to notice that fact, with how much his eyes were locked onto yours, especially when you could almost feel them piercing through you. Your cheeks flushed with heat, as your stomach twisted and flipped. You dipped your head, biting into your lip with a bit more force so as not to let the growing smile slip onto your face.

"I might do something risky," You muttered, your voice soft, breathless. Marie noticed, raising both her eyebrows this time in surprise. “I’ve been thinking about doing it for a while…”

"Oh, wow, he's really got you wrapped around his finger, doesn't he? You're whipped."

You shook your head, twisting the rap between your hands, straining your fingers slightly with the force, "No, I'm not."

"You're whipped. Smitten. Absolutely enamored. You've got the hots for this guy." She continued to tease, making you let out a deep sigh, tossing the rag down on the counter. "What are you planning to do exactly, hon?" She then asked, noticing that she really wasn't helping you in this situation.

"I might give him my number." You muttered, taking a quick glance over to see him finishing his coffee; plate clean. You couldn’t help but admire his side profile, taking in his perfect features. His dark hair, sprinkled with gray, looked so soft. It looked like it would be great to run your fingers through it. Your hand moved to the front of your head, pulling on a loose strand of hair before returning it behind your ear. You wondered, as you stared at him, if his beard would be soft or rough... “Oh God...” You murmured under your breath.

Marie took a step forward, placing a hand on your arm, snapping your gaze back to her, "Hon... Uh, you don't have to listen to me… But isn’t he a bit too old for you?”

You tilted your head at her, confusion etching onto your face, "Too old?"

She nodded her head, "Yea, y'know, he's like forty or fifty or somethin'. There’s a pretty big age gap between you two.

Blinking your eyes rapidly, your lips parted slightly, sort of speechless. "Marie... I don't care how old he is... I don't care about age gaps. If I was like eighteen, then yeah, that would be a problem to me, but I am twenty-five... I just... I don't know… As long as we are two consenting adults… I- uh…" You trailed off. “You’re stressing me out.”

“I’m sorry,” Marie smiled sweetly, patting you on the shoulder gently, "Don't mind me then. I just want you to be a bit cautious… That is, unless he's super rich, then I say go for it.” You shook your head, letting out a small chuckle, before nodding your head towards the man in question.

"I should check on him. His lunch break is almost over." Marie watched you go, sighing before she left for the kitchen. Walking over, Steve sat his empty coffee cup down, looking up at you with a small grin, a strange glint in his eyes. "Ready for the bill, Steve?" You asked.

"I believe so," He sighed, grabbing into his jacket pocket beside him to grab his wallet. "Same as always?" He asked, and you hummed in confirmation. Pulling out a twenty dollar bill, he handed it to you. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, trying to ignore the sudden tingling feeling in your stomach at the contact. Stuffing the ten in your pocket, you pulled out a ten dollar bill. But, Steve only shook his head, “You keep that.”

Nodding with a small, grateful smile, you nodded, “Thank you, Steve.”

Shaking his head, he stood, "You don’t have to thank me. Your service was excellent, as always." He said simply, slipping his arms through the sleeves.

"Thank you," You muttered softly, blinking rapidly before you stuffed the money into your pocket, quickly opening your notepad and writing something down.

Steve watched you curiously as he adjusted the collar of his coat before you ripped the paper from the small notebook and handed it to him; unable to meet his gaze. He opened it slowly, his eyes reading and rereading the number - he could only assume it was your number - that you had haphazardly written down for him; though you were quick to write it, it was still neat and Steve could read it easily. Looking up at you, you finally managed to glance back up at him.

Folding the note, Steve slid it in his pocket, "I'll see you tomorrow?" He asked simply, watching as you nodded. He hummed, glancing around the features of your face before he found himself raising his hand, brushing the stubborn wisps behind your ear, the tips of his fingers lingering a second too long on the softness of your cheek before he pulled away. Your eyes widened a fraction, your lips opening slightly as a small, inaudible gasp left you. Steve swallowed thickly, swiftly turning on his heel before he lost what little control he had over himself, walking out of the diner, the door shutting behind him.

Standing there, you stared after him, letting out a sigh. What was that? Not that you were complaining. You slowly raised your hand, brushing your fingers along the same trail that he had touched moments ago, feeling the warmth. He had been so gentle and careful and... So warm. It felt good. You couldn't help but smile lightly. You hoped that he'd call you.

And he would. You'd be hearing from him soon. Very soon.

[strawbiecream]

Regarding the post Anon asked about how John became corrupted, this was also in my draft for like.. 2 weeks. I forgot about it and stopped writing this cuz holy shit im definitely gonna remake this

My english isnt really good, bear with me 😞

get ready for the.. yapfest?

PRE-FORSAKEN

John's life was fine—not perfect but it's everything he could ever ask for. He is somewhere in his 50s along with Jane—his dearest wife. Having worked in the ROBLOX HQ for almost 30 years and also being one of the first employees, he along with Jane are close friends with the admins—hell they are drinking buddies even! On the weekends or any special occasions, John would invite them over so they can grill and drink together. It was more than just enough for John.

It was until one day a robloxian came to his office, knocking on the door slowly three times. The door creaks open with John peeking from behind, using his other hand to push the glasses up out of habit. The robloxian's appearance immediately caught his eyes. Their face was concealed by the paper bag on their head, having a poorly drawn red face at the front as a replacement for their identity. John's eyes travel down to their feet, noticing how their outfit looked like it was sewn together then wear a tie and call it a day. John has grown familiar with how diverse a robloxian's look can be, but this person made him feel uneasy. They raises their hand, showing him a USB with a tiny paper attached to it.

"Builderman wants you to see this."—said the robloxian, their robotic voice wasn't helping with his uneasiness.

"... Me? Out of everyone?"—John thought to himself, his head tilts to the side. Did Builderman need help? He would show up to John's office personally if he ever needed something from him! But then again—he is super busy, John almost never see him and sometimes he have someone to send the message to him.

He was a bit skeptical, but he nodded anyway.

"Alright. Let me have it."—hesitantly, John took the USB from their hand.

Settling down comfortably on his chair with the USB between his fingers, John let out a sigh. He plays with it, maneuvering it between his fingers while considering his decisions. Looking at it won't do anything, should he just get rid of it? John shook his head to push those thoughts away and push the USB into the port. He grabs the mouse, moving it to close the tabs and focus on the new addition that had just appeared—an unamed folder. John hovers the mouse over it, his finger circling before double clicking the folder prompting it to open. Only one file was present: "READme.txt". The mouse hovers above the text file and he double clicks it impatiently—promptly opening the familiar Notepad application. The note has a rather lengthy message:

"Hey Johnny! Builderman here. I know you will ignore my messages telling you to catch a break, but seriously! You need to catch some z's! This HQ won't go down if you let go for a few days, yeah? Spend some-"

John abruptly closes the note with a click, he leans against the chair with a soft smile and a sigh escaping from his lips. "He's doing that again."—John thought to himself. "I got worked up for no reason, huh. And then I thought something was gonna happen to me." John lets out a light chuckle, mainly to reassure his old and restless mind. His right hand reaches out to grab the USB from the port. The moment John's fingers made contact, it zapped him. Instinctively, he pulled back, this wasn't supposed to hurt him. John's attention was fully on the strange USB in the port before the flashing screen on the computer diverted his gaze to it.

it stopped here since i realized i didnt like it, about the weird looking robloxian i described, it was TheC0mmunity :]

[friends-w-ghosts]

First two: many Lucrecias and some Vincents on my calculus notes (idk why Vincent is missing his scar in the last one it’s kind of scaring me. I think he’s supposed to be wearing bat earrings like a pair I own, though.)

Last one: sketch of my best friend playing Velma Kelly, drawn on my notepad at the lightboard before I opened house for Chicago.

I don’t like drawing eyes on tiny sketches if you can’t tell. They ruin it bc I always mess them up when I’m drawing too tiny

[possiblylisle]

On the Pond's Surface: Part Two

Something had changed. The feeling was different now. All the dull aching and itching that remained from the reverse had moved. They had pushed themselves out of his nerves or organs, or wherever they’d been hiding, and now they were collecting, concentrating in his skin and in the throbbing space around his optic nerves.

                He could only see it when it slithered its way through his arms or his legs, and it was unsettling to look at. A white light that squirmed and writhed, moving beneath his skin like worms or living strands of hair. The way it moved, looked and felt was too similar for it to be a coincidence. The doctors and the researchers that tended to him feared it. They didn’t know what it was. Some thought it must’ve been a parasite from the reverse. Others thought it was some sort of nano-machine colony. One outlier believed it was just a trick of the light in the room. Only he knew what it was. It was too alike to what he saw for him to be wrong. Some part of the reverse was living under his skin, and he didn’t know how to tell them.

                The doctors tried the simplest, most non-invasive treatments they could – not that they were limiting themselves on purpose but because Grant refused to let them do anything more. If they did something too extreme, it might cause problems, he reasoned. He didn’t know how the reverse was inside him, but he definitely did not want it to escape into the regular side of reality.

                The first thing they did was give him pills.

                “They’re normally used for treating parasites,” they’d told him. When a week had passed and the reverse still moved under his skin, they gave up on the parasite theory.

                Syringes were next. They jabbed him in all the places where the reverse was most concentrated and every time, the only thing that was drawn up into their needles was blood. No glowing white, no writhing, just simple crimson. They tested his blood, of course, but found nothing. There was no tiny colony of parasites or nano-machines.

                The second change happened in the second week of tests. The constant throbbing behind his eyes seeped forward and into the gelatinous spheres of his eyes proper. The throbbing soon died out, but he could still feel something living in its place.

                “That’s certainly new.” The doctor who’d come to check on him in the morning was the first to notice. According to their account and a subsequent look in the mirror, his eyes were changing color, constantly. The pigment of his irises continued to shift and change, moving like the ink on a wet Rorschach slide.

                “Has your vision changed at all? Is it blurry? Clearer?” They’d brought in an optometrist from one of the other ships in the flotilla because, for some reason, the Effervescence did not have one despite holding a population comparable to a Martian city.

                “My vision still feels the same. Sometimes one of those lights swims across my pupil though.” Grant rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t entirely lying. His vision was still the same as before, but his eyes felt wrong, like they didn’t sit in their sockets like they should.

                “Oh? Can you tell me what it’s like when one does move across the pupil?” The optometrist’s notepad was not as extensively used as the other researchers, but Grant felt like that would change if something else about his eyes changed too.

                “I see it kind of writhe into view and when it does, it makes things hard to see. They’re really bright and it doesn’t go away when I close my eyes.”

                The optometrist clucked his tongue and wrote something down. “Are we sure this thing isn’t a parasite? If it does come from the reverse, then it won’t be affected by our medications.”

                The other researchers who had been observing from the edges of the room looked up from their notes and glanced at each other.

                You’re kidding me? They didn’t think of that? Grant sighed and rubbed his eyes again.

“You might also want to run a more extensive scan on him. See if you can identify what this not-parasite is actually made of.” The optometrist was looking back at the other researchers, scowling at them for not thinking straight.

                “Can we be done for today? I’m tired.” Grant stood before any of them could answer him. He knew that permission wasn’t needed to leave, and he also didn’t expect to receive it. If they had their way, they’d set up a rotating staff to test him every hour of the day and that sounded terrible.

He wasn’t dying and he wasn’t at risk of infecting any other spacers, but they still kept him away from people and in his own private little hospital in the far corners of Effervescence. It was more like the neighborhood’s local clinic instead of an actual hospital, but they still called it one for a reason he didn’t understand.

                The staff of the hospital was minimal before word got out that he had survived reverse exposure, then the crowds of doctors had come flooding in. Some were older, and actually trying to help while hiding their curiosity, others were fresh out of med school, and it was blatantly obvious they only wanted to use him as the basis for a paper that would launch their career.

                He hated all of them, though, even if they hadn’t done anything wrong. Hate was a feeling he was becoming too familiar with lately, and he hated that he hated. He hated the people around him. The doctors showed no sympathy for what he had experienced. They didn’t even stop to realize that he was a person who’d lost everyone he’d ever known. They just saw him as some wild curiosity, like a too tall man at an ancient earth circus.

                Most of all he hated himself. He hated being alive. He hated the horrid gnawing inside of himself that kept whispering the truth of the future to him. Everyone was gone. Kimi was gone. He would have to live the rest of his life without ever seeing her again. He would have to live decades without ever hearing her voice or feeling her warmth. He hated it. He hated the universe for making him different. He hated it for letting him live.

“It’s the only possible explanation we can think of. Nothing about you is normal in this situation. You shouldn’t even exist right now, but you do. That and the flow of the anti-matter in your body is consistent with all the old reports we have from the Federation and the Shaza.”

                A dreamer. He was a dreamer. A leak in reality. An incorrect human being born of reality’s pond. He was a dreamer.

                She was right. Of course she was right. They’re real, and I’ve been one this whole time. Grant felt like he should be shaking or crying, having some sort of visible breakdown at hearing that he was living proof of the universe’s weirdness.

                I can’t believe this. This doesn’t feel real. He wasn’t supposed to be alive. Why didn’t the universe let him die? Why did it have to be him? Why? He wasn’t living proof of some great cosmic mystery! No! He was living proof that the universe hated him. It wanted him to suffer. It wanted him to be alone. That’s how it always was. It wanted him to hurt. It wanted him to bleed. It wanted his tears to quench its thirst.

                All I want is to die.

Tag List:

@capnmachete @leahnardo-da-veggie @tamiveldura @lorifragolina @liminalgoddessworld

@humbleartspawn @orion-lacroix @insecure-pilot

[monstersinthecosmos]

September 8, 1973

Everything hurts.

Joints rusted shut, and a migraine brewing behind his eyes. 

And the sunlight. In his face, squeezing deep in his brain as he tries to lift his head.

Everything is heavy. 

His neck cracks as he straightens up, and there’s static in his mouth, spots in his vision. And the room around him is so familiar, like he’s seen it in a photograph, but he isn’t sure where he is right away, or how he got here.

The microphone light is still on, even though the recorder is out of tape. Hot when he touches it, and he flinches, and it all comes back to him.

David Bowie, and a gross little room, and realizing too late that he was in the presence of a predator.

And the other things, too.

The chair skids, then clatters to the floor as he stands up too fast. As he claps his hand over his neck. The skin of his palm stings against the tiny leftover wounds, and he stumbles over to the wash basin, the filthy mirror, tugging as his collar to see better.

It’s because of the lasers, look how good it healed.

Daniel bends over the sink and pukes.

The two punctures are so tiny. They could be insect bites. Not proof enough. 

He spins on his heel, frenzied as he looks for his bag. Still here. And he’s across the room a moment later, reaching his hand in to touch the cassettes for himself. And rewinding the tape deck back, just a little, enough to hit play and hear Louis’s voice.

His fingers wiggle at his sides, and his mind warps around it, trying to see a path through, to come up with a task list.

Louis had been so calm at the bar, didn’t hesitate when Daniel proposed an interview. 

“But no one will believe you,” he said gently. Amused, but not gloating. 

And, god. Daniel knew. He knew something was off, but came anyway. 

He rubs the bite mark on his neck, shaking all over. Trying to make a plan. Louis’s voice drifts up from the tape and he scrambles for his notepad to write the details down. His handwriting doesn’t look right. Hands are too shaky, or his world is upside-down. 

What the fuck are you doing?

Shaky breath. The tip of his pen digs a dimple into the paper. Ink pools there as he waits for his ears to stop ringing.

The list starts to take form. He flips to a clean page. 

- pack - get gas - find him

Somehow he can see Lestat in his mind. Louis’s words were too vivid, and Daniel doesn’t feel like he’s been in this room all night. Feels like he went through something, like a fever dream, and his mind feels completely fucked.

He wonders if he has time to get his oil changed before he goes. Definitely can’t get the noise checked out. But maybe if he doesn’t push too hard, if he takes his time…

Could be bad if he got stuck out there. In one of those desert roads, where there’s nothing in any direction except the open sky. 

A part of him wants to be there now. Drawn to it, a little flame inside that’s possessing him already.

I have to know, he thinks. He rubs his face and says it out loud. “You have to know.”

And he’s out the door, before he can think about it any more. Squeezing his bag to his chest, panicking over the safety of the tapes. He imagines the list in his head, adding to it as he breaks out into the daylight. 

- make copies - write a transcript - keep them safe

He doesn’t remember where he is. Squinting against the sun, and everything hurts again, and if he hadn’t emptied his stomach already he might puke right here on the sidewalk. 

Saturday morning, and people are outside. A mom with her kids. Someone taking a run. The brunch crowd at the cafe on the corner. He has the grace to be embarrassed, just for a moment, imagining hurling in front of all of them. Even dry heaving could be bad. But it clears after a second, as he watches them, and he feels like he’s wrapped in plastic. Like the slipcover they had on the couch when he was a kid. He’s frantic as he looks back and forth, at all their faces.

They don’t know, he realizes. He imagines screaming it, and imagines no one would hear him. They don’t know. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Sickness rises anyway. He hugs his bag to his chest and staggers to the next house, ducks his head over their fence, dry heaves until yellow bile drips down into their flower bed. His face burns and he squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to catch his breath, waits for everyone to move on before he straightens up and heads on his way.

The neighborhood, like the room, feels like he’s seeing a photograph. Like he’s trapped under plastic. Unsure where he is, but he heads up the block on instinct, lets his subconscious bring him home. Squeezes his bag, hearing the tapes rattle, passes block after block in a daze. 

Not quite that he doesn’t know the way. He thinks he knows the way, even with his mind so disjointed. But it’s… not the same world anymore. Like he woke up something else.

And he’s out of breath when he makes it up to his door, and his face is cold as he pats his pockets for his keys. Wonders if he has the composure to talk to the super, if he can talk to any human right now without screaming, but he finds them tucked into the side pocket on his bag. 

The apartment should feel safe. 

He locks the door behind him. Rushes to the window to shut the blinds. Turns in a circle, looking at everything he’s amassed since he’s been out here. All the second-hand furniture, and his record collection, and the posters he hung on the walls. 

The collection of tapes. The wedding invite dangling off the corner of his bulletin board. The book he borrowed from Connie.

His heart races. He wonders if he should take anything with him.

Clothes, sure. That’s fine. But. 

Everything else is just stuff. 

He grabs a duffle from the closet. Doesn’t pay attention to how many outfits he grabs, or what they look like. Whatever’s clean, whatever he can reach. And he grabs his toothbrush. Chews a few aspirin before packing the rest of the bottle. 

And food, food. He chugs a glass of water over the sink, then another. There’s not much, being honest. A few apples, a bag of chips. He grabs the cereal box off the top shelf—not cereal at all, but his savings account—and squeezes his hand around the rolled up wad of hundreds. Needing to know it’s real. 

Well, he can get food. He’ll get food on the road. That’s easy.

He stands in the kitchen doorframe, looking over the apartment. Dim, with the dirty yellow light coming through the closed blinds. It makes everything feel drab, but he tells himself that he was happy here. It wasn’t like this before.

There’s not enough room in his bag for the tapes. Maybe room in his trunk, but he’s shaking, wants to go now. Go go go. Doesn’t think he can stomach two or three trips to load them into the car. Maybe he can leave them for somebody. Maybe if—

And the phone is sitting there. He wonders if he should call his mom. And his eyes burn, stupidly. He rubs at them, and sniffles, and shakes it off as he crosses the room, sliding his apartment key off his key ring. Not calling his mom, but he kneels on his desk chair, tugs the phone closer to the edge. 

The typewriter, he should take that. It has a case, though. He feels around for it under the desk as the other line of the phone rings. 

Connie answers. 

Daniel pauses for a moment, unsure what to say. She doesn’t know. They don’t know. And his voice is raspy when he tries to speak.

“It’s Daniel,” he says quickly. He tucks the receiver against his shoulder as the tugs the case out from under the desk. “I have to leave town. Can you do something for me?”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t have time, can you do something for me?”

“Sure? Daniel are you—“

“I’m going to leave my key under the doormat okay? I don’t know if…” he grunts as he gets the latch of the case unstuck. “I’m not sure when I’m coming back, I don’t know. They might evict me or something. Can you just come get my tapes?”

“Your tapes?”

“Yeah you know. My interviews. All my…” he looks at then, lined neatly on the shelves. Each labeled. Each one of them is a real person. “All my interviews. I don’t have time to pack them up, can you just. Is it too much?”

“Well, no, I just—“

“And anything else you want, just. It’s yours. I have your book, and. You know if you want any of my records or anything.”

“Danny you’re scaring me.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Eyes burning again. 

But he laughs. 

[previous day] | [next day]

[crescentmp3]

hi

[image desc: a series of simply drawn doodles. the first image is of what seems to be a dove or a pigeon, with an arrow pointing to it that says "he's like a man. to me"

second image shows a very simplistic figure that is tilted "kevin". third image shows a mixed-color cat being held that is titled "scooter :3".

fourth image depicts kevin ashford with a cup of coffee in his hand. iffaeh, off-camera, asks "how many cups have you had?". kevin, deadpan, says " 9." there is a swirly arrow pointing to kevin that says "is not fine".

fifth image is of iffaeh beam, relaxing in a chair as fae throw one leg over the other with a book in faer hands. kevin, off-camera, asks faer "iff, what's that?". iffaeh responds, "very important matters, young soul." the book fae're reading is titled "top 10 cute animals".

sixth image is of kevin and iffaeh standing together. kevin looks like he's in terror while iffaeh looks completely invested, with a notepad in faer hand as fae take notes. arrow pointing to kevin says "terrified", while arrow pointing to iffaeh says "fascinated".

seventh image is of quinn locke and her girlfriend celeste. celeste, with an innocent smile, says "lol we should marry". quinn looks at her with comedically overexaggerated surprise, her eyes wide as her pupils are tiny hearts.

eighth image is of celeste lying on the ground with x's for eyes. the doodle is titled "dead".

ninth image is of quinn with her hair down, with ellipses next to her. an arrow points to her that says, "gf dead".

tenth image is of monique weaver, standing with her hands clasped behind her back. a swirly arrow pointed to her reads, "totally doesn't have trust issues", with a smiley face. // end id]

[playedbetter]

🎉   ─  attend a holiday party together / @ pearl !

Meme / Accepting!

She was never the person to begin a festivity but she'd almost always be second or third to join in. Case in point she had a mug of eggnog in hand she'd been sipping on for the past half hour and had found a paper crown out of a table cracker nobody was supposed to have popped open yet.

"Houston," the O sounds in his name were drawn out both by her accent and by the fact she was tipsy already. "Those crackers they got are shit, all I got out of mine was a a tiny notepad that rips the minute you try to filp to page two,"

[vcnillazelda]

tattoos

simon riley x reader

summary: you colour simon’s tattoos during a briefing.

tags: secret relationship, soap being soap, ghost and soap’s bromance bc they need more content together, tattoos, me going feral over simon’s tattoo bc slfnndkdhsbrkci, rudy is reader’s bestie, alejandro is grumpy, he’s just not a morning person, gaz is just there

wow 2 posts in one day 😍

✞———————❖———————✞

simon’s sat down, eyes scanning over the room. price was waiting for everyone to get in the briefing room and settle, reading over his notes which gave simon a brief time to settle in. sitting in crowded rooms always made him anxious, even though he knew everyone in the room, it was still nerve-racking. you take a seat next to him, giving him a wide and friendly smile as soap takes the seat on his left. rudy, being close to you, sits on your other side and simon gives him a short nod. the two weren’t close, rudy always got uncomfortable around simon, but you two were best friends so simon tried coming off more friendly. the spanish man smiles awkwardly, looking at his lap as he fiddles with his pen. you snatch up the highlighters in the middle of the table, as per usual, and start doodling slightly on your notes.

soon enough, price starts the briefing, yet simon’s watching you. you’re drawing a little frog, colouring it in with the highlighter, then you glance up at johnny and add on a little mohawk. simon smiles at the sight of the soapfrog drawing. you carefully peel the sticky note from the pad, pushing it over to soap who accepts it and smiles a little, trying not to laugh. on the note below it, you start doodling a little stereotypical sheet covered ghost. simon rolls his eyes, looking back up at price, who sounds tired considering it’s 6 am. the feeling of a pen on his forearm makes simon jump a little, and he looks down. you’re colouring his tattoo with expert precision. the flames decorating his tanned skin are now highlighted orange, and simon moves his arm a little over to allow you more room. you smile at him, and his heart skips a beat. he sits completely still, as if he moved anymore than breathing would disrupt your work. you shuffle a little next to him, nudging your chair closer so you had more room to colour him in. eventually, you tap his wrist and he flips his hand over, pretending to roll his eyes as you start on the other side of his hand. the feeling of the cool tip of the highlighters was rather calming to him, albeit the smell was making him a little dizzy.

the briefing is taking forever due to some technical difficulties and everyone’s getting restless. price had stepped out to get someone more suited with tech, and you had moved on from highlighting simon’s tattoos to doodling upon the back of his hand. johnny notices, smiling a little. “can i have a go, l.t?” he asks teasingly, making alejandro and rudy glance up from their phones, gaz had his head down on the table and you all assumed he was asleep. “no.” simon deadpans, and you snort a little. “aw, but l.t-“ johnny is cut off by a glare, and he raises his hands in fake surrender. “draw on these, johnny.” you say, pushing your sticky notes over. johnny nods, drawing a poor image of you, rudy, simon and alejandro as stick figures. simon glances down at his hand, you’d drawn a tiny version of him, it was cutesy and he adored it. (he silently makes a note to take a picture of it later in private so it wasn’t lost forever). you had also drawn a cat wearing his mask as well as a little bar of soap next to the cat. “you have a notepad, y/n.” alejandro tells you, and you nod. “i know.” you reply, voice rather innocent considering alejandro was speaking to you as if you were a child drawing on the walls.

“ghost isn’t a notepad.” alejandro scolds, and you shrug. “he doesn’t mind, do you simon?” you smile at him, and he shakes his head. “look at his forearm.” you grin, holding his hand up so everyone in the room could see. “jesus christ…” rudy mutters, hiding a laugh behind his hand as he looks at alejandro’s unimpressed expression. the older man sighs, running a hand over his face. “look.” soap says, showing his tiny drawing of the crew. “aw that’s so cute.” you laugh, and johnny grins. “is that meant to be me?” alejandro asks, accepting the drawing from the sergeant. he shows rudy who laughs fully. “you’re built like a square, coronel.” rudy teases, pointing to the little angry face on the drawing. “i can see that, pendejo.” alejandro gently whacks rudy with the notepad, and he laughs more. you’re laughing as well, and simon presses his knee into your leg. you look at him and smile, hand slipping under the desk to rest upon his thigh. your fingers run soft circles over his pant leg, massaging the muscle. simon practically relaxes right there, leaning into you a little more. it wasn’t that obvious, so you nudge him back playfully. “how do you have so much energy in the morning.”

“me and rudy have been up all night, we’re both piped up on 12 energy drinks- each.” you reply, smiling brightly. “jesus christ… get some sleep tonight, yeah?” simon tells you, his hand squeezing yours. “i can’t when you’re not there.” you respond, frowning. simon feels his heart squeeze. “i’ll see what i can do.” he mutters, the room falling silent as price steps back in. “right, shall we carry on?” the captain asks, and everyone mutters in agreement. gaz raises his head groggily, letting out a soft “wha’..?” price rolls his eyes, continuing with the briefing. simon sits silently, hand encasing yours. occasionally, he glances down at the doodles on his skin. he was truly in love with you and all the weird little antics you had harboured over the years. no matter what, the two of you would always belong to each other, and you could always draw upon his arms.

[judeswhore]

one love token; spencer reid

summary: spencer is more than happy about his not so innocent valentine’s day gift

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

requested: no but it’s vday :)

warnings: smallest hint at smut

notes: you can find my masterlist here

spencer was confused.

the pink envelope half hidden beneath his keyboard had drawn his attention the second he'd sat down, his hands pushing paperwork out of the way to set his fresh cup of coffee on the desk. when he tugged it free his eyes caught his own name, written in neat block letters with a tiny red heart acting as a full stop. the bullpen was quiet and almost empty, no sign of his usual co workers or his girlfriend, the only person he could think of that would leave him a valentine's day card. only, the two of you had already swapped cards and gifts that morning, still tangled beneath his warm sheets, the small strip of light peaking through the gap in his curtains the only thing allowing him to see the inscription you'd made on the first page of the new book you'd gotten him.

thumbing at the corner of the envelope, spencer wondered briefly if it was a prank, another one of morgan's terrible jokes that would have the scoreboard evening out. but when he flipped the paper over to see the back he was hit with the faintest smell of flowers, a scent he was extra familiar with and knew one hundred percent didn't belong to morgan. it was the soft floral scent that clung to all your clothes, that stuck to his bedsheets and his shirts long after you'd gone, a scent that spencer had decided was most definitely his favourite in the world. the groove of confusion between his eyebrows got deeper because why would you leave a second card at his desk?

he shook his head and peeled the envelope open, leaning back in his chair to pull the card free, a huff slipping past his lips when a smaller piece of paper fluttered to the floor by his feet. he didn't even look at the card at first, just set it in his lap so he could reach for the bit of paper, gripping it with two fingers before bringing it up to read. just like the envelope it was pink, clearly torn from one of your notepads and obviously hand written in your neatest print.

you'd drawn a heart in the middle, red like the one on the front, and had written the words 'ONE LOVE TOKEN' in bold inside the empty space, in smaller letters beneath 'valid until february 15th'. spencer's mouth tipped into a confused smile, and he flipped the paper to see if there was anything on the back. when he realised that side was blank he turned his attention down to the card in his lap, a surprised snort of laughter getting caught at the back of his throat.

he could feel the tips of his ears burning, his hands shifting so he could cover the design on the front of the card, more than aware of the fact morgan was lurking somewhere in the office and if he caught sight of the image spencer was sure to never hear the end of it. he tried not to look too flustered, brushed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to stop the curls sticking to his forehead. this card was considerably more inappropriate than the one you’d gifted him that morning, far too dirty to be on display at his desk and for a second he worried about what was inside.

the front of the card contained a single glazed donut sporting a smiley face and printed above in large unmistakable letters were words that spencer never thought he’d see. they were also words he never thought would cause a stir deep inside of him. ‘i want you to glaze my hole’ was the exact phrase and despite the laughter bubbling in his throat, he couldn’t stop the film reel that had started in his head, image after image of you flickering each time he blinked. clearing his throat he tugged a little at the knot of his tie, shifted in his seat and once again let his gaze do a sweep of the bullpen, eager to find you and discuss why you were trying to kill him.

it was as if you’d appeared out of nowhere, he was certain you hadn’t been standing in the kitchenette a few moments earlier, back pressed to the counter, a mug of what he knew was hot chocolate nursed between your hands. jj was at your side, talking excitedly, swiping through her phone but you weren’t paying attention. no. your whole focus was on spencer and he watched your lips form a teasing smile, your eyes darting between his and the card in his hand.

“open it.” you mouthed the words, nodded your head at the card and lowered your mouth to the rim of your mug to hide the ever growing smile and he narrowed his eyes. he knew the inside of the card was bound to be just as dirty as the outside and he hated that you were so eager to see him flustered and fumble in the middle of the office. he glanced around, noted that penelope was inside hotch’s office, case file in hand and knew it was only moments before his boss was gathering everyone up.

spencer looked back at you and rolled his eyes at your impatient shooing motion, your eyebrows rising as though to tell him to get a move on. he set it down on his desk, at an angle that made sure no one could really see and flipped it open, eyes immediately tracking the bright red lipstick mark beside his name. it was your lipstick of course, the shade he’d told you so many times was his favourite, the shade that was always guaranteed to leave stains on his neck, around his thumb, the base of his cock. the exact shade you just so happened to be wearing today.

he squirmed again in his seat at the flood of memories, tried to will his cheeks to stop burning, a familiar ache settling inside of him. fingers tugged his tie even looser, his mind uncaring at that moment that he was going to look more than a little disheveled when he got to the conference room. the lipstick wasn’t the only message on the inside, you’d written another little note highlighted by tiny hearts.

ONE LOVE TOKEN FOR THE BEST BLOWJOB OF YOUR LIFE, ANYTIME, ANYWHERE

so that was what the tiny slip of paper was for. at this point his entire neck and face had turned pink, hot to touch and his heart jumped when he lifted his gaze back to yours and you sent him that knee weakening innocent smile. your eye dropped in a wink and he let out a laugh, a breathless sort of sound that had you grinning ear to ear. closing the card he pushed it back beneath his keyboard, not exactly eager for someone to see, and tucked the handmade token into the pocket of his suit jacket before pushing out of his chair. he was headed towards you, a string of reprimands sitting on the tip of his tongue, followed by a couple of commands that he hoped would have you following him to an unused storage closet.

but cupid wasn’t on his side apparently. he was halfway across the floor when hotch’s appeared at the stairs. “we’ve got a case,” a pause. “florida.” spencer’s face twisted into a grimace that matched yours, turned and headed towards the round table, more than aware of the flush still on his skin and your eyes on his back, the token burning hot in his pocket.

he took his usual seat, watched rossi fall into the chair to his left and waited until you settled to his right, your foot knocking playfully into his ankle as a silent hello. your relationship was no secret to the rest of the team, it had been humiliating having to announce it to hotch, having to somewhat ask for permission to be together and even more humiliating to have the team find out because you’d been caught kissing in the car park. everything had worked out and as long as you remained professional, there were no issues but sometimes spencer found it difficult sitting beside you, your perfume making his chest fuzzy, and not being able to touch you, even in the smallest of ways. he settled for nudging you back with the toe of his shoe.

“you like your card?” you didn’t even look at him, kept your gaze on the case file, fingers flipping through the papers but he caught the small quirk of your mouth. your tongue swiped over your bottom lip and brought his attention down, his pulse spiking just slightly and his gaze narrowed. 

reaching into his pocket he pulled his token out, slid it across the table and placed it right in your line of sight before leaning across to you. his lips brushed the shell of your ear, innocent to everyone else but intimate enough to you to draw a shiver up your spine. 

he tapped once on the slip of paper and his next words left no room for argument. “i wanna cash in on this before we leave. bathroom as soon as we’re finished here.”

[vagabond-umlaut]

blue hawaii

gojo satoru, the celebrated sorcerer, is far from normal. and so are you. everyone knows it; everyone accepts it.

geto suguru too did... until the muggy summer day the realization dawns upon him, on a car trip back from a mission, that you two are pretty normal. or at least, as much as they come...

but hey! who is geto referring to by 'they'?

two idiots in love with each other but too dumb to lend voice to their feelings, obviously.

whom else could he imply in your and gojo's case, huh?

▸ student! gojo satoru x student! gn! reader; 1.15k wc; pining! gojo; oblivious! snarky! reader; worried bestie! geto; wingman bestie! geto; fluff (loads and loads of it)

▸ summer has shoved spring out the way, and, jjk season 2 trailer has shoved all the important stuff out my brain. lolol. anyways, gif, divider and characters ain't mine. please don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

"gojo's ridiculous, isn't he?"

"i don't think so," you hum, glancing at geto from the corner of your eye. "attention-hungry would describe him better, i guess."

your senpai huffs a quiet chuckle, looking ahead. "yeah, you're right."

lips twitching into a tiny smile, you too return your gaze forwards, to the kakigori stand where your other senpai stands. a wide grin on his face, directed at the gaggle of girls around him, as they bombard him with questions, giggles erupting every time he replies.

it has always been this way, you think as you drag your eyes from the scene before to your watch. eleven-thirty, it says, and an exasperated sigh leaves you.

it was nine-thirty when the three of you started from iwaki, mission being over the night prior - yet, in spite of two hours elapsing since then, you're still stuck at hitachi. if this same speed of travel is kept, you're sure you won't reach the school before late this afternoon.

another long sigh escaping, you hop back onto the hood of the car and pluck out your phone - only to have it taken away a beat later. "geto senpai, please," you grumble, looking up with a scowl - to an even more scowling face looking down at you.

"how long will you run away from your feelings?" the boy inquires, flipping your phone shut as a concerned pair of eyes sweep over your features. "the longer you delay it, the farther satoru will go away from you. don't you realize that?"

your frown deepens. incredulity sneaks into your voice as you ask, a flurry of questions hitting the opposite person, "feelings? what feelings? and why would gojo senpai go away from me? did i do anything wrong? the hell are you talking about, senpai?"

geto pinches the bridge of his nose, visibly annoyed - and tired. you simply jump off your seat in response, coming to stand beside him again, the skin of your forehead drawn into lines and furrows.

a long second passes before the silence between you two is broken. with another glance at gojo, who is now scribbling something on a notepad in the distance, he looks back to you. "satoru is giving those girls his contact details now; what does that make you feel?"

sparing gojo a glance, you lean back against the car, stuffing hands into your pockets. "irritated, i guess." your answer seems to delight geto as he cracks a tiny knowing smile, mimicking your posture. "oh, really? and why is it so?"

a sly smirk overtakes your features as you look back to find gojo send you a 'please help' look. of course, that bastard will drag you to ward off these pests now. you aren't really bothered, though.

you'll willingly go through a thousand of these troubles, if it means the white-haired sorcerer stays safe and happy at the end of the day.

snatching your phone away from his grasp, you offer geto a shrug paired with a toothy grin. "it is so because it won't be gojo senpai's inbox which will be flooded with love confessions by today evening. it'll be my phone's inbox."

your senpai raises an eyebrow, as if asking if you're kidding or not.

you know he knows you're not. gojo and you share dynamics just as crazy as that.

you continue, grinning, "and it is only so long before one grows tired and irritated of reading and deleting the same kind of messages, over and over again, ya know? even more if you're single and you know you're more attractive than the person these were intended to."

a loud guffaw erupts from him in response to your comments. wiping a tear from his eye, the boy pats your shoulder genially.

"you two are unbelievable. you, more than him," geto says, shaking his head, a fond exasperation tangible in his tone. your lips quirk up smugly. "now go, save your damsel in distress. you've been receiving quite a few sos signals till now, haven't you?

chuckling, you push yourself off the car, and with a nod and a salute, amble over to the kakigori stand.

from where he is reclining against the car, geto watches the way the crowd grows stunned as you enter their line of vision. the way it takes a couple of milliseconds before their focus switches from gojo to you.

a snicker escapes the boy as he observes the girls' once vibrant faces wilt, when you wrap an arm around gojo's torso and the latter leans into your touch - a soft look skittering across his classmate's now-red face as he gazes down at you; you beaming up at him.

geto's snicker tempers down to a relieved smile. checking his watch, he gets into the car, onto the driver's seat, and starts the engine.

gojo isn't really a playboy. you aren't really silencing your heart.

the two of you are just plain old idiots.

one enough of an idiot to pine away wordlessly for all eternity.

the other even more of an idiot to be ignorant of their feelings in the first place, despite how glaringly, utterly obvious they always are.

a relaxed smile crawls onto geto's lips as he spots the two of you walk towards the car, a rosy tinge to your cheeks as the both of you laugh loudly, gojo swinging your intertwined hands in between you two.

shoko was right, geto muses. the two of you meanwhile slide into the back seat, tears rolling down your cheeks from your howling laughter. gojo simply stares at you with a lovestruck smile, dazed eyes darting from where you've clutched his arm to your chortling expression.

driving the car back onto the road, the boy throws his best friend an eyebrow waggle in the rear-view mirror, when you let out a yawn and nestle closer to the latter, eyes closing and arms wrapping loosely around his midsection.

the white-haired asshole responds to his not-so-innocent implication with a rude hand gesture, while his other hand comes to pat the side of your head gently.

geto's teasing grin doesn't diminish one bit.

gojo and you might as well be the most terrible idiots in this whole world. yet... against all former misgivings, geto thinks- no, knows- your romance will never be as terrible nor pathetic as the two of you.

if all the cards are played right - the black-haired boy is pretty sure - you two might even grow to be the sweetest couple in town.

[all thanks to you, though, should it happen.

gojo might be his fellow strongest sorcerer, his partner-in-crime, his one and only best friend - but he'll never be good enough for geto to fib, saying he too contributed to the both of you gaining that title.

if anything, the only moniker that goggles-wearing classmate of his can get you is 'the most embarrassing couple in town'. nothing less and definitely nothing more than that. geto is damn sure of that.]

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