#its 7:20am

[ritz-writes]

Me: *sees the sun has risen*

Me: ah, time for bed

[hplonesomeart]

I can’t think of any funny quips to put as description for this one so uh- suppose this time around I’ll just let the art speak for itself lol

Enjoy the daily dose of fanart while it lasts because I can’t quite guarantee I’ll be able to keep up this speed throughout the upcoming month. But I’ll sure try to! Thank you all for the support <3

[indeliblescarspivotalmarks]

okay yall Ellie out I am TIRED fun show Tay slayed!!! I’ve had fun clowning with yall tonight, we continue awaiting the 1989 TV announcement

[ambersky0319]

Screaming

[soldiertransgender]

Good 'what ever time it is there'^^

Candy diver :0

-Jillian + S.H

OMG CANDY DIVER AAAAAAAA

[aroace-cat-lady]

I forgot my earphones at my house and I'm about to start crying

[blkjackalz]

one day i'll figure out how to make my alarm the troy&abed in the morning jingle.

i think that w/ a foghorn would be a good alarm combo for me

[k3igol0ve]

ೀ⋆｡˚ BEAUTIFUL STRANGER ꒰➳ Keigo Takami x Reader GENRE: FLUFF ✧.*

  ' 13th December 20XX ', the day you first met the love of your life. The day Keigo met ‘his beautiful stranger. ’ 

A chilled and leisured morning, you had wakened up earlier to get a bright and early start to the day. ‘Early bird gets the early worm’ or in your case, ‘Early bird gets the first and best choice.’ December was one of the less hectic months for you, the year coming to a close. Nonetheless you had to wrap up the reports for the year. The sooner you had finished it, the earlier you’d be free from the confines of work.  6:50 AM, you were fortunate enough to attain a window seat at your favourite cafe, a small minimalistic cafe snugged in the corner of a busy street in Japan, almost unnoticeable. You were greeted with a smoky, and nutty smell when you entered; the aroma of strong coffee. The cafe had a homely and cozy atmosphere to it, vaguely similar to something out of a Ghibli movie. Lined by the lightly frosted window was a rustic wooden bar table, the window had curtains that hung neatly at the sides. The table was adorned by small glass potted plants and two wooden birds. There was a suspended wooden shelf on top, lined with glass jars, a wooden globe and a small mini speaker. The vines from the potted plants on hung loosely on the edge of the shelf. The chairs were brown and fluffy, ensuring comfort. The staff were exceptionally friendly and polite. They provided great service, having greeted you by your name as you were quite the regular at their cafe. Other than bringing them business, they often enjoyed and appreciated your company. Today, a mini wooden chalkboard laid on the counter of their cashier; an appealing offer listed on it. ‘ National Cocoa Day , hot chocolate and selected mochas buy 1 free 1. ‘ You pondered over it, and decided on giving the free mocha or hot chocolate to whoever would order next. You hadn’t really thought much about it, but having two drinks would be a waste especially since you couldn’t drink that much. At least it could potentially make someone’s day.  You headed back to your seat with a wooden tray that consisted of your order. A forest green coffee cup, filled with hot chocolate with small marshmallows floated ontop, and a plain croissant. Your laptop was conveniently placed on the table, though before you got started you stared out of the window. The sun soberly rose across the horizon, a hue of yellow surrounding its wake, light overwhelming the once navy blue sky as it turns a lighter shade. The ring of the door chime snapped you out of your daze, reminding you to proceed with your work.

7:20AM, Now, Keigo was adamant on starting his day with any form of caffeine. He had accidentally stumbled onto this specific cafe as he was heading to his agency, quiet and out of attention. It was what he needed, a piece of tranquility to start his day before he got an earful from the commission or from anyone really. The bell hung above the door jingled as a signalled his arrival, his wings folded neatly as he observed the foreign surroundings. A total of 4 guests and 2 staff, which was just perfect as this cafe wasn’t suited for crowding either.  The staff greeted him, fully composed which was somewhat surprising and unusual to him but he appreciated it. The overexcitement in the air was more often than not overwhelming, and this reminded him that he was human too. He eased somewhat a lazy smile on his face as he looked at the menu above, though the barista was quick to ask if he was interested in a free mocha instead.  He tilted his head curiously, an almost confused and unsure looked on his face. “What for?” He was used to people giving him special treatment, and thought it was just that until the barista responded. The barista shrugged and gestured towards you, who was engulfed in work. You looked as if the work had swallowed you whole and as if you were stuck in that chair, unaware of surroundings. He was barely able to register what the barista had said after. Keigo doesn’t know what it was, though when he looked at you his heart skipped a beat. Frankly, Keigo didn’t believe in love at first sight, but just staring at you had captivated his attention. It felt like something snapped in place, like some kind of fairytale bullshit; he refused to believe in. He was staring for more than a second too long. He had even subconsciously, ruffled his hair to make himself look neater as it was messed up by the morning December breeze when he flew here. He glanced at himself from a reflective surface. His avian mind taking over him without notice, he had the urge to be presentable, and neat to appeal to you.  Why was he doing this? Especially over someone he just met? His thoughts were jumbled, he failed to realise his gaze was still attached on you as he innerly freaked out.  This felt so unfamiliar, foreign and strange, Keigo didn’t believe in love and attraction, never felt it, unfamiliar with that very concept. You noticed a gaze trained onto you, you turned your laptop brightness on the lowest trying to determine who it was without scaring them off. Looking into the reflection, you noticed a winged individual with a familiar uniform and jacket, one you had seen so many times on TV. That stranger only recognised as Hawks. Being respectful, despite your inner self being pleasantly surprised and shocked, you flashed a tiny sincere smile. Only then did Keigo notice he was staring for too long, he was embarrassed, almost flustered. His heart fluttered when he saw your tiny smile directed at HIM, it was so innocent, so bright and genuine. He’s unaware that your smile has sneakily earned a place in his mind and heart.  He didn’t expect that you’d catch on and he quickly turned around looking back at the Barista who was waiting for his answer to a question he didn’t even hear.  “Sorry what was that?” He sheepishly apologised, scratching the back of his head with an apologetic light hearted closed eyed smile. The barista repeated what they had said earlier but Keigo was internally conflicted, when he shouldn’t be. He should be familiar with these types of situations especially since his outer persona was supposed to be charismatic, and here he was acting like a school boy with a crush. It was different with you, but he convinced himself he was just out of it today. He was the one that lost composure, his mind scrambled, how the tables have turned.  He hadn’t even heard what the barista had said, again. Way too embarrassed to ask them to repeat, he just agreed to it. Too consumed by his thoughts to think straight, his instincts were pumping adrenaline; fight or flight.

He chose flight, he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible because as long as you were in the same room as him, he would be unable to even function properly, unable to think rationally or even form coherent words. He doesn’t know what hit him, it felt like a love potion but worse because it was realistic. As soon as he got his drink, he dipped. Walked out as fast as possible and took to the skies, he felt embarrassed and unusual. You were left confused, wondering if you did something wrong.

Then Keigo remembers he forgot to thank you and mentally swears, he didn’t even say anything to you at all; another excuse to meet you once more. He would have to find you after that encounter because your smile would plague him until he would see you again.

Throughout his day, he wonders what if he stayed in the cafe for a little longer, to approach you and to thank you, to ask for your name, to maybe even exchange a few words and possibly exchange numbers. He’s frustrated he did none of that, and he berates himself for it. What if he never sees you ever again?

‘A fairytale moment could have occurred, but my beautiful stranger will have to remain a stranger until I see them again.’ INSPO. LAUFEY - BEAUTIFUL STRANGER This felt so corny to write

[scarletfire03]

Sorry guys no snark in random game today 😔 only bad phone doodle. Ive been bedridden for the past 6 or 8 hours idk with a horrible headache thats only now getting better with some ibuprofen.

Also because i have to go to bed like RIGHT NOW so i can wake up at 4:30 tomorrow to get to my exam on time (part 1 of the finals for the apprenticeship its a weird system and i have to be in another city at 7:30 tomorrow and because that route has been plagued with delays recently im aiming to arrive at 6:20am there just to have a buffer if anything goes wrong lmfao fuck you deutsche bahn)

Wish me luck on the exam 🙏

[moominbuge]

27 Dresses

⋆⭒˚.⋆always the bridesmaid, never the bride...⋆⭒˚.⋆

In which you're a chronic bridesmaid and a lover of weddings, and Ellie is a love-repulsed wedding reporter who works for a newspaper.

a/n- hiii guys i wrote up this first part today, i honestly don't know how long it will take me to write more oops but trust i want to! lowkey my first post on tumblr so if this flops </3 this part is around 700 words and is mainly just intro...actual interaction soon to come! love u mean it

You were running so, so late.

On most days, your agenda was booked and followed down to the very seconds of the day.

7AM- wake up

7:05AM- get in shower

7:20AM- exit shower, brush teeth

7:22AM- get dressed

7:27AM- start coffee maker

7:30AM- drink coffee and try not to regret your decisions thus far

You get the idea.

Today, however, you were running late. Your alarm failed to sound at 7, so you were late to the shower, which made you late to have your coffee, and so on.

On top of that, your heavenly, brown-leather-bound agenda was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t the absolute end of the world, since you basically have your schedule memorized for the next year and a half, but it was like losing your security blanket. You felt exposed. Empty, almost.

After throwing on a somewhat-acceptable outfit for your office assistant job, you swallowed your last sip of coffee before bolting out the wooden door of your apartment and down the street towards the bus stop. If you could run fast enough, you would make it just in time-

The bus closes its doors and departs, with you still standing outside.

Fuck.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

Ellie woke up on the right side of the bed. Her morning meeting with the editor of her newspaper column was cancelled, allowing her to get an extra 30 minutes of sleep. When she visited her usual coffee shop to get her iced chai, they gave her a croissant on the house. She had not felt this refreshed and energized in years!

And, best of all, she felt the weight of a little leather-bound agenda in her work bag.

The night before, she was attending a friend from college’s wedding. She was surprised when the wedding invite arrived in her mailbox, since she hadn’t spoken to this girl since undergrad, but she RSVP’d nonetheless. What, who was she to turn down an open bar and the opportunity to watch a potential bridezilla/bridesmaid meltdown?

Anyways, she showed up in a nice, collared shirt and some black dress pants that were in the back of her closet. As she sipped on her whiskey and waved at some old friends, she saw something that caught her eye.

Or, rather, someone.

You, in a god-awful bridesmaid dress (seriously, what happened to neutral tones and simple silhouettes? Are bridesmaid dresses that bad to ensure that the bride looks the best?), rushing towards the exit, nearly tripping in your heels. Intrigued, she sets her glass down, and begins to sneak away outside behind you.

 “Ok, here is the deal. I’ll pay you $300 to drive me around all night, but if you peak into the backseat, I’ll drop it by $20-“ she overheard you talking to a taxi driver, reaching down to rip off your heels. The driver nods, begins to speak, but you cut him off- “Nope, I’m not changing that rule. I just need you to take me back and forth between these venues.”

You throw yourself into the backseat when the cabbie nods, and Ellie watches, amused. Who is this girl? Aren’t you the maid of honor?

You, in the backseat of the cab, begin pulling out another brightly-colored dress as the cab peels off. Ellie scoffs as she watches, before heading back inside.

You make your return just in time for your maid of honor speech that follows cocktail hour. Ellie, still stanced near the bar, watches you smooth down your dress and take the mic, gushing about how much you love the bride, how you grew up together, how you were so proud to see the woman she had become…it was so perfect, so textbook. You were either extremely genuine in your praises, or you were an amazing actress.

Following the speech, Ellie eyes you as you once again rush outside, back to the cabbie who was waiting. As you run, however, something falls out of your bag…

Squatting, Ellie grabs it from the ground. A small, yet extensively used planner.

Bingo.

[valaruakars]

Let's Get Physical (Part 7)

Viktor/F!Reader || 6.3k || Modern!AU + Gym!AU || SFW

Bitches hate you for your overzealous approach to supporting your friends and deeply anxious behavior. Viktor is not bitches.

A/N: Omg. We're here. We're back on our bullshit. Thank you to everyone who beta'd and/or provided me free therapy about this for that past um... seven months. Oops. Thank you to everyone who reached out over the (unintentional) hiatus with encouraging comments and asks. I hope you'll understand why I took so long to handle this with care and unpack some of my own issues. Very cathartic. Would recommend.

Part 1 → Part 2  → Part 3 → Part 4  → Part 5 → Part 5.2 (nsfw) → Part 6  → Part 7 (Ao3 Link)

Before you know it, two weeks and a day have passed. They make no palpable difference. 

Except maybe in your quadriceps. 

The same weights you’ve been using feel almost effortless, too easy. You don’t fatigue as quickly into heavy breathing and the urge to cheat yourself a rep or two—not lunging with the dumbbell gripped at one of its wide ends, not squatting while it’s clutched close to your chest. It’s suddenly not enough. 

Nobody’s around to see it, but progress is progress. Turns out, you’ve finally graduated to heavier weights on this lonely leg day you’ve committed to. 

That’s a bit of a misnomer, though. The day is mostly past you now. It’s evening—crisp and wispy, sky like striated fire outside the garage—and as the sun sets, you’re reminded of the late start you’re up against. All because you forgot something. 

A good attitude is optional. A scrunchie you can live without. But your shoes? Leave them forgettably kicked off in two different directions on your bedroom floor and you’re fucked. It’s a small miracle you’re here, dragging around weight plates, setting up a barbell. There was a very real danger of tripping and falling into bed—totally by accident, never to get up again—when you drove home and stomped upstairs to grab them. 

But whether or not he knows it, likely the latter, Viktor keeps you accountable when no one else can. It’s because the only running you truly love is the risk of seeing him, which still requires proper footwear. And for you to leave the house. 

Though by the time you whipped into the driveway and thrust the gear shift into park, it’s empty. He’d left already; you didn’t get to see him off on his reluctant shuffle through the garage. But lucky you—he tends to come straight home after physical therapy. Call it friendly concern that you’re paying attention. 

It’s probably an odd way to think about a friend. You need to work on that. 

Your phone vibrates dully on the padded bench beside you. Nearly knocking your water over in the process, you grab it to find a text from Jayce—the usual culprit. You slide it open, accidentally brushing the top of the screen with shaky fingers. It catapults you to the beginning of your most recent messages before you can read the new one. 

Mon, Oct 10

[Jayce Talis, 5:56am]: Did you leave the back door unlocked last night? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: And the pool lights on? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: Was Viktor in the pool?

[7:32am]: Holy shit. Good morning. [7:33am]: No, no, and why do you think I know these things??

[Jayce Talis, 7:45am]: Sorry, it’s all good. He’s alive. 

[7:46am]: ???????

[Jayce Talis, 7:49am]: You guys didn’t hang out after I left? 

[7:57am]: Idk if you would consider it that. [8:02am]: But has anyone invited him to cards on Saturday??

[Jayce Talis, 8:17am]: He already said no. [Jayce Talis, 8:18am]: Although… [Jayce Talis, 8:19am]: You could try telling him it’s strip poker. Haha :) 

[8:20am]: Blocked. Reported. Banned. NOT DOING THAT.

[Jayce Talis, 8:21am]: No wait! I was kidding. He’s not a creep :(

Tue, Oct 11

[Jayce Talis, 3:38pm]: Wait did you actually block me? 

[3:50pm]: Yes.

Sun, Oct 16

[Tayce Jalis, 8:00am]: Can I have my t-shirt back today?

[8:31am]: Oh the really old anime one? I left it with some stuff to be washed, ask Viktor. [8:32am]: Maybe the dryer did you a favor and ate it. 

[Tayce Jalis, 8:34am]: Hey! Naruto is timeless.

Today

Tayce Jalis unsent a message

Not fast enough to scroll back down, caught revisiting those unremarkable little messages, and now you’ll never know what Jayce’s butt managed to text you this time. Oh well. Keep your secrets. 

You toss your phone down behind you with a leathery slap. Back to working on the whole stop pining after Viktor thing.

Right, and your legs. 

The barbell bites into your hips as you roll it into your lap and adjust it, the bench presses into your shoulder blades. It’s heavier and harder to manage, but you do, driving down into your heels to get your ass off the ground, hefting yourself into a nice, solid bridge. From there it’s as easy as dipping your hips, which isn’t quite easy at all. No, it’s brutal. 

It burns from your core down to your thighs; has you clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth with the strain. Even your biceps are active, lifting some of the steel-hard pressure off your hip bones. 

You’re so zoned in—no thoughts, head empty except for the number six over and over until it’s seven—that you only hear the hiss of your breath in and out, the hammering rush of blood behind your ears. You don’t hear Viktor come home. 

Not until he’s standing above you.  

He had the heinous metal on metal sound in his old beige car fixed—that grinding, grating death knell in its engine. One of several potentially life threatening reasons the check engine light was always on—maybe still is. And though you much prefer him living, it’s harder to hear him coming over the steady music without paying attention. 

Bad timing for Miss Carly Rae Jepsen on your Upbeat Workout Jams playlist, considering you do really, really, really like him. Him and how he stands at the end of the bench, staring down; how he fixes you with that sliver thin smile, a manila folder tucked under the arm of his long cardigan. 

You seize with embarrassment, frozen on the upswing of your hips. “Hi,” whispers out on the end of an exhale, caught ragged in your throat. 

You can’t do pelvic thrusts in front of him. 

You just can’t. 

It’s bad enough that you’re sweaty in every skin to skin crevice and certainly flushed, t-shirt sticky and legs trembling as they hold your awkward position, but then there’s him. 

He wears that same look much better. On him, it’s healthy color across the cut lines of his cheeks; it’s still-damp curls at the nape of his neck and the jump of his lean throat when he swallows, dry when he must’ve forgotten a water bottle again. It’s suggestive. It’s hot. 

And it’s the endorphins that make you feel that way, surely, more than any affinity for men in gray sweatpants that are far more revealing than they must realize. 

You clear your throat, finding your own parched voice. “Watch your feet,” you warn, on the side of caution, dropping butt and barbell to the ground with a metallic thud. You let your head drop back against the bench pad, staring up at him with the dazed satisfaction of calling it quits. Only for the moment, of course, as you blindly feel around for your phone to turn the music down. 

And good fucking god is what you see unholy. Viktor shifts his weight before you can look away, and the ache in your core redoubles—different, deeper than any lactic acid buildup. Did his pants shrink in the wash or is it really that m—?

Nope! Absolutely not! 

You can tread no further with that thought because, really, there’s no such thing as having a platonic appreciation for your friend’s dick. Not when the friend is Viktor. 

“You’re not finished yet?” he asks. Innocent. Oblivious to your mental struggle out of the gutter. 

Typically you would be by now. Equipment racked, the citrus scent of disinfectant on your hands, picking at innocuous conversation while you walk inside together. How was your day? Did you hear they’re demolishing the old physics building? There’s a guest lecture next month that might interest you. 

“About another thirty minutes,” you breathe, “and then I’ll be done. I’m running behind.”

“Ah, interesting. That looks to me more like sitting,” he says, which is terrible enough to earn an eye roll, and snarky enough that your lips wobble and break into an insurmountable smile.

“It’s called resting, thanks. This would go faster if you stopped distracting me,” you huff, muscles loose, lips looser. 

The little spark of mirth in his eyes, so bright and awake, makes your stomach clench vice tight. “Mm. There’s no rush,” he shrugs, “but… Rio might enjoy a visit.” 

Your smile is skeptical as he pulls the file folder from beneath his arm. “Oh really?” It widens as he starts to fan you from above—chilly in the garage, but you’re still sweating buckets. It’s futile, although he’s sweet to try and help.  

He nods, gravely serious, “She told me herself.” 

You crane your neck unconsciously to let it cool the sweat that lingers there, sighing as little wisps of loose hair billow feather light and tickle your feverish skin. 

He isn’t holding it right, though. His grip is too loose on the edge.

At once, a flurry of white comes raining down on you. It’s instinct that your eyes clamp shut against the onslaught. 

“No, no, no,” he hisses as if begging could stop gravity. 

It doesn’t, of course. 

His papers flutter and scrape across the floor. An unlucky one sticks to the sweat on your scrunched up cheek. He’s quick to dip forward and snatch it back first, the easiest to reach.

You blink off the surprise and snicker, “Oh, how the tables have turned. Who’s the clumsy one now?” Rolling the barbell away over your outstretched legs, there’s nothing in its path to be crumpled beneath the weight.  

But Viktor doesn’t answer with a crooked smile or a quiet laugh, no dry wit to be found. His dark, heavy brows furrow and he insists, “No, just—just let me,” while he crouches to the ground, distributing his weight between his cane and the end of the bench. 

“It’s okay,” you insist, reaching to gather what’s scattered between you, “I’ve got it. No big deal.”

“To you,” he mutters, snatching two away before you can turn them over. Makes him lose balance. He narrowly catches himself before he can veer face first into your spandex lap,, blunt, bony fingers digging into your thigh at the hem of those skin tight biker shorts. It crushes the papers all the same. 

“Top secret nuclear codes?” you tease, drowning his muttered apologies. It sounds stupid and obvious that you’re trying to distract from the fumbling tension when his hand stays put for moments too long. Yours, too, on his shoulder to brace him. 

Just until he’s able to sit himself solidly on the ground beside you. 

He purses his lips, “My work is with reactor cores, not weapons.”

It’s only been a week since you got an impromptu lecture about nuclear fusion in the kitchen. It’s not like you’d forget so quickly. “I know—”

Impatient, Viktor reaches over your lap, too close for comfort. Whatever you were about to say is struck from your train of thought. 

His cardigan drags soft and pilled with wear across your beat up knees. Beneath it, his sweat smells sharp and strangely appealing. It’s fascinating, that draw to something so base and human. It’s unsettling, the way your heart responds like it beats between your legs.

You follow his hand, unabashedly curious, and watch him pick up another overturned paper. Below it, the next sheet is stuck face up to the floor with what you cringe to assume is a drop of your sweat, bleeding the ink of a diagram. Multiple diagrams, actually. 

Of stretches.  

The familiarity sparks excitement. 

By the time he peels up the corner of the page with his fingernail, you’re sure of what you’re looking at. It’s common ground, of a sort; the excuse to end all excuses. 

“These are from the physical therapist?” 

He sighs, sitting back in an awkward fold of spindly legs. Looks wearier, now, with his shoulders collapsed like the exhaustion of going has finally caught up. “Yes,” he admits, because you’re smart and he’s smart, and any other answer would be an obvious lie. 

You’re doing it again—digging your fingers into a soft spot that feels as ripe as it does intrusive. We do not talk about it much, he once said, but it’s hard to stop once you’ve started. You just have to know: “Do you do them?” 

His eyes cut down to the papers in his hands. “When time permits.”

“How often does it permit?” 

“Occasionally,” says Viktor, which might mean somewhere between rarely and never. 

Early mornings, late nights; classes to teach, lab hours to log, projects, papers, and a dissertation that looks done to you, but he laughs bitterly when you suggest it. Still has to find time to eat and shower and sleep, but his eyes are always restless purple and there are wrappers from meal replacement bars scattered around the house, too high calorie for Jayce to be the culprit. 

You wonder what will happen when it all catches up with him. Worse, you worry. 

Beseechingly, you reach out. Your grip is gentle as you take hold of the printouts at their edge. “Can I see?” you ask, not grabbing or pulling or taking, just there and ready. 

His lips form a tight, considering line. “If that is the last of your questions,” he slowly replies. Prickly, but relenting, he lets go before you can ever agree. 

So you don’t.  

His eyes are on you as you flip through the stack—you can feel it as a strange, shy tension like bated breath, watching and waiting. 

Page by page, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Some you’ve even done yourself, but with simple modifications. Hell, bridges are just hip thrusts performed flat on the floor, without the weight. Nothing he’d need help with, which is ideal when you’re not qualified to do anything but make space for him; to emphasize that he’s welcome and wanted, maybe offer up a sweaty-palmed high five if you’re feeling spunky. 

You peel your legs off the floor and resituate, tucking them as your turn to face him, direct in every sense. “You could come do these with us on Sunday mornings after we run, before you get started on work. It would make Jayce happy, and Vi has a really funny way of being encouraging—”

He pulls a face—a nose scrunched up, barely concealed, abso-fucking-loutely not sort of scowl. 

“Or…” you’re quick to try, “Just with me, when I’m here. It’ll take, what—fifteen? Twenty minutes?” 

“It’s a poor use of time,” he says. It’s as avoidant as it is clumsy, with a dismissive edge still dull enough to bruise. 

And that’s because: “You stop and talk to me for longer than that sometimes,” you remind him flatly.  

He sighs sharply, toying absently with the cane laid across his lap. “That is different.” He says it like it’s obvious; like it’s frustrating that you don’t know how obvious it is. 

“Well, what if we could do both at the same time?” you propose. After all, he’s got such a hard-on for efficiency, if that’s what’s stopping him. “I know you’re a good multitasker…”  

His jaw works, trapping his thoughts behind imperfect teeth. 

“And we probably keep this floor cleaner than the carpet…” you prod, because the silence of a man who can and has talked your ear off is disquieting; because you don’t always know when to stop; because this feels like a negotiation. 

“My bedroom suits my purposes just fine,” he says, eventually. 

But you never said which carpet. The thought of him sequestered in there, even for this, is fucking depressing. Arguably disgusting when you’ve walked across that rug and felt the grit of dirt, crumbs, and debris that the pattern hides through your socks. And worse: It’s a choice, so why is he making it? 

Abruptly, the rubber tipped end of his cane meets like against the rubber tiled floor. He pulls himself up on it with difficulty you can’t ignore, but shakes his head when you move to help. The only thing you do is hand him up the battered stack of papers, tucked back into the folder from which they came, when he stands up fully. You won’t hold them hostage, even if part of you wants to. It wouldn’t keep him from leaving, his back to you such a familiar sight. 

You just want to understand, though, if nothing else. To crack him like a cipher.  

Softer, you try: “I wouldn’t judge you.” It’s the last, desperate little thing you can think of. They’re like magic words to you. 

But the problem is: They don’t work on everyone. 

To his credit, his tone isn’t harsh. It’s indifferent, like stating a sterile fact. “This has nothing to do with you,” he says. “I haven’t skipped an appointment recently, and that should be enough.”

Indigence might suit you in those moments you grow a seedling backbone, but it doesn’t suit this. You can’t help it though. His frustration has bled into you, caught like kindling. “Is it?” 

“You and I do not share the same sense of priorities,” he replies, but it’s not an answer. Not really. 

The urge to turn him upside down and shake him until something definitive comes out is overwhelming—so straightforward until he just… isn’t. “If you’re not going to say yes or no, can’t you just lie and say you’ll think about it?” 

He looks you over inscrutably, sitting there in his shadow. “Why would you assume it’s a lie?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you huff. But you do. Experience and a certain friend who actually bothers to text you back have given you the answer. “Jayce says you’re stubborn and I’m starting to think he’s right.” 

Viktor nods conclusively, but doesn’t care to share what’s going through his head. As evasive as ever when he cares to be, just murmurs,“You should finish this.”

And then, for a reason that is simply beyond you, says: “I will see you later.”

But for once, you’re not sure if you want to. 

—

You rap your knuckles against his open door. 

Seriously—who were you kidding, thinking for even a second that you wouldn’t be here, doing this?

Yes, it’s well after eight now and you’re pitifully hungry, but it wouldn’t feel right to leave without saying anything. In writing a note or sending a text, you’d simply be spelling out, ‘I’m a coward!’ in far more words. It’s best, you decide, to be polite and mature and just say goodnight despite the awkward taste in your mouth that is very reminiscent of your own foot. 

And you get to say it to his back, which should be easy. 

But then there’s Rio on his desk like a pissed off paperweight, swimming the foggy side of her holding tank—sorry, prison—without any hope of escape. They’re the angriest, most pathetic wiggles you’ve ever seen. Habitual, given how tongue-smudged and abraded the plastic has become. 

“You see?” he says, gesturing to the sound of her scrabbling in his bright rubber kitchen gloves. “It’s just as I said.” 

“I think it’s more about you ignoring her.” Rio pauses, slipping down the side. Her little face conveys it perfectly: “Father is cruel? Father is… unyielding? Father hates Rio?” 

“No, no… Although, eh, yes, I suppose she does sound like that…” he muses, nodding. “I think she must wonder those things about you, actually.”

Your shoulder hits the door frame, shrugging against it where you lean. “I probably don’t matter much to her.”

There’s a heavy pause, enough for him to breathe in and hold it. Breathe out, softly: “You do.”

And suddenly, you can’t find it in you to leave. Did you ever truly have the will? 

The truth is there on your feet—those perpetually mismatched socks. You’d hoped for this, secretly, else you wouldn’t have left your shoes off at the door.  

It’s warm when you walk in. A space heater that’s been running too long glows electric orange on the floor near his desk. Makes the smell of churned earth and vinegar cleaner that much stronger. And while the clutter is clearly endemic, it seems the fuzzy, stagnant mugs are not. They’re all gone from his desk and the bedside table, replaced by sticky notes, pill bottles, and an avalanche of papers.

You come up and give Rio’s tiny, clawed foot a high-five through the plastic. “Has she been doing this all night?” you ask, looking over. 

Knee on the desk chair for leverage, he’s elbows deep in her tank, rooting those waxen, fake plants back into the substrate with unnatural posture. It’s that stiffness you’ve always noticed—ramrod straight from the mid-spine up. It’s easier to see in profile, in a thin shirt that clings to his back, that there’s nothing visibly forcing it. 

“On and off. She tires quickly now,” he says, arranging a broad-leafed plant near her favorite rocky shelter—scrubbed clean, still damp. “When she was younger, it would go on much longer while I did this.”

“How old is she exactly?” 

His sigh is almost lost beneath the hum of the space heater. He answers, “Fifteen,” in the soft, subdued way of someone who hates to be reminded. 

There’s many things you’re too afraid to ask him. Such hits as: Why did you dig yourself a hole this deep, does Jayce text everyone about you, and would I even stand a chance if things were different? But right now, most of all, it’s how long do geckos live? 

You don’t think you’re going to like the answer. 

Viktor clears his throat. “She’s very, eh… spritely for her age,” he adds, fondly this time. 

You hum a soft sound in agreement, too shaky through the legs to squat down to eye level with her. When you bend your knees to try, you realize you’ll probably never get up again. 

He glances over as you straighten up. “You can sit,” he offers without really saying where. It’s obvious, though. The only option—his rumpled bed, never made, with all its mismatched pillows. One has definitely been stolen from the couch, three are yellowed and missing pillowcases which is… ew. 

But you’re not going to refuse. You’d like to hold Rio, after all. 

You swallow hesitation and tuck yourself onto the end of his mattress, balancing on the firm edge. At least the intrusive thoughts are fleeting. Only briefly do you wonder what he thinks about at night. What he does. What he wants for.

Not you. That’s for sure.

Your elbows lock out where you grip the ridged edge of the bed. The weight of things gone unsaid, of things left unresolved bears down; it prickles warm at the back of your neck and you can’t stand the waiting silence. 

“So…” you drawl, letting your voice fill the void.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to hand her to me now, or…?”

“Ah, no, I’m finished,” he says over his shoulder. “She needs to go back in the tank.”

“Then why am I sitting here?” 

“Because I have something to ask you.”

Straightforward. Right. You forgot just how terrifying that can be. 

“That sounds just as bad as saying we need to talk,” you mutter, heart twisting into a suffocating, arterial knot. 

“We do, though,” he says, too literal, too preoccupied with placing Rio back in her clean terrarium to notice your soul leave your body—preemptively abandoning ship. 

But he’s merciful, at least. He doesn’t keep you in suspense. 

“I just want to understand at what point you developed such a vested interest in, eh… fixing me, I suppose,” he asks, like wondering what the weather will be tomorrow or what the dining hall might serve for lunch. Conversationally. “Did Jayce put you up to this?”

Your eyes narrow in thought. “No…?” you reply. It comes out too shifty as you toy with the serged edge of his blanket. Jayce put you up to something alright, though that hardly matters anymore. But, in a way, does this count? Would Viktor think that this counts?

“A sure answer, please.”

Fuck. 

“It’s just that I would lump that in as part of being friends with you—except I’d call it, y’know, caring?” You draw your leg up onto the bed, closer, tucking your foot beneath your thigh. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

Viktor flips the grate down with a finality that lights your nerves like a beacon to flee. “So he asked you to do what, exactly?” 

“Nothing,” you squirm. 

He pivots, solidly on two feet. Doesn’t sit down in the desk chair quite yet. “It wouldn’t be the first time for this behavior, and, with you, I’m sure it was not the last. Do you know that he once provided Caitlyn with a written list of topics not to bring up to me?” 

You shrug, “He’s a good friend...” 

Now you’re staring down the barrel of being just the opposite—of throwing Jayce under the bus. 

“What did he ask?” Viktor presses.

And you break. Made brittle by your desire to put him first, of course you do.  

“All he wanted was for me to give you a chance, which was pretty reasonable after you called me annoying—” that word comes out with a bite to it you didn’t intend; sensitive, sore, “—but I never told him about that. He’s just… worried about you in his own way, I guess.” 

Viktor quietly raises an eyebrow, and that’s all it takes to snap you into fours next. It practically falls out of your mouth: “He keeps texting me to make sure you’re still alive. Sometimes I think he’s joking, but then one time he told me he had a nightmare that you drowned in the pool, so part of me actually thinks he’s being serious.” 

“He is.” 

“Wait, really—?”

“Is that why you come so often now?”

Wednesday. Friday. Sunday. Monday too, sometimes, if the day before hasn’t left you sufficiently sore enough. The pain means progress. It must.

“Well, no,” you blink, “that’s mainly because I have a lot to work on.”

“Do you?”

You gesture to yourself. All of you. The way your stomach folds and rolls and fucking exists unappealingly beneath your sweatshirt when you slouch—it could be better. The way your thighs pancake out, smushed against the bed—not getting better, but discipline and toning might shape them into something near desirable. “Yeah, obviously.”

He treads lightly. “I… would not say it’s obvious.” But his eyes are cast down as he carefully removes his rubber gloves and discards them in a bucket of cleaning supplies. He’s not rude enough to agree, but you worry, in all those moments you can feel him looking at you, that he’s thinking it. After all, he’s willowy, sharp and elegant in a way you’ll never be. Soft and fleshy. Never quite right. 

“And that’s because you’re, what, zero percent body fat?” you sigh, gesturing to him incredulously. “I’m not implying that’s healthy or ideal—honestly, I’d share some if I could—but…” Your hands curl to your chest, clasped tightly in one another when there is no one else to hold them through the indignity of admitting, “I’m the one that needs fixing. Not you.” 

He was right, though, when he said it earlier. This isn’t about you. “Where did you come up with that, anyways?” you ask. 

The lines on his face, those deep, concerned creases between his brows, spell out what the fuck. You don’t understand what’s so hard about that question—what he can’t figure out, why the confusion lingers in his eyes. “This… This is the second time you’ve offered to help me.”

“I was trying to be supportive. Encouraging, even—that’s also a good word for it.” 

“It all feels the same,” he tells you, taking his turn to sigh. “Which is to say patronizing, sometimes.”

And that was not what you intended. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a saint or anything. That’s not entirely it.” You fight the turtle-like urge to retract into your sweatshirt, which would arguably be more stupidly embarrassing than admitting: “I was just looking for… common ground, I guess. Ways to hang out without dragging you out with us.” 

“Are we not doing that right now?”

“Sure, but I feel bad about it.” There’s the silvery peek of his computer, buried on the desk. “I’m keeping you from more important things.” 

“You’re not,” he says—no, placates, but the disbelieving press of your lips makes him reconsider. “Well, eh, perhaps, but I can manage. I’ve dealt with Heimerdinger’s high expectations and, mm, sadistic deadlines for years. The weekends work well to make up for lost time, and there is all night after this too.”

“You should sleep.”

“I can’t. Not well.”

You give a creaky little bounce—not much of one, no spring to it—to demonstrate: “Maybe because your mattress feels about as hard as sleeping on the ground.” 

“One problem of many, yes.”

You count yourself among them, in one way or another. You’ve been leaking these awful insecurities all night. 

Is it any wonder that another slips? 

“It’s just—the last thing I want is to bother you. Everyone, really, but especially you.” 

“Is that because of me?” he asks quietly. “Because of what I said?”

Oh, you’ve carried this around since day one. Let it color his tone and his words and his actions. Let it haunt you trying to reach for others, the freshest nick in a line of scars that was never stitched properly. That’s what you get for letting all those little anxieties run wild with knives in their hands. That’s what you get for forgiving him before he ever asked for it, as if that would make things easier. For you. For him. For everyone. 

It hasn’t.

Viktor crosses the three steps between you on bare, nobby feet. His weight dips the bed beside you ever slightly, like he’s hardly there. But he is, by the way his leg bumps your knee, and you scoot over to give him space.  

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, grasping at some distant thread. They’re as awkward as he is in saying, “I can’t recall what I meant at the time, but it… it wasn’t that. It would’ve been fine if you thought less of me for it, but not of yourself.” 

You shake your head. “It’s—don’t worry, it’s not all you,” you say, softening his guilt, perhaps at your own expense. “I have a lot of anxiety, and that’s a long running thing, okay? It’s mostly… me.” 

“That’s… good to know. About you, I mean. Not that it’s—it’s good. Just, eh, helpful to know.” 

“I guess that’s generally the benefit of being upfront about things,” you shrug as if it comes easy. 

“I would prefer that, I think.”

It doesn’t, but the light, fizzy feeling of relief makes you want to try, if only to have more of it. Maybe more of his shy little smiles too. This time with more intention, and less leaky word vomit. 

“Okay…” You shift to face him fully, mirroring his posture in leaning back on your hand for support. “Then in no uncertain terms, I want you to know that I’m not trying to fix you.” Been there, done that, got the shitty dunce hat. People don’t change unless they want to. You know that. “I just wish you were kinder to yourself, but that’s on you. So if you ever decide you want better, whatever that means, I’ll be there. Only if you want me to and only on your own terms—no physical activity required.”

“I might want to consider it, you know…” His voice lowers, softer and softer with hesitation, to the point that you find yourself leaning in. Noticing, as he seems to have noticed, that your hands are a hair’s breadth apart. “As a future prospect, if anything. But you have to understand, I don’t enjoy being watched.”

“I get that.” 

“Mm, no, I imagine people stare at you for very different reasons,” he mutters. “Not pity. Envy, perhaps.”

“I promise, most people don’t want these thunder thighs,” you huff, resisting the urge to slap them like a used car salesman. These babies can fit so much soul-crushing insecurity, which is a terrible pitch, really. The occasional bouts of self-loathing are not your strongest selling point.

He lets out the strangest bark of a laugh, so dry it’s almost ugly, as if he can read your mind. 

But you didn’t mean to derail. “Sorry, continue.” 

“Right…” Viktor draws in a long breath, quiet for a moment before he figures out how to word it. “It’s as simple as that I would rather go unseen. It’s very, ah, personal. And painful, sometimes.”

You think of the age old adage: If it hurts, don’t do it. “Um, not a doctor, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be?” 

“So they say,” he nods pensively, eyes ticking over some distant thought, maybe a memory. “It wasn’t like this before. The discomfort wasn’t… serious. That’s how I was able to ignore it for so long.”

“Ignore what?”

Not the brutal slam of the garage door across the house, for one thing. The pictures on the wall must be hanging crooked now.

Viktor sits straighter—if that’s even possible—and calls out: “Jayce?”

Footsteps—softer, distant.

His eyes snap back to yours. “It’s been a week since he’s come home,” he tells you in a quick whisper. “Mm, well, in the evening. He’s here in the morning—”

“To work out at the ass crack of dawn? I know.”

“You were invited?”

“He knows better than to think I’ll get up that early. I saw on his Instagram.”

Footsteps—louder now.

Viktor nods sagely. “Ah, yes, the stories. By my count, he has written, eh, ‘rise and grind’ forty three times since the first of the year.”

“That’s…” Your math isn’t great but, “More than once a week,” you whisper back, on the cusp of giggles as Viktor nods. And then, it hits you. “Wait—”

But the footsteps have stopped. 

And instead, there’s Jayce’s stoop-shouldered figure braced in the doorway. He sniffles loudly.

He’s still dressed in the khakis and blue button down he wears to work—rumpled, sleeve cuffs smeared darker. His eyes have that red, raw, burning swell of someone who's tried very hard not to cry, and failed spectacularly. 

Viktor finds the words you’re looking for with immediate precision. “Has something happened?” he asks, voice tight, hand tighter on your shoulder as he leans around you to look his roommate over. “Jayce?”

They spend a lot of time apart. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that they’re best friends too. 

He swipes at his nose as it runs into the raw little divot above his lip. Beyond sadness, there’s a guilty cast to his dark, hazel eyes, turned down to the floorboards, but you can’t find your voice to tell him that this isn’t what it looks like. 

“Are you… injured?” Viktor tries again.

Jayce shakes his head. No. 

“Is your mother alright?” 

“She’s fine,” he rasps. “Um… Can I just—?” he asks, gesturing weakly to the two of you.

Which you think must translate to: “You want to come sit?” 

“Yeah.”

Viktor’s of course comes without apprehension, without judgment. Only with the apparent surprise that he even needed to ask. 

But Jayce, in several long legged strides, doesn’t come sit. No, he collapses face first onto the bed behind you, all broad, shaking shoulders and quiet sniffles seeping out from behind his arms. They hide his face and nothing else. Hands curling, clenching into his shirtsleeve, there’s the thick band of a tan line striped across his middle finger. 

You turn yourself around, scooching closer, folding up cross-legged to face him. 

You’ve never seen him like this—laid so low. A sweat stain blooms dark at the small of his back, up between his shoulder blades, but sweat is sweat and Jayce is Jayce. You reach out to rub his back despite it.  “It’s alright…” you whisper. Feels like putting band-aids on a bleeding heart, but it’s all you have. 

Soft cotton weave catches the peeling skin of old blisters as you soothe your hand in circles. His shirt leaches the vetiver smell of cologne, but somewhere beneath it, there’s an elegant, cloying perfume still lingers. It’s no secret where he spends most of his time these days. 

You meet Viktor’s searching eyes and mouth: Mel. 

He nods gravely as if to say he drew the same conclusion.

Say something—that’s your next silent suggestion, canting your head toward Jayce. 

But instead, Jayce takes a deep, wet, shuddering breath and asks, muffled into the mattress, “Can… Can we go to Taco Bell?” 

“Sure…” you murmur. He could’ve asked you to drive him two states over to bury a body and you would’ve agreed just as thoughtlessly. Anything he needs. “We’ll take you.”

He doesn’t move. Just sniffles at a prompting little scritch to the nape of his neck, where his hair fades out to shadowy, peach-flesh fuzz.

So you ask, “Do you want to go change, and then I can drive us?”

“Can I just have a minute? Please?”

“Why?” demands a perplexed Viktor, still soft spoken. Desperate for an answer that isn’t made of cobbled assumptions; blunt in its pursuit. 

And worried. You can tell that he’s worried. 

As if you’d been the one to ask, the personification of wet, doleful misery lifts his head and looks up at you. His face is a ruin of dark, clumpy lashes and tear-tracked skin. His lip wobbles, the pressure of withholding little sobs building, building, building. But speaking it aloud makes it real. Speaking it aloud breaks the levee. 

“I think we just broke up,” he finally whispers. 

And cries face-down for another hour after that.

[issybee06]

Because…

Part iii

Warnings: swearing, the council, violence, blood, poison, field surgery, scars, body image issues, Hatakes has dog teeth, flashbacks of every kind!, drinking

Eesome

(Adj.) pleasing to the eye

………………………………………………………………………….

“I don't want to go to the academy, Ka-chan.”

The tall woman sighed, pushing her short red hair out of her face as she dragged the little 5-year-old.

“Chibi-chan…I know you don't want to go, but you have to.”

The little girl puffed her cheeks, glaring forward, “it's gonna stink.”

The red-haired woman sighed, adjusting her yukata as she walked, “and remember, Kushina-san is going to pick you up because I have to return to the capital.”

The little girl frowned, fist-grabbing her dress skirt while she willed tears not to rise. The Academy was in view and she couldn't help but look down at her feet as they walked.

As the got to the entrance the woman smiled, raising a hand in greeting, “Sakumo-kun, hey!”

The white-haired man jumped a bit, startled by the red-haired woman's loud voice. When he saw who it was, he returned the smile and nervously waved back, “Risa-Hime, Kon'nichiwa.”

He looked down at the small girl, who ducked behind her mother's leg. She peaked out, studying the white-haired man with calculating eyes. Looking to his side, she was surprised to she a mini version of him but with a mask.

She furrowed her brows at him, and he glared back.

The man placed his hand on the little boy's head, ruffling his spiky hair.

“You remember Risa-Hime, right Kakashi?”

The woman laughed lightly, “Probably not…been a while since we've been away from the capital…”

She nudged the girl out, “(Y/n)…this is my very good friend Hatake Sakumo, and his son Kakashi. Sakumo and I were on the same Genin team.”

The girl cautiously came out from behind her mother, cheeks red as she bowed.

“Its very nice to meet you!”

Sakumo nervously laughed, “gosh, last time you brought her to the village she was just a baby.”

He smiled down at the girl, “it's very nice to meet you too, (Y/n)-hime.”

He nudged the boy, “Kakashi, why don't you and (Y/n)-hime walk to the classroom together?”

The boy frowned but nodded silently, and looked at the Girl.

“…lets go.”

She nodded with a light blush, following him as he walked through the gate.

The parents watched, Risa biting her thumb nail as she watched the little girl disappear.

Sakumo huffed with a smile, “…never thought we'd be parents.”

Risa snorted, “I was never going to be a parent, but you? You were always going to be a dad Sakumo, your too…”

He huffed, “too what?”

She smirked, “dog like.”

He pursed his lips, looking away, “…im not dog Like.”

She chuckled, her teeth still butting at her nail.

He looked over at her, frowning at her nail-biting, “I see you still have that habit.”

She narrowed her green eyes at him, and he chuckled.

“I do not, Baka…”

Opening my eyes, I groaned quietly. Inching my way to my alarm clock, I died a little inside when it read “7:20am”.

Great, only 4 hours of sleep.

I rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling as Saké jumped onto the bed to great me. He cried, pawing at me as he demanded to be let out of my tiny room so that he could get breakfast. He’ll probably bother Genma for it, Genma usually spoils the Ragdoll by feeding him egg scraps.

I sit up, scooting to the end of the bed before sliding on slippers. Looking down at my cloths, I make a face realizing I slept in my work pants. I kick the slippers off before shimming out of my pants, kicking them to the corner. I go to my draw, pulling out cotton shorts.

After getting redressed, I open my door and almost get tripped as Saké darts between my legs to trot down the hall.

“Fucking cat…”

I stumbled down the hall, accidentally bumping the corner as I entered the kitchen/living room area, and groaned. After living in this apartment for four years, you'd think I'd know how to avoid the corners.

I opened the fridge, grabbing the egg crate and the wet cat food. I placed the crate on the counter before grabbing a small bowl from the shelf and putting a spoonful of wet food in it. I placed it on the ground and huffed a laugh as Saké raced over to pig out.

Genma yawned as he walked out of his room, bare-chested. He scratched his head, squinting his eyes, “w…why the hell are you up?”

I clench my jaw, cracking an egg before putting into the pan.

“Meeting about that S-class poison. Forgot all bout it…”

Genma hums, walking over to rest his chin on my shoulder, “Eggs for me too?”

I smile, patting his cheek, “yeah, you too.”

A lot of people thought we were dating since we live together and are very close, but it was only because we found comfort in each other's company. I wouldn't say I'd never date Genma, but as years have gone by he's become like family to me.

He hummed, “how late will you be?”

Shrugging, I dish out two plates of eggs, purposely dropping a good size piece for Saké.

“Not too late, it's just a meeting.”

He nods, taking his plate to the table as begins to eat. I sit down across from him, blowing on my eggs before putting them in my mouth. Biting down, I felt a crunch and frown when I realized shells had gotten in. Extra protein I guess.

Saké, having finished the scrap I dropped for him, now was weaving his body around our legs and loudly begging for more. Genma giggled like a 5-year-old, dropping more for the Ragdoll. He really did spoil that cat.

I stood, emptying the rest of my eggs onto Genmas plate. “Im running late, clean up for me?”

He made a noise, egg in his mouth and I took it as a ‘yes’. I go down the hall To the bathroom, closing the door behind me and locking it.

I pulled my shirt off, then unhooked my bra with a sigh of contentment. I really needed a bra with a better wire, this one stabbed my armpits and didn't support me at all. I than shimmied out of my shorts and underwear, kicking it to the basket.

I then to the mirror, pulling my short hair into a bun. I frown slightly, eyes catching the long ugly scar going down my front.

Rin… did a good job, but she was mediocre at healing scars. I owe her my life, but I couldn't help the itching in the back of my head that told me that the scar made me…ugly. I, of course, know scars are not meant to be seen as ugly, but as marks that show I was still alive…but I still felt that ich.

Jumping into the shower, I scrub myself down from head to toe in lavender soap. It was calming, and coming from a clan that had animal…characteristics on my father's side, the smell wouldn't be too overpowering. I was also thinking of the Inuzuka that would be present, Inuzuka Tsume, and the silver Anbu that would be hiding in the rafters.

After cleaning, I jump out and towel-dry before walking across the hall to my room, getting a low and teasing whistle from Genma.

I walked back out, hitting Genma in the head with a scroll. I walk to the door, pulling my shinobi sandles on.

“sayonara.”

He grinned, “aw, no good bye kiss?”

He began to pucker his lips, making loud smooching sounds as he tried to grab me. I giggle, pushing his face away, “you wish.”

He gasps dramatically, “Oh dear Princess of Konoha! You wound me so!”

I roll my eyes, “Ittekimasu, Genma.”

He smiles, “Ittekimasu, (Y/n). Be safe out there.”

I smile, standing and opening the door, “I always am.”

…………………………………………..……………………………

“…so as you can see, our research shows that the poison drives from Fungis. Now, if we can narrow down which one, we can create the necessary cure and/or antidote.”

I finish, placing my notes down as the rest of the visible people in the room nod, murmuring.

Tsume huff, “and you suggest that the Inuzukas find this mushroom, yes?”

I nod, “Hai. With your powerful sense of smell, this would be elementary level for you.”

Play her, paise her and she'll take the bait.

The older Kunoichi smirked, “hm, so the Chibi Hatake wasn't up for this?”

I bristle a bit, and Inoichi stands, “Anbu have more pressing missions, you however are free since you are just now come I G out of maternity leave.”

She huffed, “second one was harder to train then Hana, not my fault.”

I smiled, “so will you take the mission?”

She waved me off, and I frowned, “Yeah, yeah. I'll do it, just give me the sent so I can get this over with.”

Setsuko walks out, handing the wolfish woman a glass vial containing the poison. Tsume pops the cap open, and blue fumes waft out. She smifts the air around it, careful not to sniff the actual poison. With a shiver, she seals the Vail, “That's a strong smell, how do you work with this Senju-hime?”

My mouth goes into a straight line, and I don't respond. My father's Side was…a touchy subject.

She hums, handing the Vail back to Setsuko. She stands, and Inoichi and Ibiki stand as well, “Arigatō, Tsume-sama. This is very helpful for us.”

She scoffs, waving Inoicho off, “Call it a favor from an old friend.”

He smiles, and the crowfeet by his eyes become more apparent. He walks out with her, and Ibiki follows after. Setsuko and I begin to clear up the office room, gathering the extra poison vials and notes.

I look up, and I see that stupid dog mask smiling down at me as he crouches on a beam. Setsuko looks over, smiling, “ready?”

I roll My neck, “ah, not yet. I'm gonna hang back and read over the notes one more time. I'll catch up, kay?”

The younger girl blushes, nodding, “H-hai, Senju-hime. See you back at the lab.”

She leaves, slipping out the metal door and closing behind her.

“…shes cute.”

“Shes not your type.”

He jumps down, landing soundlessly onto the table, not even making a tube rattle.

“Maa, I wasn't talking about for me.”

“Shes Not my type either, she's 16.”

He huffs lighly, a laugh.

“16? And working in TI?”

I look boredly over at him, “look who's talking, Mr. “I joined Anbu at 13”.”

He leans back on his hands, crisscrossing his legs as he tilts his head playfully, “I was asked.”

I hum, crossing my arms, “still did it.”

He hums back, tilting his head to the other side, “saw what you did, with Tsume-sama. You played her.”

I scoff, “I did no such thing, honestly I'm appalled you'd even suggest I played a clan head.”

I was grinning, and I could tell he was too busy his his chakra warmed a bit.

I furrow my brows at him, “what?”

He gave a snort of a laugh, “your accent.”

I raise my brow, “accent?”

He raised a hand, gesturing to me, “When you talk for long enough, you say things in a snooty capital accent.”

I scoff, laughing as I shove him, “I do not have a snooty capital accent.”

He laughs, jumping off the table, “you do though! Ever since we were kids!”

I roll my eyes, opening the door as he follows After me.

“I don't have an accent…”

He huffed, walking with md to the lab, “It's gotten less noticeable since you first moved here, but it's there.”

I shake my head, opening the door to the lab and peaking in to make sure Setsuko east in there. Sighing, I open it more.

“It was a light accent when I got here! Barely noticeable.”

He scoffed, walking in as I shut the door. He sat down in my rolly chair, “it was so bad I couldn't understand you for two weeks, (Y/n).”

I shake my head, moving over next to him to place the vials back into their protective case. He leans back, watching me.

“It was not a bad accent...”

He chuckles, “no…it was cute, you used to get so frustrated when people picked on you for it. Never seen someone get so red.”

I scoff, looking down at the dog mask.

“Yeah? And was it cute when I punched Ebisu in the face because of it?”

“No, that was hilarious and I wish I had a video of it.”

I roll my eyes at Him, reading over my notes. Kakashi and I were close…we’d been closed since we first met, considering his close our parents were.

Sure…we didn't talk for a sold 2 years after the nine-tails, but now things started to feel normal…even if it was only when he had that stupid Dog mask on. When he didn't, he got quiet, barely speaking when he did talk, and couldn't hold any eye contact. Kskashi without inu…was the same Kakashi who lost his team and family.

But when he had that mask on, he was hiding that side of him. He was fearless, playful, and more open…

It was Inu, not Kakashi.

“Are you coming with all of us to Ichirakus?”

He shifted s bit, his chakra growing colder.

“Ah, no. I have a mission tonight, sorry.”

I frown a bit, concerned. He had been taking back-to-back missions more often, A and S class mostly. My eyes softened for him, understanding why.

It was his escape, however unhealthy it was, he needed the rush of a mission to keep him going. He craved it, like a drug, and no matter how many times he tries to quit he'd go back full force the next day.

The only way he was leaving the anbu was either being pulled…of death.

………………………………………………………………………….

“-AND I WON'T CRY FOR YOU! I WON'T CRUCIFY THE THINGS YOU DoOoO!”

I burst out laughing, leaning drunkenly on Genma as we all watch Gai sing off toon to music from the karaoke massine.

We left Ichiraku hours ago and had stumbled in here after Asuma challenged Gai to a singing competition, and I've got to say, Gsi sure did have some pipes.

Maybe the ciggerets were ruining peoples voices, because Asuma couldn't hold a note to save his life.

Kurenai and Asuma burst out laughing, falling out of their seat as Gai began to dance magic mike style to the music. Gai Really was the life of every party, always so bright and good.

I smiled softly, and I looked over at Genma. Smirking, I follow his eyes to the bar area.

“You should go talk to her.”

His face turned Scarlett, “w-what?! I can't do that!”

I roll mg eyes, “go on. I need the apartment to myself something, you know?”

He kissed my cheek, “thank you wing man.”

I smiled as I watched him go, noticing all my friends were getting tired. Asuma, who was less drunk than Kurenai pulled her up, “I'll walk her Home, you got Gai?”

I nod, smiling, “always.”

“-WE ALL LIVE IN A YELLOW SUBMARINE! A YELLOW SUB-MUFF?!”

I groan, coving the tall mans mouth, “Gai, my love, I beg of you to shut up.”

He smiled lazily, resting his head on mine and we walked to his apartment, “but that song is sooooo youthful.”

I laugh, shaking my head at Him as I help him up the stairs.

“Keys, Gai.”

He clumsily hands them over, and I giggle down at the little turtle charm.

I help him in, steering him towards his room. I wince as I bumps into a corner, but he just giggles.

As soon as he hit his bed, he was out, and I moved his trash can over to his bed if he got sick.

Walking to his kitchen I filled a glass of water up, then went to his bathroom to dig up Advil for his ragging headache that was sure to come in the morning.

After double checking the windows, I close the door behind me. I walk down the stairs, wrapping my jacket closer to my body to protect myself from the cold.

I walked home, eyes on the snowy ground. I was sobering up, and couldn’t help but let my thoughts wonder to my silver headed friend.

He…really was in a hurry to die. Back to back A and S class missions weren’t healthy for any shinobi, especially one with Kakashis mind. It was too…broken, off center.

“I swear, I’m going to force him into therapy..” I mumble as I climb my stairs, opening my door.

I draw back, my sensitive nose filling with the smell of iron.

I draw my kunai out, holding it at the ready as I scan my living room. No one.

I move forward, sensing Chakra from the bathroom.

I silently pad towards the door, kunai up and ready to strike. I twist the knob, and walk in with my sharp canines bared and my kunai raise.

My eyes widen, and I drop the kunai.

“K-Kakashi?”

He looked over at me lazily, sitting in my tub as blood flowed out from his side. Saké, was next to him.

“W-what the fuck?! Why didn’t you go to the hospital?!”

I go to grab him, completely sober now, but he just snaps at me, baring his own canines at me and I only now come to realize both masks are gone.

“N-no. No hospital.” He glares, gasping air as he groans and hits his head on the back wall.

“F-fix me. I-I trust you.”

My eyes widen and I look absolutely terrified, “I-I can’t do medical ninjutsu! You know that!”

He grabs my hand, blood making stains on my skin. His mismatching eyes look at me half lidded, “I. trust. you.”

Then he passes out, slumped over himself and bleeding out in my tub. Of fucking course he does.

I groan, looking up as I will myself not to cry.

“You stupid asshole…”

[poisonblossoms12]

WELCOME!!!

(It's about time I did a welcome post lol)

Hey there, I'm Poison, but you can also call me PB or PB&J ^^ I do a bunch of silly stuff about Kindergarten, My Singing Monsters, and some other things :D

Some facts about me:

-I use both they/them and she/her, but I prefer they/them, and it/its is growing on me (not as much as the others though, but you can still refer to me with that :3)

-I'm a lesbian :D

-My favourite Kindergarten characters are Carla and Alice

-My ultimate OTP is Almy (Alice x Emmy) 💜💚

-I am emo, punk, and goth. I do understand that they are not exactly interchangeable, but my style fluctuates a lot between those three

-Here is my list of Kindergarten ships in case you're curious :3

-And here is my list of fandoms! :D

Other blogs:

Art blog - @poisonblossomsartbox I am no longer active on my art blog bc I post my art on here now

Meme blog - @daily-dose-of-kg-memes

KinderKiller AU - @kinderkillerau

MSM blog - @poisonblossoms-msm I no longer post on my MSM blog because I made this one multifandom

Penguin Penny - @penguenny

Monstergarten AU - @msm-kg-au

Kindergarten confession blog - @kg-confessions

My tags:

#poisoned rants - I rant about silly stuff

#poisoned arts - Art tag (I pretty much only use it on my art blog tho)

#poisoned vents - Vent tag

My schedule:

Currently it is during the school year, meaning I have quite a strict schedule. I won't be available from 7:20AM-5:00PM EST on Monday-Thursday. On Fridays, I won't be available from 7:20AM-3:00PM EST. On weekends, I will be available all day from around 8:00AM to somewhere around 10:00PM.

AND YES, ART REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

That's all for now! I might change it up over time tho :P

[wouldvecouldveshouldve]

okay hi guys! so, just dont mind me using this tag to document my eras tour day!

i have been waiting for this for AGES and im honestly so excited fbshahahsjd its like ive been waiting, and i didnt even know i was going to the show until a week ago now Which Is Crazy

but anyway, just woke up. it was like 7:20am? i woke up with a stomach ache, went to the bathroom, felt better, um and ive scrolled through all the videos of melb n1 on instagram and tiktok. it’s now 8:12am! my dad wants me to mow the front lawn & the nature strip before i go to the train station at 2pm for the concert (where im meeting my friends), so i gotta do that in like an hour! now i think im gonna try go back to sleep for one more hour bc i need the rest lmao

[grecoromanyaoi]

i took an edible (too much edibles) at 7:30pm and now its 6:20am and im still kinda high... n ive got a doctors appointment in 2 hours, rip

[axverelalol]

Bowser x Female Reader

just know im not good at writing x reader things but my bsf requested this soo ill try- also im puting these in parts cause i got school and im tired a bit but ill try to post part/chp 2 later

Y/D/C = Your Dress Color

Y/H/C = Your Hair Color

Y/E/C = Your Eye Color

Its been a while since you were at bowsers place helping Mario save Peach. so peach decided to thank you by taking You,Mario,Luigi,and Daisy on a small trip along with Rosalina!! (haha i didnt know who else to say..i probably spelled her name wrong but lol) 

                                             (Peach POV)

“I really havent thought about where we’ll go.. hmm, maybe ill leave a note in Y/N’s room saying to meet me in the mushroom field. then maybe she could help me!” 

                               After Writing The Letter.

“Finally! now i can just lay it on her desk since she’s asleep at this time.”

                                            (Y/N POV)

After waking up you decided to go back to sleep since it was only 7:30am, but to your surprise you have a letter from your dear friend peach!! you slowly open the letter hoping that nothing bad happened.

  Letter: Good morning Y/N!! i need your help! but its not    an Emergency. i need your help to plan the trip!! i said it without knowing where to go but i thought i did, but sadly i didn’t, so i was hoping you could help me??? meet me at Mushroom Field at 8:30am! i know its a bit early but i think you can manage!! 

        - your dear friend Peach.

 “Me? why Meeee!” flopping back on to your bed whimpering. “ well i mean, i have nothing better to do so.. why not?” you tiredly hop out of bed and go to your closet to get dressed. you decide to wear your favorite Y/D/C. then you head out to the mushroom field to see peach there sitting at a table out in the beautiful field of mushrooms,flowers,water and everything else! 

“Oh! Y/N Over here!!” Peach kindly calling out to you.

“Oh so, what is it that you need help with again??” you curiously ask.

“Well, remember when i said i was going to take You,Mario,Luigi,Daisy, And Rosalina on a small trip??

“Yeah?” 

“I need help with that, i cant think of anywhere!!” 

“Oh, well uhm..maybe..i have a place but your not gonna like it..” you say quietly 

“Well? What is it??!?” Peach says curiously… 

“I went there with Luigi..it did NOT go well..but, its Bowers “fancy” place..”

Peach just sat there in her place not saying not one word at all

“Peach?…” you said quietly 

“Oh! uhm sorry Y/N but.. are you sure?..”

“…Yeah..im sure…” you said nervously

“Well then..uh we’ll leave at 11am !! make sure to let the others know! and again, thanks Y/N” Peach said hugging you

“Of course” hugging her back. then she gets up and leaves to pack her things while you sit there and think about how to keep Princess Peach safe and AWAY from Bowser at all cause. 

 after a while it was finally 10:20am after you and peach told everyone to pack you were still having trouble figuring out how to keep Bowser away from Peach so you decided to go to Daisy and Rose (aka Rosalina) For help. 

“Daisy? Rose?” you call out to them surprisingly they were in the same room. 

“Were in here!” Daisy said.

“Oh uh, i need you two to help me with something, and it has something to do with the trip.”

“What it is Darling??” Rose said.

“Well uhm-

“What? Say it!” Daisy said

“Okok so about the trip right? were going somewhere me and Luigi went to. so we could try it out but it was “Bowsers Fancy Place”, thats where were going i told peach we should go there cause she didnt know where to go, then she approved it. now i need a plan to KEEP BOWSER AWAY FROM HER.”

“Oh.. well we definitely can help! but we’ll need some help from Mario and Luigi.”  Rose said slowly..

“Thanks guys!” you three hugged then got up to tell Luigi and Mario the thing you needed help with

                         After telling Luigi and Mario

“So?? can you help us?” said rose

“Ehhh, I dont know” said Mario 

“Please, Pleassseeeeee” said all three of you girls

Mario Sighed “Fine. But only for Peach. Not you three.” 

“YES”  All three of you said

they ran out going to finish packing their bags 

“Yeah, We’ll Totally Survive this trip.” Said Mario…

                      After Mario left Luigi said…

“yeah were all gonna die..”