#melted crayon painting

[catsquishy]

Raúl Cocolotl (Wendell & Wild) Stimboard!

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[olivefreezy]

Had to have melting crayons in an art piece so I made this ^^

[homebrewstims]

Who knew crayons could make these colorful crafts 🌈

Though this isn't my footage, I took the time to make the gifs. See my terms of use BEFORE you reupload!

[meowizard]

everytime someone says doll customising is (outrageously) expensive an angel loses its wings

[arytha]

googles "how to draw the thing vividly in my head when i dont know how to blend colors in the way my brain shows me"

thinking about the elder's stained glass robe. i. i dont know how i'll draw it but i Can describe it. its killing me to think about drawing it lol

[eatwriteruncraftrepeat]

Art is therapy. Art is self-care. It doesn't have to be good. You don't have to sell it. It can be anything you want it to be. Create something. Put something in the world that is yours and uniquely you and makes people happy or make you happy. Or sad, or angry. Whatever is in your head just get it out. That's art.

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[4k words]

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Chapter 1 "The Savior"

Since the day you were born, there was something horribly wrong with you.

You had no immune system, your skin was paper-thin, you couldn’t exercise without collapsing, and every nerve in your body was in constant pain. There was no use for you aside from being a measly archive keeper and book transcriber. Your father was a weak man, despite your disabilities and how costly it was for the rest of your Vault, he kept you alive, consumed by the idea of finally finding a cure for his little girl.

Every single moment since your birth, you had spent in this squeaky clean, insanity-inducing, paper-ridden medical room. Everything was plagued by the stench of medicine and spirit, disinfected down to the core. The floor and walls and even the ceiling were covered in a leather cushioned layer to prevent any injuries, sparkling white, of course. Who needed color when the stench of new paint might cause you a migraine?

In honesty, you’d give away half of your miserable life just to see color outside of the packaged book covers stacked neatly on the floor. You built a makeshift city out of them, following the pictures drawn in an old magazine you’d read ages ago and kept hidden under your pillow. With time, you learned how to make paper flowers out of some stray files that nobody would miss. You had to find some solace, something to keep you from crying your delicate heart out every night because this was no way for anyone to live.

You weren’t just isolated from the world above, but from everything, only getting glimpses of the bright metal vault corridor and bustling dwellers whenever your father would open that wretched vacuum-sealed door to give you medicine. You knew people’s names and faces, everyone in your vault was memorized to the letter, but you’d never met them and probably never would.

You were never given your own Pip-boy, never assigned as a potential marriage candidate, and you’d never have children or any family once your parents passed away. A small part of you knew that you wouldn’t even outlive them, frail and genetically inferior as you were. You’d die within the next few years and you’d take the burden of your existence off the shoulders of everyone who worked tirelessly to find a solution to your illness.

You waited for that day with hope, dreaming of the end of the torture and solitude.

You had pleaded with your father that night with angry tears in your eyes to at least bring you coloring pencils or crayons or a radio to chat with the rest of the residents and make friends. But, as usual, he had refused gently while rocking you in his arms, cooing at you with a regretful tone and pain carving deep wrinkles in his features. Then he’d smiled at you, melting away your worry and frustration and misery, and he’d kissed your forehead tenderly. He still treated you like a little girl and to him, you’d always be one. He wiped your tears away and hope shone in his eyes, they looked exactly like yours, that was the only thing you’d taken from him. Everything else was a gift from your mother and you often looked in the mirror just to remember what she resembled.

She’d stopped visiting a long time ago, months, maybe even years, you weren’t sure. The passing of time was a fickle matter when you were caged in a cushioned prison every single day.

Your father hummed softly, lulling you while he gently tucked you into the nursing bed and secured the oxygen mask over your mouth. He was your angel, your only salvation, your only source of conversation and comfort and interaction and love. He adjusted the catheter back into your vein before fluffing up your pillow.

“This might be it, Sweetheart.” he whispered while watching you doze off slowly, his gaze held such affection for you. He placed a new IV bag to drain into your arm, one you’d not seen before, but you trusted him. This was nothing new. He came up with a new medicine recipe every month, without fail. “This might just be the cure. You’ll tell me how you feel tomorrow.”

You can only sigh and give your best smile, unable to share his enthusiasm after so many failed attempts. He rubbed a thumb over your sickly-colored cheek, his skin like sandpaper against yours, worn and calloused from spending a lifetime in the vault’s field.

“Have some faith in your old man.”

“I do, dad…I’m just so tired of this…”you bite into your tongue to keep more tears from spilling, and your bottom lip trembles despite your best efforts to tame it. Watching his face falter breaks your heart and you suck it up, push your tantrum down and pout instead. “And you’re not old.”

He laughs at your whiney remark, the first laugh he’d had in a long time, and he slicks back your hair, taking note that he needed to trim it soon before it got too long. Maybe when he had the energy, he’d sit down for more than a few minutes and braid it like he used to when you were just a child.

“I know you are, Baby girl, I know.” he shushes you with the utmost care and stands. “Just a little longer and you’ll be strong enough to help your pop pick out the tatoes. Get your pretty hands all dirty and then have a big plate of spam for a job well done.” he gazed at you, masking his sorrow and bitterness at the cruelty life had forced upon you. His hand hovered over the lamp switch and he glanced one last time at the brand-new IV bag slowly emptying in your bloodstream. “Night, Sweetheart. Love you.”

Too stricken with grief over your miserable lifestyle, you didn’t return his tender words, hoping he understood and knew that you loved him just as much if not more. When the lights went out, your eyelids closed, squeezing out a few lonely tears in the darkness before you begrudgingly drifted off to sleep. A dreamless slumber when you were gently rocked through the foggy confines of your subconsciousness.

Your one wish was to see the world outside, uncaring if it were a wasteland or a paradise, ignorant of the dangers and naïve towards the people who potentially lived up there. You just wanted to be free, even if it would cost you your life, you wanted to see the sky just once, wanted to prove to yourself that no, it looked better than any picture your father had shown you. You wanted to swim in the ocean and see fishes and see a whale, a creature so big it was unfathomable to imagine, you wanted to taste the salty sea water and become sick and just be happy to be alive for once. You wanted to feel the grass beneath your feet, to touch snow and dance in the rain until you slipped and fell in a puddle only to splash in it because you’d never seen or felt any nature.

You just wanted to live…

The hours ticked by in a hazy blur as you lay lifelessly on your bed. Your room was partly sound-proof, you heard nothing of the ruckus slowly brewing beyond your medicinal prison. Sleepy soundly, you didn’t hear the slaughter, the begging and pleading voice on the brink of crying before the sickening cracks of broken bones. You didn’t hear the crazed ramblings of the raiders stalking your fellow vault dwellers like it was a game of cat and mouse. Your vault was slowly succumbing to chaos and rampage and it was only when the electricity went out and your door unlatched that you were startled awake.

You bolt up with wide eyes and in a panic, gaze averting to the door and heart skipping a beat when you realize it’s open. With a small grunt and a relieved inhale once the oxygen mask is ripped from your face and tossed on your pillow, you scramble to stand. The IV is disconnected from your arm with an expert touch, replaced by a cotton ball to obscure any heavy bleeding from the open puncture wound. Your bare feet shuffle over the soft floor, slippery against the white leather because you’d unknowingly started to sweat from anticipation.

Was this just another cruel dream?

You walked to the exit with timid footsteps before opening the door wide enough to stick your head out. An incessant voice kept repeating how disappointed your father would be if he saw you sticking your nose out and potentially catching an infection from the unsterile air. That voice was dismissed promptly, this was your first chance at seeing anything beyond the medical room and you’d rather die than miss it.

Had the power gone out? But that was impossible. The power never went out, there had always been a steady flow of electricity for as long as you could remember.

The lights flickered, most were broken, letting the eerie darkness overwhelm all corridors except for one.

“Hello?” you call out hesitantly, shaky voice hoarse with sleep and anxiety both. Looking around, you couldn’t see much, there wasn’t a soul in sight and the silence was deafening. “Dad?”

Nothing. Nothing and no one.

A hand clutched at the door to support your buckling knees and you breathed deeply, encouraging yourself to be brave, that this was your chance. After dutifully gnawing on the inside of your cheek you stepped forth into the crossroads of corridors, letting go of the door and leaving everything familiar and safe behind. Your head whirled so much your neck popped multiple times as you frantically looked around in the scarce light and as terrifying as all of this was, it was also heaven unknown. You had never seen so many things – plant pots, plants, all bright green and juicy, you’d stuck your nail in a particular one only to feel a strange gooey discharge on your finger. It was a succulent, you’d read about those somewhere, very sturdy indeed, very pretty, but had no smell. You liked them already.

The further you went, the more a nagging thought kept creeping up your spine like a chill.

Where was everybody?

You kept looking, following the corridor and under the guidance of blinking lamps. You knew the Vault like the back of your hand after spending countless hours studying its diagrams, having nothing better to do. Now you were experiencing it in person. No longer needing to strain your imagination to picture every nook and cranny, you could see it with your own eyes. The floor was so cold under your feet, but you didn’t care, too high on adrenaline and pure joy to notice such a small inconvenience. A hand glided absentmindedly against the wall, tracing over pipes and posters and glass windows until you prickled your finger on a jagged edge and winced away.

You stuck the winger in your mouth with a pained scowl and glared up, searching for the source of your misfortune.

You froze.

Blood, everywhere, oozing down the wide hole in the window and silently gushing out of the disemboweled corpse of a human being, still warm. And even through the liters of blood and the sickening feeling of nausea that had your eyes dart to the floor, you immediately noticed the dark blue suit they were wearing. A dead vault dweller tossed through the window so hard they’d broken through and gotten impaled on the glass.

A vault dweller.

Dead…

DEAD!!!

You stumbled back and wretched, stuffing your mouth in the crook of your elbow and sputtering saliva as your stomach churned with bile. You bumped into a metal cabinet in your stupor, scraping for purchase as your legs lost all function, knocking over a clock and a radio that came to life as soon as it hit the floor. The sound echoed through the Vault, like a haunting melody to the arrival of a new victim, lured out and ready for slaughter. You.

Horror. A massacre, as the light flickered your eyes feasted on more marred flesh and ripped skin and so much blood. Crimson splatter and trails of handprints were strewn over the walls, the echoes of an dire struggle which ended in vein, trails of violence were etched into the hallway. You couldn’t hold it in anymore, you threw up, clutching at your stomach as you let out the traumatizing sight the only way your body knew how. Doubled over and twitching as the shock was replaced by such a raw feeling that you nearly lost your mind.

Corpses littered the floor beyond, caked in their own entrails, skulls bashed in, unrecognizable and still and…

“Hi there, Princess.”

A chill went up your spine as you realized that the frilly white dress you wore wasn’t enough to keep you warm beyond your room. Your skin littered with goosebumps, thin hairs standing up in fear as you stiffly craned your neck and looked back to the other end of the corridor. What little color was left in your face dissipated at the sight.

A man, disfigured and disgusting, with wild hair and wilder eyes and a grin that shook you to the bone stood there. He was shirtless, showing off a large hairy belly and covered in stick-poke tattoos, one of his legs was replaced by what you made out was a metal stick of sorts. He was three times your size…and he looked at you with such perverse intent that you nearly screamed. A vile creature, not even human anymore.

“Don’t be scared, Pretty.” he leered, chapped lips and rotting teeth and a foul blackened tongue, and raised a large palm in front of him to halt you from moving. “It’s okay…Come here. Come to me.”

Instinct took over and you automatically stepped back, not daring to take your eyes off him.

“Ah, don’t do that now.” he warned sweetly and slowly began walking towards you, creeping closer every time the lights flickered off. “You’ll just make this harder for you, yeah? Come to Eddie, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

Everything about him screamed evil. He looked deranged and capable of things you’d never even begin to imagine.

A surface dweller. A survivor. A killer. A monster.

The moment his boot sunk in a pool of blood and squeaked against the floor realization hit you like a speeding truck. The grim expression should have been his sign to catch you, but you were already leaping over corpses with a blood-curdling screech. Your mind raced as you tried to orientate yourself through the corridors, bolting over shattered glass and spoiled food and so many dead bodies.

You needed to get out. Leave. Escape.

OUT!

His hollars bellowed behind you, alerting the rest of his friends because of course there were more and now they were aware of you and hunting you down like a deer in the forest. You let the tears run down your cheeks, forced the questions of your parents’ whereabouts and health because you already knew the answers, but you let them sink you’d end up like them or worse.

A horde of footsteps nipped at your bare heels and you sprinted and begged your weak little legs to go faster. Sucking in air as adrenaline pumped through your veins like poison, you jumped and ducked and whirled and assured yourself that you had the upper hand here, you knew the vault better than them. You stood a chance, you’d survive.

When the elevator came into view after you rounded a corner you nearly cried out in delirium. A roar nearly deafened you and you flinched, but your pace only increased as you pleaded and struggled not to trip over your feet. They were desperate, clawing at the air to try and reach you before it was too late. Your lungs burned with strain, your muscles felt like they’d tear any moment, but you kept pushing, high on horror and anger and a newfound zest for self-preservation

Salvation. Your only chance to live.

Your shoulder screamed in pain when you slammed against the metal walls of the elevator and thrusted your fist against the button vigorously.

“Come on. Come on. COME ON!”

“Get back here you little whore!”

“Please!” you wailed, screaming and stumbling back when a rusty axe collided with the shutting doors and made sparks fly with an ear-piercing screech. A hand flew up to cover your squinted eyes, sneering and sobbing as the raiders banged on the outside of the elevator and shot conniving curses at your crumbling form. You were slammed down on your arse by gravity as the elevator finally moved, taking you away from certain death as a slew of grim promises were expelled at you from below.

They’d find you, rip you apart, and make you wish you’d just died like the rest of your pathetic vault dwellers. You balled your eyes out, choking on spit and tears and gulping down air as your body shook violently. Clutching at your face, you stared down at your bloody feet with wide, unblinking eyes.

What was this nightmare…

When the elevator came to a halt and the doors reopened you barely managed to stand, the numbness in your limbs proving too much to handle and your upset stomach only contributing. But you had to keep moving, you had to run.

“Daddy…”

With ugly sobs and meek noises of strain and discomfort and utter distaste for your cruel fate, you tumbled towards the ajar vault entrance. Pressing down the button timidly before taking the discarded Pip-boy from the severed hand, you lock your tormentors into their grave and hurriedly tread towards the slowly closing vault exit.

The sun nearly blinds you and the hot desert sun knocks you to your knees as your hands sink to the wrists in sand. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking rapidly and shielding your sensitive pupils from the blaring light.

It’s…barren.

A desert, stretching as far as your sight could reach, heated enough for the air to wiggle and dance in the distance, a decrepit city can be seen nestled not too far. A plethora of buildings crumbled to their bases hide away the sealed entrance to your vault, bones are scattered through the coarse sand, human shapes frozen in time, hinting towards a previous era of life on Earth, an era you’d only read about. Again, there wasn’t a soul around no matter how many times you circled your vision.

A wasteland. Painted yellow and orange and contrasting so beautifully with the clear blue sky.

You wanted to marvel and swoon and you would have given any other circumstance, but now, after everything you’d seen, after your mind had been so brutally defiled with images of slaughter, you were incapable. You stood, resisting the harsh breeze and angry sun, clad in nothing but a Pip-boy and a thin summer dress that was everything but white.

You had to walk, seek help, do…something. Anything.

And so you did. Trudging through the sea of sand and stepping hastily as the heat beneath your delicate feet nipped uncomfortably at your skin. Sweat clung to you like a protective layer, washing away any trace of the sensitive lavender shampoo you had used the previous night. Strands of hair clung to your flushed face as you fought a silent and unfair battle against the burning sunrays, one step at a time, with the wind as your only companion. Your nostrils struggled to breathe in enough air, but you didn’t dare open your mouth despite the temptation, fearing dehydration and death as it loomed over you like a shadow.

You walked for what felt like miles, accompanied by your thoughts and nothing else, until the Vault was hidden behind the golden dunes and your feet felt raw. The city was so close now, yet you were so tired, sucked dry by a heat you’d never experienced before, if it hadn’t been for your Pip-boy crackling to life you would have collapsed, too burdened and weak to continue.

You raised your wrist and looked down and were met by a familiar meter.

Radiation.

Something around you was radioactive enough for the device to pick up easily, but there was nothing but waves of yellow hell and you doubted the ground itself was emitting it. Then you heard it. That strange, high-pitched chirping, an alien sound that made your skin crawl and scraped at the back of your head tauntingly.

A scream loud enough to shatter glass ripped through your throat as a sharp sting pierced your ankle. You hit the soft sand with a whimper and rushed to turn on your back before kicking blindly at your assaultant. An ambush from below. Blood trickled from the gash, painting your skin a deep ruby red and spilling over the ground, luring out your predators like moths to a flame.

Insects, roaches too big to be real and too much for your fickle mind to comprehend crawled out of the sand. You’d fallen right into their trap, an unsuspecting victim, a banquet they’d probably not seen since they’d hatched.

Your heart pounded frantically, pulse thumping in the side of your neck as you flailed and screeched, chucking sand at them as they circled you. You wanted to run, every cell in your body fought for you to stand, but you couldn’t, you had no fight left. You’d die here, alone in this decrepit desert and eaten by giant cockroaches and this was going to be the story of your life. You sobbed so pitifully, so angry and bitter and bratty that after everything, this was to be your end. The world spun painfully fast and you wanted to vomit, but your stomach was empty and you only gagged.

With one last scream, you curled in a ball, covering your head with your arms and your legs protecting your belly, as one of the insects lunged forward.

When the gunshot rang in your ears you froze in place and time stopped. The roach flew back, slimy green entrails covering your form like a canvas. The other two hissed and you revolted at the noise, but they were shot a second later, blown to bits, dainty skittish legs twitching as the last few beats of life escaped them. The shadow of your savior dwarfed you completely, giving you respite from the cruel sun.

You roll over and sit up on your knees within a blink only to be met with the barrel of a gun too ratchet and rusted to belong to anyone but a wastelander. You recoil and blink through tear-heavy lashes before roughly adjusting your dress to try and cover your bare thighs from what you presumed was another man. The tip of the gun slid under your chin and guided your eyes up to feast upon your hero. You gulped and whimpered.

He was grotesque, like a man skinned alive and somehow survived, melted skin deformed his features and you’d bet your dinner there wasn’t a strand of hair under that worn cowboy hat. He had no nose, no eyebrows or even lashes, not a spec of hair. He grinned something awful down at you, looking at you like you were a fresh piece of meat, a delicacy among a table covered with rotten food. His stance was wide, torn dark cloth swaying dangerously in the breeze, he seemed almost aetherial in his own twisted and rugged way. You mewled softly as he turned your head from side to side with his gun, gently, mockingly, drinking you in from every angle as if you’d disappear if he so much as blinked.

Your hands clutched at the edge of your dress when he finally spoke and his voice made you inhale sharply and clench your jaw in anticipation.

“Well…Aren’t you a pretty little thing…”

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(Listen, it's 7AM and I need sleep, but this mother trucker didn't want to leave me alone so have a chapter from my hastily strewn-together upcoming story. I'll post it on AO3 and probably here if it even happens. I'll fix mistakes later, don't eat me please.)

Chapter 2 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

[bangchansgirlsblog]

Keeping up with the Bhangs

This is a one shot from the little series. Read it if you would like it’s on my master list :))

Warning: Angst

Pairing: Bangchan x reader

Summary: Being a mum is hard when you have to constantly play good cop, bad cop.

**

"Chan?" She called for her husband. "Chan come look at what your daughter did!" Y/n called again. The sight infront of her was painful. Her little girl was stood in the middle of the room looking so innocent but she had created a huge train wreck around her. She couldn’t believe it.

She tried to keep her cool, she really did but she couldn’t. She heard the quiet footsteps making their way up towards their daughters room. Her anger was being tested and she felt like she was about to blow.

"What is it Y/n? I have a really important-" he paused when he looked up from his phone as he stared at the sight in front of him. "What the hell?" He let out a gasp.

The room was a mess. There was paint everywhere and crayons all over the wall. The collections of toys chan had gotten Soo-min where spread all over the place and her clothers (Soo-min) was covered in dirt, paint and crayons as she stood there looking innocent with the crayon in her hand. 

"Chan look what your daughter did!" Y/n raised her voice a little causing Soo-min to jump. She took little steps quickly to hide behind her father who was now standing fully in the room. It had been obvious she was scolded before this because her little hands were shaking and her lips were quivering.

Chans eyes soften as he loosened the tie that wrapped around his neck and unbuttoned his shirt. He was determined to keep his wife calm and fix whatever was going on. If he had time of course.

"Hey, Y/n calm down. Don’t stress out baby. Its okay," He picked up his little girl with one hand trying to remove the paint of her face. Her eyes on the verge of tears as she pouted. "We can just get the cleaners to clean it-"

Chan being calm about the whole situation pissed of Y/n to the fullest because why was he so put together? Why was he such a good calm dad.

"Chan! you dont get it! this is not okay, she constantly disobeys, this is a huge mess! i left her for only a few minutes!" Y/n groaned frustrated as she threw the cups she had collected from the ground into a basket. 

"Y/n, its fine. She's a baby-" the glare Y/n gave him instantly made him shut up and look at his little girl that was basically holding onto his shirt for dear life. 

"M' sorry," Soo-min chocked on her sobs as tears started to spill and she Sniffed. She didn’t understand why her mum was being so scary. She only wanted to draw to make her happy cause she knew how sad she had been.

Chans heart melted at her little pout.

"Its okay mama, no need to cry. Daddy's got you," Chan wiped the tears from her cheeks and grabbed the crayon and paint brush from her tiny little hands. "Y/n look what you've done, now she's crying."

"Chan you cant honestly think this is okay-" Y/n was buffled. Chan didn't think this was okay, did he?

"she's a kid! kids make mistakes, she's still learning. You don't scold her, you teach her," His voice was now loud aswell. He was getting frustrated. He didnt want his children growing up in a toxic enviroment where they get yelled at or abused. That was his worst nightmare. 

“Then fine! You raise them if ur such a good teacher,”

“I don’t have time for this Y/n I have a big meeting coming-“

“Of course you fucking do, why don’t you just move into your office and abandon your kids and pregnant wife!”

Her blood was boiling. It was like she was getting everything off her chest and she needed it.

“Y/n that’s enough. Your acting like a child in front of her!” Chan growled. “You can’t even control this situation without calling and crying for me,” his chest was moving up and down as he was huffing. Trying so hard to control himself but he was stressed and tired and it was like she wanted to pick a fight every chance she got.

"Chan! why do you always have to be good cop. Why cant you see this is wrong? Stop being a bad parent and-'

"Bad parent?" He scoffs and looked up at her buffled, "I'm the bad parent? just cause you were abused when you were younger doesn't mean you have to put your trauma on my children..." His eyes go wide. He didn't mean it. He was just angry. He didn't mean any of it. 

The tension in the air wise thick. The shocked gasp that left her mouth was painful. Her head started to spin. Her eyes turning red as her body started to overheat. The emotions she felt were overwhelming. A panic attack was coming on. Her eyes landed on her daughter, the little girl was covering her ears trying to cover her face in her fathers chest. Was she a monster?

"Papa? no fighting," The little girl squealed as she still continued to cover her ears. This made Y/n's heart break. was it true? was she becoming her toxic mother. 

 "It's okay mama," He comforted her shivering body, "I-Im going to get her changed so i can go back to my meeting. I'll tell the maids to come clean up," he so badly wanted to hold his wife and apologize but with the way she stood in one place he knew he couldn't have the conversation, well not right now. 

The door closed behind him as her little girls sniffles slowly faded in the distance. Y/n was in shock. Her brain was taking long to react. Her hands were cold and all of a sudden she couldnt hear anything around her.

Was she the problem? Was she being hard on the kids? she never yelled at any of them unless they did something horrible, she never intended for the father of her kids to call her toxic. To embarrass her like that.

It was too much, she was done playing tough guy. she was tired of the constant fight of depression. She was tired of her husband degrading her as she stayed home while he was out all night partying doing God knows what. 

She wanted her life back. she wanted to be fun again. She didnt want to be tired all the time. She was tired of being pregnant.

Her face felt wet. Her hands automatically covering her eyes. Heart wrenching sobs leaving her body as she placed a hand on her belly. The doubt of being a mother was creeping back up. The sudden urge to run away and dissapear haunted her conscious. Truth is she was tired of the fake smiles and the big parties and important business people.

Yes, she loved the big house her husband built for them, she loved the grand cars and the golden credit cards but she wanted to feel again. She wanted to be loved again. By her husband. She wanted to be a teenager again, falling in love and being young and free.

She laid on the called floor. Her arms supporting the heavy bump she was carrying. The tiled sending shivers down her spine. The tears still spilling from her eyes until eventually she grew tired and fell asleep.

[urhoneycombwitch]

oh my god…… art teacher!eddie who works with 3rd graders. and he’s every bit as kooky as he was in high school but now all that energy has someplace to go- zipping after a classroom of young kids all day, joyfully instilling fine art skills such as melting down wax to make zombie-crayons into the young minds of Hawkins.

Mr. Eddie (though he’d prefer to drop the Mr altogether, since he’s still young enough to remember the annoyance of formalities) is known as the safe space teacher- anytime someone wanted to eat lunch in his classroom they were more than welcome. He might even tell you a cool story about his old D&D group.

one day there’s this new student in class, a real quiet kid that doesn’t come out of his shell easily- Eddie quickly finds out this kid has a natural talent for painting. he’s barely 8 and has an incredible sense of light and dark, depth perception, all that fancy crap Eddie learned words for in art school.

the kid- Jake- stays after class Tuesday to help clean palettes. Eddie tries to sound nonchalant, elbow deep in soap suds as he asks, “So where’d you learn to paint like that?”

Jake, on a step stool at the closest sink, turns off his tap and shrugs. “My mom’s a painter. She used to paint a lot when she was pregnant with me. I think I’m blessed.”

Eddie chuckles heartily. “That’s one way to put it, kid.”

On the first teacher-parent night of the school year, Eddie in smart slacks and his black-rimmed glasses stands up in front of the classroom to introduce himself to all the parents.

His eyes fall to Jake, near the back row of desks, and tracks up from the manicured hand on Jake’s shoulder to- you.

Eddie’s instantly transported back to his second year of art college, falling in love with the painter girl across the hall. He still has that portrait you did of him with oil pastels, the size of a postcard. It’s the only time he’s ever liked a recreation of himself, photographs included.

You still had the same soft smile, the same eyes that lit up in recognition at the same time as he did.

Mr. Munson stumbles through the rest of his speech, and releases everyone to explore the room much sooner than he planned.

With a nervousness that he hasn’t felt in years, Eddie (after confirming you’re a single mom now) asks you to dinner. You accept, with a smile that makes his heart thrum, and a few moments later he’s one spectacular phone number richer.

[i-write-word]

Based on this ask from the minds of @blindmagdalena and @letthenerdsleep; I had to.

CONTENT WARNING: SWEARING, HOMELANDER

"I just don't get what's so damn brilliant about that grin. It's just fucking green."

You pause in your coloring, damp paintbrush still in hand. You narrowed your eyes at John who was gazing outside the penthouse window at the horizon. He was slumped across the couch like an old Victorian painting as he waited somewhat patiently for you to pay attention to him.

You took a deep breath, knowing full well you would regret asking but you had to know. "...What?"

John huffed at you as if you were being unreasonable. "The green." He gestured vaguely to the paint tubes beside your palette. "What make it brilliant?" He asked as he folded his arms behind his head.

You blink at him, trying to process the question.

"And royal blue. What makes it royal? Like, royalty never had anything to do with blue. It'd make more sense if it was royal purple but what gives blue that title?" He mused.

You were gobsmocked, staring at the supe with your jaw open.

"Magenta too. Who lookaed at it and said, 'yeah, that's magenta.'" He floated up slightly off the couch so he could gesture the arc of his imaginary rainbow before settling back into his original position.

You set your paintbrush into the mug holding dirty paint water, your bottom lip folding over your teeth so you didn't burst out laughing. "John. Love of my life. My darling hero. Is this about the color thing again?"

The color thing, as you so eloquently put it, was about the time Homelander had decided to raid your collection of art supplies while he was bored and you were dedicating too much time to your hobby. He had combed through every pencil, paint tube and cake and even the forgotten box of crayons, reading each and every name before coming to you in a rage that he had no colors named after him.

He turned to you with blue eyes widened too innocently. "Look, I'm just saying! My name, as a color? That's brilliance right there." He turned his head to smirk up at the ceiling.

You shook your head fondly. "What color would you even be then?" You turned to face him now, crossing one leg over your knee. You drummed your fingertips against a blue splatter on your skin.

John blinked before sitting upright, hand to his chin as he carefully considered his options. "Hmmm, well.... I can't just be one color."

You snorted, regarding his Americana suit. "Obviously."

He grinned at you, that sweet little playful tilt of his lips that drew you in the first place. A soft puff of air escaped him as he realized you were playing along. "I can't even be two."

"Oooo, getting greedy"

He floated over to you as if he were magnetized. A daring hand rested on your knee. "I don't even know about three." He whispered conspiratorially, those sapphire blues sparkling with mischief.

You snorted again as you burst out laughing. "Oh, my God, you're impossible." You cupped his cheeks as you pulled him in closer. A warm smile had crossed your lips as you nuzzled your nose against his and John couldn't help but melt and bask in your joyous love.

"Yeah... but you like me best that way." He weaseled his way into your lap, careful to keep most of his weight off of you. He wrapped both arms around your neck and shoulders as you rested a hand on his waist.

A happy hum escaped him as you hugged him as tight as you could. "A man could get used to this." John sighed as he pressed his face against your neck.

You chuffed quietly as you rubbed your cheek against the top of his head, ruffling the dyed blond locks. "You're already spoiled enough." You teased before leaving a quick peck on his temple.

"You could spoil me more though." John rebuttled as he gave you his own gentle squeeze. "A whole lot more. Gimme allllll your love, sweetheart." He purred, as content as a cat in your lap.

You laughed louder at that and Homelander beamed at the sound. You both were well aware of how greedy he was, how starved he was for any affection you dared to give. He loved that you never grew tired of giving, no matter how demanding the supe became or how much time he consumed.

He hummed again as he pressed a kiss to your throat, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat through your jugular. He focused on the harmonies your body provided, from the percussion of your heart to the woodwind of your lungs. The soft gurgling of your digestive acids within your stomach accompanied your busy veins and arteries to provide the perfect background melody.

You struggled to keep him in your lap as John relaxed further into you, drunk on your sounds. "Geez, you'll fall asleep on me." You halfheartedly complained.

It wouldn't be the first time the hero had deemed you his napping place but he usually chose places more comfortable than your desk chair.

"You'll live." He mumbled against your skin, relishing in the jump of your heartbeat and the goosebumps raising the hair on your flesh.

You rolled your eyes and he snorted upon sensing your compliance.

"Juuuuust give in to me. You don't have to do anything else, lovely." He murmured as he started to drift off to sleep.

[catsquishy]

P'tit Belliveau - Greatest Hits Vol. 1 Stimboard!

☀️ | ☀️ | ☀️ ☀️ | 🚗 | ☀️ ☀️ | ☀️ | ☀️

[merumis]

your son is watching tv upstairs. something bright and slow that he’s been into recently; you caught one episode a few days ago, watched as the alphabet painted its way across the screen in satisfying reds and blues. it reminds you a lot of the things you watched as a kid—soft music and sweet-voiced narrators.

the sound of a xylophone leaking from television speakers floats its way down your staircase, just loud enough that you can hear it.

you’re sitting at the kitchen counter—scrawling a grocery list underneath the one your husband has already started. fruit snacks, gallon bags, paper towels—not the trader joe’s ones. just above yours, two items of iwaizumi’s catch your eye: dark chocolate, silken tofu. he’s making mousse—the protein kind, obviously, but the one that melts on your tongue and then bites the back of it in that sweetly bitter sort of way.

there’s sets of drawn-on papers to your left. you’ve been waiting to put a couple on the fridge. your son is particularly proud of one, put it right on the top and smiled at you all wide while he did it. a woman in red crayon labeled mom, a man in blue labeled dad, and then a proud, smiling boy in orange between them, labeled me! in all big letters and exclamations.

you run a thumb over the top of it, feel the waxy residue collect on your skin, and then slide the corner of the paper between your fingers. you stand from the stool you were using and, with the drawing, make your way over to the fridge—pinning it with a red postcard magnet that iwaizumi’s mother got you from her most recent vacation.

there’s a jingle of keys at the front door. you turn at the sound, catching the soft swing of the door and the little routine iwaizumi’s made for himself at the end of the work day; key’s hung on their ring, wallet and work badge in the bowl by the door, shoes kicked off onto their shelf. his eyes catch yours and he smiles, softly—more like a greeting than anything else.

“didn’t know if you’d be home yet,” he says, and makes his way over to the kitchen. he slides into the stool you’d been using previously, stretching out his neck and back as he settles in. you lean back against the fridge.

“yeah,” you reply, “got out early, so i picked up the monster.” you gesture upstairs with a pointed finger. “figured he’d rather be at home than daycare.”

he nods, and then taps his fingers out against the counter. there’s this weird beat as he settles, the tap tap of his fingers filling out bits of silence. “either of you eaten yet?” he asks.

“no,” you say, “figured we’d wait for you.”

it’s then that your son comes tumbling downstairs playfully begging for dinner. he says something about hearing dad’s car, and then that he heard his keys, and he runs over and wraps himself around iwaizumi’s leg.

iwaizumi gets this big smile on his face—grabbing your son and pulling him up onto his lap. they exchange something that you don’t pay much attention to. you’re turned already, opening the fridge and scanning what’s in it.

“we could do tacos…” you start, “stir fry, vodka sauce-“

“why don’t we go out?” iwaizumi asks, and you can hear your son’s excitement at the idea, a little symphony—or cacophony, perhaps—of different restaurants he wants to go to filling the air of the kitchen.

“yeah,” you say, “that sounds good—let’s do that.”

iwaizumi lifts your son off his lap, telling him to go clean up himself and his room before you can leave, and he rushes up the staircase again, taking them two at a time.

the two of you have been doing this dance now for a while, you know. you’re pretty sure you both know. pieces of half-conversations spliced between interruptions and affection towards your son; quarter-baked commitments and yes’s that always sound more like maybe’s.

last night, he fell asleep first and you watched the rise and fall of his chest. you traced your fingertips along his shoulders and chest, wrinkling the cotton of his t-shirt between your skin and his.

you could’ve been twenty-one again—your bedroom soaked in the stench of rum and tequila and neither of you caring. him half-asleep, answering questions with closed eyes and mumbled sentences, his laughter warm as it brushed against your cheeks.

instead, you stilled your breath against him. you worried about waking him up, about what he would say if he knew you were up like this—if he would even say anything at all.

you still watch him now. a beat of anxiety hitting as you lean against the fridge. he’s playing with his hands, working his fingers against his palm up to his wrists.

“we need to-” you start, and you aren’t sure you can bring yourself to say the rest of it.

“talk,” iwaizumi says. he sighs. “i know.”

you walk over to the other end of the counter. when you rest your elbows on it, your knuckles brush up against his. you both inch towards each other until your fingers are flush against his.

“i love you.” you say, and you feel your throat start to tighten.

“i know,” iwaizumi replies. it’s quiet, not quite mumbled but just barely more than it.

“but i don’t think we-“ you begin, and you hang your head. you take your hands away from iwaizumi’s, propping yourself up on them, rubbing at your forehead, your temples, your eyes. “i don’t know.” you sigh. “i don’t know if we’re good for-" another breath, you catch iwaizumi's gaze for a second. for the first time in a while, you see the way he's aged in the past few years; sprinkled in grey hairs, the beginning of crow's feet. "i don't know."

you had an argument last week—as you do almost every Friday now, when you work from home and he makes his way back early. you couldn't name the topic of this fight, or really any of them, if you tried. you know you made a snarky comment, and he made one back, and that devolved into both of you yelling across the couch.

you got into an argument last night, too. prior to the late night gazing—because even with the fights, you always insisted on sleeping together. even now. but last night, you were arguing about work, his work and then yours, and maybe the groceries and where your son was going to school next year. you can't remember all the details—you don't particularly want to, either—and the day after it all becomes an abomination of anger anyway.

you're still looking at each other. you keep biting your lip between both sets of teeth, and you can see the way he's clenching his jaw.

"i know," he says for the third time tonight. he sounds so young when he says it, like you're in college and in love and you've just told him you're taking an internship across the country for the summer.

you hear your son upstairs, moving something around his room to clean up for dinner. he's not the best at keeping things clean, but when he does it, he's meticulous about it. you think he gets it from his father.

"i want it to be different," you say. "i don't want this." he shakes his head, gives you that tight-lipped smile.

"i know you don't," he replies, "i don't either, but-"

"but," you repeat.

your eyes flick to the stairs. you can still hear him cleaning up there, but you can't help but worry. when you settle your gaze on iwaizumi again, he's reaching a hand towards you. his fingers wrap around yours, his thumb pressing against the base of your knuckles.

"i won't grow to hate you," he says, "i won't do it. And if we stay married, i don't know how much longer that'll last."

you feel your face heat up, your throat tighten, tears prick at the corners of your eyes. you nod, silently, gripping his hand a little tighter.

"i know." you swallow something down, though you're not sure you could put a name to whatever it was. it feels like a jumble of everything inside of you. "me too."

you push yourself up and off the counter. neither of you say anything as you cross the threshold towards him. you wrap your arms around him, press your lips against his hairline. he raises an arm in front of you, reaching up to pull you closer by your shoulder.

"so this is it?" your voice is thick—hoarse—and still mumbled into his hair.

"yeah," your husband replies. you hear the crack in his voice. "yeah this is it."

your son yells from upstairs. he's ready to go, he says, and he's decided that you're going to his favorite mexican place. despite it all, you laugh into iwaizumi, and when your son comes tumbling down the stairs, you both compose yourselves.

you pull your son into you by the top of his head, ruffling his hair in the process. you can feel iwaizumi's arm around your waist—delicate and cautious and barely there in the first place.

and somewhere, in your chest or in your ribcage itself, you're not sure, you feel something that seems an awful lot like relief. even if it's small.

[generalsdiary]

remember this message from aventurine?

yeah, so I wrote that scene.

To Aventurine's luck, he was rescued from the Nihility, the end, by a knight of Beauty. How lucky… He lives to see another day. Another assignment, another project, another trip which will all get blurred in a haze, memories merging together like melted crayons his mind too blurry if he ever even tried to recall.

A single drop of water slithered down his back under his satin shirt. His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, trembling, hands shaking with terror mirrored in his wide open eyes. The hill of his throat bopping as he gasps for air. The sheets felt too heavy, too warm, too suffocating. Another night he woke up drenched in sweat. Another nightmare where the air left his lungs, he was alone, they weren’t there, no peace of death, no calm embrace of sins forgiven and a new life beginning. The air scratched against his throat, rose thorns dragging along the sides of his windpipe poisoning his vocal cords, his words dying there before they could be vocalized in yelps, wails, or even pleadings. His chest rises and falls down in weak attempts to make his heart calm down, to stop it from jumping out of his chest and making him less of a human than he already thinks he is. Red crescent moons scattered inside his palms are sending aching pain to his nerve’s ends, he stares forward, he doesn’t pay them much mind- he cannot, the pain could ground him but he is too out of it. out of his mind, out of his body, desperately clutching onto the sheets, the branches of this existence, of this reality. Palms sweaty with the ending of the nightmare still trapped in his tense hands, the bitter taste on his tongue the flavor of nihility. The eyes that glow in the dark, that he would’ve sold in his past if it got him something… money? freedom? If such a thing even exists. Those same eyes like boiling water overflowing and, with salt and regret fall down the hills of his cheeks. He cannot control them, the tears, it is his body’s weak attempt at regulating his emotions. He has been running, every gamble, every manipulation, every flashy smile… it is him running from his past and back to it. his legs would give out underneath him if he was standing, knees too weak, feet too swollen, burning him up from inside. Settling more in the now, he feels the guilt dripping off his teeth, snake toxin that colors each of his smiles and paints his every pretty praise… did he truly do it just to see his family once more? throwing it all away for that… what would they think of him provoking an emanator, throwing this precious life away for the ones who have passed on? anger. White, hot anger, he regrets it. they wouldn’t- he never should’ve done it. they would want their little boy to persevere. to continue on. to stop gambling his own life. what is he worth if he won’t wager that of which has little matter to him? what blatant lies… the one who does not care for his life doesn’t clutch his chips in his hand for dear life. sadness. The ends of his hair stick to the back of his neck like ropes and chains that once bound him. or perhaps strings with which he is controlled. No one controls him. or perhaps this… glamourous, extravagant persona of Aventurine does. He needs to make a change. Cut the strings, control his own body, his choices, he can do better, he will do better… maybe he will dare to want to do better… in regards to himself. the various nightmares that keep his nights restless and his body frail keep coming, he exhales a heavy breath hoping, praying, that this is the last one. that this never-ending torment will end. Now his back aches from sitting up like so, or is it the weight of his job and his curse the ones which make it bend so? He has betrayed himself every day. putting the flamboyant clothes on and wearing it like a clown suit, parading around… except if someone gets close enough and sees the little Kakavasha hidden deep, far inside.

Sheets rustle behind him, grounding him even more in the present, anchoring him further in his body and out of the darkness of his dreams. “another one?” the baritone voice quietly asks, strong arms embracing his torso and his hand clutched onto them for… dear life. a hand presses against his damp forehead, seemingly checking his temperature. The thick, swallowing, dooming silence now cut with breathing of another that came to his awareness. Another set of ribs expanding and contracting against his own. A heart beating, pumping blood in rhythm with his. “I will draw us a bath.” The arms threaten to move away, and Aventurine grips them tightly refusing to let go, he turns back facing the man his eyes pleading, begging him to not go. “Veritas…” the man’s eyelashes flutter a few times before the indigo hair moves with a nod. “I’m here, Kakavasha. Right here. We will go together.”

[wisteriagoesvroom]

this hair is beggingggg to be tied into a lil topknot with the world’s tiniest scrunchie i fear

anyway contrived scenario where lando has to on short notice look after his niece for the day, and ends up bringing her along to random meetings at mtc. she senses that oscar is one of lando’s Safe People and immediately takes a liking to uncle oscy, and wants to put glitter and stickers all over his face and team polo. and it’s lunchtime and they’re all trying to figure out what to feed a toddler and lando’s kind of stressed about the amount of things and people has to respond to today already. but then he goes to find oscar in a meeting room and when he walks in the sky outside is blue and the sun’s lighting them up just so and oscar has an orange heart sticker on the side of his face and crayon marks on his elbow. and oscar’s holding a deadly serious conversation with a four year old about the colour choice to paint this little boxy toy car they’ve found, one of mika’s old models (“purple is very good. but orange is very nice also. fun colour.”)

and maybe lando’s heart melts a little bit and he gets a funny feeling in his stomach and he’s like oh my god was that the yoghurt pot from this morning am i lactose intolerant now or is it something else ha ha ha surely not, but like, yeah—

[scoutsbabygirl]

I would like to see headcanons from you about how your favorite mercenaries realize that they fall in love with the reader :333

🎷🐛

my first request! hi my little meow meow! i wrote for all the mercs bc why not?! fluff below the cut! also written in headcannon form! idk how to write for soldier (i just don't see the appeal)

scout:

-why did ms. pauling have to be lesbian???

-when you came along he was immediately drawn to you, maybe it was because you were new and young

-he's way too cocky around you and acts like he doesn't care about you

-after a stern talking to by spy, jeremy decides to ask you out

-other than sports, jeremy loves to paint and draw and is surprisingly good at it. he asks you to make some art with him and of course he draws you

-this melts your heart and you've fallen for him. he's just waiting for the right time to confess and ask you to be his

soldier:

-man has zhanna

pyro:

-hearing you say "you're all good! no worries!" after he lights the hem of you shirt, almost burning you alive. he feels a spark...literally

-pyro slinks around you where ever you may be. in the kitchen baking? pyros throwing flour all over the kitchen. working out? pyros cheering you on. got some spare time? pyros got some crayons, colored pencils and a bunch of coloring books

-spending time with a masked man that the team fears has him drawn to you. the mercs warned you about him, you never felt intimated by pyro yet understood yet you could understand why he was treated differently

-if you're ever sad he will give you the best comfort. he's never shown himself to the mercs but once he sees you cry the mask is coming off and expect kisses to be planted over you

-its a very intimate moment and he just admits it then. he's never had anyone love him back, he's always been depicted as a monster.

heavy:

- won't approach you first. he waits for you to make a move. he knows his size is intimidating in itself and doesn't want to scare you away.

-he's a gentle giant. he's very careful with his words and movements. he's so paranoid that you'll view him as something he's not on the inside.

- one night you cooked with him and he told you all about his life back home, showed you photos of his sisters and taught you basic russian (assuming you don't know any already)

-if you speak russian he'll be over the moon or if you use the simple russian he's taught you he loves you just a little bit more. he adores your accent when you stumble over certain pronunciation. he knows you're the one for him

-when he decides to confess he handwrites you a long poem with an russian to english translation on two separate pages. after he signs his name he writes that he won't bring this up unless you do

-please don't break his heart. he's so sensitive

demo:

- when he confesses he's drunk as fuck. he doesn't even remember when you bring it up the next day.

-is so embarrassed. he's hungover and groggy. he plays it off by acting defensive. "i was just drunk! i meant nothing by it!"

-in the inside he's freaking out. he wanted to plan it out. it's only been 7 or 8 months since you've been at teufort but he fell so quick for you.

-3am outside pointing at the constellations, telling you about old celtic, scottish myths and folklore, shit talking the other mercs, and an accidental kiss on the lips he caught feeling for you right then and there.

- he's willing to give up scrumpy just to have you reciprocate the same feelings for him. 🤞

engineer:

-lord, he used so many pet names with you; "check this out, sweet pea", "you look beautiful, darling", "i made pancakes, you want any hon?"

-he knows his voice with a combination of his pet names do something to you. he loves when you call him those names back!

-compliment his cooking! bbq is his specialty! he'll gladly eat up anything you make. hungry boi :3

-he loves when you spend time with him in his workshop, working on his little metal trinkets warms his soul. he tries to teach you about the intricate parts of engineering. it's okay if you don't understand, he's more than willing to break it down for you and teach you a bite-sized version quantum mechanics

-friday night. a few beers in. a lot of work finished. "(y/n), i know i'm a bit older and dusty at the whole romance thing but" he pauses "you ain't seeing anyone right now, are you?"

medic:

-he either falls in love with you the second he lays his eyes on you or it takes many, many months for him to catch feelings for you. regardless, of how long the process takes his love for you becomes an obsession.

-you begin lingering around his office, inquiring about his tools and weapons. he finds it very interesting that you're not startled by him and his... unethical ways of "doctor assisted suicide"

-internal battles with his conscience. does he want to rip your organs out and shove them in the wrong places? he wants to slice your arteries one by one. yes, he wants to cut your jugular and see how much you bleed before dying. alas, he won't. you're too beautiful to be cut up into pieces. he doesn't want you to die by his hands, he doesn't know what he would do with himself.

-"guten morgen, wie gehts?!" has him weak. just a simple phrase you've rehearsed a few times. you though he would appreciate you taking time out of your day to learn his native tongue. he thinks this is your way of flirting with it (and perhaps it is).

-occasionally he'll call you into his office, not for a checkup by any means but rather just to chat (on company time). he removes the gloves and runs his hands over the scars on your face and neck. "schätzelein, i have been feeling some way for a while."

sniper:

-he is such a cunt. he's so rude and bitchy to you. his attitude causes you to avoid contact with mick at all costs and he avoids you like the plague. he spends a lot of time in his van anyways so staying away from you isn't too hard.

-seeing you hurt breaks his heart. he decides to visit you in medbay after your broke your arm. the baboo uterus experiment procedure wasn't finished by the time you got hurt. you notice how out of character it is but appreciate it regardless. he brings you a little necklace made with animal teeth (him making jewerly with animal bones is the most canon-noncanon headcanon.)

-after you get a cast you ask him to sign it. next to his name he writes a little heart. then scribbles it out. and draws a skull underneath it.

-butterflies in his stomach when he lays eyes on you. he hates that he's gotten feelings for you. you're his teammate, not his partner. not yet atleast. no? why is he thinking like this.

-it's obvious that mick is touch starved of attention, he want to be validated and appreciated. he's also getting shit from his teammates so when you begin to stand up for him and complimenting him he looses his mind.

"scout, you're being mean. no wonder you have no dad, i would leave too. " "he's not ugly at all. you're old and its evident enough in those wrinkles of yours."

-oh god. who knew a petite little thing like you could spit venom. he wants to tell you how he feels so badly but he doesn't want to loose you as a friend.

spy:

-he'll flirt with you before even developing feelings for you. always trying to court you, inviting you over at late hours. he just wants to get laid tbh.

-you're playing hard to get. it excites him a bit but he's much older now so if anything he's annoyed that you won't sleep with him. he tries being more romantic and pushes idea the idea of getting with you sexually and takes a different approach.

-smoking on his red velvet couch until the sun begins to rise, sharing cigs together. he has a small stash of weed (he stole it from scout) but coughs when he smokes it, earning a plethora of giggles from you. now he's smiling and laughing with you despite his lungs being filled with smoke.

-stacks of guy de maupassant on his table near the red couch, he reads the love poems to you and translates it to you. please snuggle up into his chest and try to read the french words yourself. your pronunciation is horrible and your accent is awful. you sound so cute yet so pathetic at the same time.

-he tries to keep his feelings hidden for as long as he can. of course, it slips out. he's stopped wearing the balaclava when around you (and only you, even his own son doesn't know what he truly looks like) so the bright red blush is evident on his face. he tries taking back what he said but there's no use as your already face first into his chest.

[nanamikentoseyebags]

how about a meet cute with Nanami at a bookstore? You're both reaching for the exact book at the same time and sparks fly as soon as your hands brush!!!

✧⁠*。just some tooth rotting fluff, gn!reader✧⁠*⁠。

The old bookstore, full of untold stories and an ineffable atmosphere of eternal learning, was located in the very center of the city in a historic building with quaint stained-glass windows and high ceilings, looking more like a long-forgotten university library. The rays of the sun, which was at its zenith, penetrated through the large windows and painted the walls and floor of the large room as if with multicolored crayons. There was a subtle, elusive smell of books, the smell of belonging to the mysteries hidden in them, the smell of antiquity. Slowly wandering along the long oak shelves, filled to the top with all kinds of books, you took a deep and slow breath, reveling in the smell of books, letting it into your heart, and then dived into the invisible depths of the store, ready for adventure.

Carefully, as if they were made of the finest crystal, you ran your fingers along the fancy spines of the thick folios, feeling the ornate patterns with your fingertips, noting the golden embossing, smiling when you saw familiar initials, the mere sight of which was enough to carry you far away to a bittersweet but oh-so-precious past. The books reminded you of your childhood, moments of carefree joy that now seemed so unattainable. You lifted your head to get a closer look at the binding of the book resting on the top shelf, which, shimmering all hues of gold in the sunlight, seemed to stand out from the rest of the books. You rose up on your toes, reaching for the cherished object, but suddenly, someone's warm palm covered yours, causing a myriad of goosebumps to scatter across your soft skin. You jerked your hand away in surprise and turned your head, only to meet soft, warm eyes the color of melted honey, slightly surprised, but so appealing.

A handsome face with prominent cheekbones showed nothing but slight confusion, mixed with a touch of embarrassment, which could be seen in the slightly pinkened cheeks of the young man. On the tip of his nose rested a pair of fine-rimmed round glasses. Your gaze shifted to his thin pinkish lips, and only then, noticing them moving, did you realize that the man standing before you had been saying something ingratiatingly for some time.

"I didn't mean to startle you," a velvet voice reached your ears, "I don't know how I didn't notice you, but please take the book, you were obviously the first to lay eyes on it." Slender, long fingers were already holding the spine of the cherished book, offering it to you.

You moved your eyes from the book, to his face, then repeated the motions again, as if enchanted by some unknown power, before touching such a desirable object with your hands, yet his fingers held the other end of the book as if forgetting to let go.

"You shouldn't have," you smiled softly, still somewhat impressed by the unexpected intruder to your peace, "you could have kept it, I was just curious to see what was on the cover."

His eyes rounded a little, either in surprise at the curiosity burning so brightly in your eyes, as it usually does in the eyes of little children eager to learn about this world that is so new to them, or at the sensation of the blush coming back to his cheeks just at the sound of your voice. "Now you'll have a chance to find out what's inside, too," he paused, "I'm Kento, by the way," another pause, "Do I have any chance of finding out what's inside it from you?" he smiled bashfully, not believing what he was saying, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from your eyes, which held something painfully familiar, something he recognized as his own. "You have all the chances in the world...Kento," you smiled radiantly, nodding your head, letting all your intrusive thoughts win.

The smell of aged paper intertwined in the air with the light scent of your perfume, reminded him of his youth, when he so passionately loved books, devoured them, reading story after story, getting inspired by new ideas and dreams, getting lost in another world so similar to ours, but one in which good always triumphed.

You stood there in silence, searching in each other's eyes for answers to the silent questions arising in your heads, hidden from the world by thousands and thousands of colorful covers, separated by decades, but so ridiculously close, linked by the tips of your fingers, still holding the shimmering in the sun tome of poems. The tome of poems, the last pages of which hid a small work about two lovers who met in an old bookstore, so similar to the long-forgotten university library, and happened to reach for the same book, which changed their lives by bringing them together.

a/n: ahhhh nikki, that was such a cool idea! i'm a sucker for some bookshop au, i loved it sm! hope you like it 🥺 thank you so much for sending in and for reading this lil piece 💛