#sorry. i am not normal about inking...

[eliotbaum]

If you could recommend any of Max Ulichney's brush packs for someone who's trying to achieve a similar amount of texture as the one in your art, which one would it be?

Hello! Funnily enough I don't actually use much of Max's brushes anymore, I could never quite the hang of them... I mostly use Joe's sets. Crunchy.

I do the get question about brushes a bunch though so I'll use this space to point out the eventual outcome can be quite different. The way you use brushes, the way you work, canvas size, pen pressure... it all makes a tremendous difference! Fun example below of my inks and my bestie's @vivtanner 's lines with the same brush.

Same goes for textured flatting/shading brushes ofc!

[somegrumpynerd]

More doodles of the new chapter of How Nightmare Became Dadmare by @topazshadowwolf please go read it

[letoasai]

Will work for food ~ part 2

Part 1 - Master list

Tim was anxious which wasn’t an emotion he often put into use. Even on a bad day he was calculating, overly prepared, and usually ran on caffeine. He was a young genius and a hell of a detective, but nerves probably didn’t care about his resume or personality quirks. 

He rubbed his thumb against the folded piece of paper kept hidden in his pocket. He’d examined it in the batcave but it held no clues of note. It was just a normal sheet of paper, and the ink could have been a pen from any local corner store. No DNA. No fingerprints. All the same, he kept it out of sight in public. 

Tim had been antsy about summoning Phantom, mostly because he felt like he was disrespectfully late. When he’d first laid eyes on the living form of the Ghost King, he’d felt a familiar ache. Neglect. He didn’t know if the king had neglected himself, or if the blame lay at someone else's feet, but he just couldn’t stand it. 

He’d offered food and company in an instant, the words popping out of his mouth before he could think them through. Despite that, he didn’t regret the offer. He could have done without the teasing from his siblings and teammates, but he didn’t regret the offer once. 

His only remorse was with the clean up efforts. The Infinite creature, Vortex, had left quite the destruction in his wake. Even with many extended members of the League assisting with clean up, it took ages. Search and rescues were active and humanitarian groups had arrived to offer aid but some things couldn’t be done in a weekend. 

The bats returning to Gotham didn’t offer much in the way of a break either. A Scarecrow outbreak with his fear toxin. Three different gangs in the middle of a turf war. A weapons smuggling ring being uncovered… It was one thing after another for a minute. 

When all was said and done it had been nearly two months before Tim had the opportunity to keep his promise. He was in his civvies, standing at the mouth of an alleyway across from a little italian place that looked cheap but was actually the best tasting, most authentic italian place in all of Gotham. Little hole in the wall places often were the best. 

The problem now was his ability to overthink things. Would he summon the king in a glow of green that would light up the street like a beacon? Would he arrive in his ghostly form, crown hovering above his hooded head? 

Phantom looked human enough but was he? Did he come from Earth originally? There were plenty of aliens that looked human. It would be rude to assume… 

What name did he use? Did he need to go full title? Why didn’t he ask more questions when he had the chance?

“King Phantom.” Tim muttered, deciding to just go for it. He still clutched the paper sigil out of sight. “Uh, Ghost King Phantom. King of the Infinite Realm. Um… Or was it High King…” 

“Just Phantom is fine.” 

Tim tensed, all of his hair standing on end at the voice directly behind him in the alley. He hadn’t made a sound but he needed to actively work to exhale and turn around to face his guest. There had been zero indication of his arrival, and he was thankfully, in his living form. 

He was in jeans and an over sized hoodie. Tim could just barely make out a faded NASA written in the front. That was a point in the direction of him possibly being a human from Earth. He wore shoes this time, beat up looking kicks that had seen better days. His hood was also drawn over his head, likely to hide his bony appearance. Tim did spy the tail of his braid over his shoulder though, his hair black to further prove he was in his living form. 

“You…scared the hell out of me.” Tim said, smiling after another hard exhale. “I am sorry it took so long, your Highness.” 

“Phantom.” He corrected, looking around the street and taking it all in. Tim could clock him making note of the turns down the street and the buildings with fire escapes even with his hood up. People just had certain body language when casing an area. “I figured it would be a while, if you summoned me at all. I was not going to hold you to a whim, Red Robin.” 

“I said i would…” Tim muttered. “Uh, it’s Tim, out of uniform. If you don’t mind.” 

“Tim.” He repeated. That softness to his voice remained, and honestly, Tim liked the cadence of it. He liked it as much as he was sure he never wanted to hear Phantom raise his voice. “I understand.” He hesitated only a beat. “You can call me Danny. Phantom is probably a silly thing to call someone in a city like this.” 

“Not if it’s your name.” 

“Danny is okay.” He said, and for whatever reason, Tim noticed now how he kept his hands in his pockets, likely to hide them too. Frail, skeletal looking hands would just frighten some people. “Food? For a favor?” 

“No favor involved. I invited you out.” Tim said. “I mean, maybe we can chat about stuff but you aren’t obligated to answer or anything.” 

Phantom…Danny nodded, shuffling for a moment and looking around again. The height of the buildings seemed to be a mild interest of his. “Where are we eating?” 

“Well, if you like Italian, we’re walking across the street.” He thought pasta and breads would be both filling and flavorful. It would also be something easily packed up for Danny to take with him. 

“I’ll eat anything.” Danny informed him. “I have no preferences after all this time.” He hesitated. “Or maybe i need to rediscover them, but anything will be fine.” 

“Let’s… let’s go then.” Tim said, walking with Danny at his side. He’d made a reservation which wasn’t strictly necessary at such a small place but it gave him the option of reserving a corner table to offer them a little more privacy. 

They walked in, the hostess greeting them with a smile before leading them to their table and leaving them with bread, water, and menus. There were a few other full tables but it wasn’t packed the way it would be in the evening. 

Danny kept his hood up, but it was Gotham and no one questioned the decision. They just left him in peace to not start a conflict with someone who wasn’t causing any trouble. He also kept his hands out of sight until the hostess had left. He sipped the water once and broke off only a little piece of the bread. He buttered it and ate on it while flipping open the menu. 

Tim didn’t know if he was reading the English or Italian parts of the menu but it didn’t matter. Being fluent in reading an Earth language was another check mark for this being his place of origin. 

“Can i…” Tim hummed, keeping in mind that he was speaking with royalty and act a little less like Bruce interrogating a suspect. “Can i ask a couple questions?” 

Danny looked up at him, Tim only barely able to make out some of his features passed the unnatural shadows his hood provided. “Sure.” 

Tim smiled, not even bothering with the menu since he knew what he was getting. “You’re the King of a realm, but was Earth your place of origin?” 

“Yes, but not this Earth.” 

Dimensions! Tim filed that away for later. “You can travel to any of them?” 

“Within reason. Yes. I’m old, but not that old yet. Only eight or nine decades.” He tore another small piece of bread to eat. Tim assumed he was pacing himself. “They call me a baby Ancient still.” 

“That’s cool…” Tim muttered. “Are there many other Earths?” 

“The answer to that would never satisfy you.” Danny said softly. “Trust me. I am the Ancient of Space and i’m hardly satisfied with it.” 

There was a new fact for Tim to latch on. “What’s the-” He stopped when the waitress appeared. Both of them ordered, and Tim was certain he’d end up ordering more halfway through the meal so Danny could take more home with him.  

When the menus were taken and the waitress left again, Tim continued. “What’s the difference between being an Ancient of Space and being the Ghost King.” 

“When i died, or half died, it was my fate to one day become the Ancient of Space. I am that regardless. I won the title of Ghost King.” 

Tim dragged a hand down his face. “That’s…. Endlessly fascinating. I have so many questions.” He didn’t even know how to touch ‘half died’ yet. 

Danny hummed once and fiddled with the end of his braid. “Do i get to ask questions too?” 

“Of course.” 

Danny leaned forward, sipping at his water again. “This Earth has super heroes. That’s interesting. Mine didn’t. How long have you been a hero?” 

Tim nodded, figuring that would be the direction the questions would have wandered towards. They were far enough away from everyone in the restaurant that he didn’t worry about being heard. The music playing in the background also helped a great deal. 

“Hero might be a debate depending on who you ask. In Gotham we’re considered vigilanties. I first suited up at thirteen but it was really more like fourteen after a great deal of training.” 

Danny was quiet for a moment. “And how old are you now? I have trouble telling ages these days…” 

“Eighteen.” Tim said. 

“Young.” Danny muttered. “I was young too. Fourteen when i became the bridge. Sixteen before i really understood what it meant.” 

“The bridge?” 

“Balance. The living and the dead.” 

Tim huffed softly. “You wear a lot of hats, don’t you?”  

Danny made a quiet noise, and it took Tim a beat longer than normal to realize he was laughing. “I do, i wish i didn’t most of the time. It’s fine though.” 

“Just fine?” Tim asked after a beat. He knew a little about expectations and high standards that could weigh you down–both his own standards and other peoples. 

Danny nodded, one of his hands resting on the other. “I’ve seen things. Good things. Bad things. Things that will never happen. Things that have. It’s better i have certain powers because i have no desire to use them.” 

Aah. Tim understood that. “People who want too much power are dangerous.” 

“Exactly.” 

“The power of ruling an entire realm…” 

“Exactly.” 

Tim heaved a sigh. “Damn.” Maybe he should ask something less intense. “Did you enjoy the food we gave you last time? It was just some fast food but there was some worry it wasn’t good enough.” 

“It was great.” Danny said and he sounded sincere. “Nostalgic. It took me a few days to eat all of it. I know the Infinite Realm’s reputation, and it is a warranted reputation, but i’m… hard to offend. Little things are just little things.” 

“I’ll put them at ease then.” 

Danny was quiet for a moment, the silence not an oppressive one. “What is the difference between a hero and a vigilante?” 

“How people perceive us, i guess. Superman will always be seen as a hero. Wholesome and valiant and all that. Things in Gotham are altogether… shadier. Being a vigilante isn’t exactly legal and while we have our boundaries, we break the law all the time.” Tim said. They covered their own tracks well but it was fortunate that no one looked too closely at their activities. 

It didn’t bother Tim when he knew his reasons were still good. 

Danny made a thoughtful kind of noise. “I’m willing to bet Superman’s business isn’t purely legal either. This seems like a nice Earth though, despite whatever troubles you have.” 

“Some hero work is sanctioned by the government so it’s a fine line. Any of it could be argued.” Tim explained, and that was something Danny seemed to find fascinating. 

They paused their conversation again when the waitress appeared with their food, and Tim put in a second order for them to take when they left. The eyes Tim could feel on him told him that Danny already knew what they were for. 

He could hear Danny softly inhale and exhale as he looked at the plate in front of him that came accompanied with salad. He likely wouldn’t be able to eat even a fraction of it but the way he looked at it…. made Tim realize that he could see Danny’s face more clearly. The shadows that obscured his face from his hood had receded. He was still gaunt, but he eyed the food with so much joy. 

The first bite of –non fast food– food nearly seemed to overwhelm him in a good way. 

“You know,” Tim swung hard to change subjects. “We can do a bit of a food tour every time i summon you for lunch. Pizza. Chinese. Barbeque. There’s a great taco truck. We could get something homemade.” 

“You cook?” 

“Haa. No.” Tim said seriously. “But Al… my grandpa is an amazing cook and he seemed to think trading food for world saving services was very sensible but he was appalled that we offered you cheap fries and burgers. He’d honestly love to cook for you.” 

Danny smiled, this shy little look that shouldn’t have fit someone with the title of Ghost King but it sure fit Danny. “That could be nice. Decent home cooked meals are kind of mythological to me.” 

Tim nodded once, and knew better than to ask directly. “I didn’t have a very cuddly upbringing either. There was a lot of take-out involved.” 

“Your food ever come back to life and try to eat you instead?” Danny asked and Tim just stared. 

“I can’t…tell if that’s a real question or if you’re messing with me.” 

Danny smiled and was that a hint of fangs? “Dead serious.” 

Time groaned. “No, no you are a king. You are not making puns.” 

“Thinking i’m too mature for puns is a grave mistake.” Danny said without hesitation. 

“Noo.” Tim groaned, lips upturned into a smile. His brothers could never know about this. Dick would start a pun off and Jason’s morbid sense of humor about his own death…. Ugh, it would be bad. 

It did bring up the interesting question of Danny’s age. He said he’d been alive for decades but how did he mature. Was he still a teenager? Did he age slowly? Asking not only sounded like a bad idea, but Raven and Zatanna had both made sure he knew it was a question to not ask. 

They chatted, they ate, or well, Tim ate. Danny ate a bite every few minutes and looked thrilled about it but he was slowing down. Tim was looking forward to Danny being able to eat more with every visit. 

He flagged down the waitress, gesturing for a box and got a thumbs up in return. 

“You can take it with you.” Tim said when Danny was giving him a look. “It might be a couple days before i can call you again and this way you’ll have enough to eat every day.” 

“I can’t deny that.” Danny said. “You don’t have to keep summoning me.”

“I promised you lunches.” Tim said firmly. “And you said it yourself, you should eat more and spend more time in a living realm. You may as well take advantage of being summoned for food.” 

“Hm…” Danny played with the end of his braid again. “You do make a compelling argument. It’s nice to talk to someone without it being preceded by a brawl.” 

Tim stared, “What?” 

Danny just looked amused. “I’ll explain to you etiquette in the Infinite Realm sometime.” 

“Yeah?” 

The waitress returned with boxes for Danny to pack up his meal and the empty dishes were whisked away to make more room on the table while they waited for their to-go orders. 

They were almost startled when a second waitress reappeared with a few little dishes before they could begin speaking again. Everything was set in the middle of the table, presumably for them to share. There was a piece of white peach tart, a bowl of strawberry gelato, and a slice of frozen chocolate chip meringata. 

“Um…” Tim blinked. “We didn’t-”

The waitress chuckled. “It was ordered for you by another patron. Please enjoy.” She set down another set of utensils for them and walked away. 

Danny made a small sound in his throat. “Well i was full but how could i say no to a couple more bites…” 

“Wait.” Tim said, gaze subtly shifting around the room. Maybe he was trained to be paranoid, but it usually served him well. What he found almost instantly had his eye twitching. 

Not even halfway across the room sat a poorly disgusted Dick wearing large sunglasses, a fedora, and the world's least convincing mustache. When he saw Tim looking and grinned and raised his own wine glass. 

“I gotta kill my brother…” 

Danny sputtered out a laugh, so genuinely amused that Tim could definitely see his fangs as he laughed.

“That would make him my problem.” Danny pointed out, reaching for a spoon to try the gelato first. 

“I’m not seeing your point.” Tim said, delighted by Danny’s teasing. It was a rookie mistake to think one of his siblings wouldn’t find out about this. An absolute blunder that he hadn’t noticed Dick walking in after them at all. He’d never live it down. 

“Guess i’ll have to be more careful next time.” He added. 

Danny hummed again and seemed to have a fondness for the cold dessert. “I could always invite you to my realm sometime.” 

“Cool.” Tim said instantly. Ha, let them try to follow him then…

[owlyjules]

I don’t know if anyone’s ever asked this before so I’m sorry if I missed it! But I was really curious about your general process? Do you do purely watercolor works or a mix of watercolor and then digital additions/edits? Of course only if you’re up to/willing to share! I’m trying to learn more in regards to watercolor and love your works so much!

I hope you have an amazing day!!

Hi!! Sorry it took me a moment!:D I am doing a bit of everything to be honest! I consider myself more of a mixed media artist! (Meaning different type of traditional and digital edits!) So some of my work is fully watercolor while other is mixed! For example, take this doodle of mine! Here's the freshly unadjusted scan:

Then with color adjustement to correct what my scanner washed out:

And then some light digital correction to make it a bit nicer!

For pieces like this, I normally work with a base of watercolors and inks on top of a colored pencil lineart.

Then I work in gouache and acrylic gouache for the part I want to "carve out" more. Then I finish everything with another layer of colored pencils on top to add more details and gradients, before scanning and touching up with digital. (sometimes I can go all out with digital edits and sometimes not at all! it depends on the piece!) For example here's one that was not retouched digitally at all beside correcting the washed out scan + watermark.

Hope this helps!:D

[magical-reid]

Unspoken Symphonies

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Autistic!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 900

Prompts: 1: “I just cant see myself ever living without you.” 

24: “I don’t care what others say, I want to be with you and that’s all that matters to me.” 

Summary: In the BAU bullpen, Spencer is captivated by your presence, his attention fixated on you as you effortlessly point out the small distractions around him, forging a quiet but intimate bond. Despite the team's skepticism about your unconventional relationship, Spencer defends the unique connection you share, realizing that understanding each other is more than enough to make it work.

WARNING(?): I really tried my best to appropriately portray an autistic reader, however, if anyone finds that I didn't handle this situation appropriately for whatever reason, or if anyone is uncomfortable with how I portrayed the autistic reader, let me know and I will take this down. If anyone would like to better inform me on how to better write for an autistic reader I will take any tips happily.

The bullpen hummed with the quiet murmur of the BAU. Keyboards clicked, files shuffled, and the faint aroma of coffee mingled with the scent of printer ink. Yet, for Spencer, the center of his universe wasn’t the case files scattered across his desk or the faint sound of Morgan’s teasing laughter in the distance. It was you—perched on the edge of his desk, legs swinging idly, your gaze fixed on the ceiling as you traced invisible patterns with your fingertips.

“Hey, genius,” you said softly, tilting your head to glance at him. “You’re staring.”

Spencer flushed, tearing his gaze away and pushing up his glasses. “Sorry, I just—your observations always fascinate me. What are you thinking about?”

“The light,” you said simply. “It’s flickering. Almost imperceptibly, but it’s distracting.” You pointed upward, your movements deliberate and precise. “Doesn’t that drive you crazy?”

He followed your finger, squinting at the offending fluorescent bulb. “Oh, now I can’t unsee it,” he said with a sheepish smile, leaning forward. “But no, it doesn’t bother me as much as it seems to bother you.”

“Lucky you.” You shrugged, lowering your hand. “It’s not just the light, though. The air conditioning vents are whistling again, and Morgan has been tapping his pen against his desk for the last five minutes.”

Spencer’s lips quirked into an affectionate smile. “And you’re still managing to sit here with me?”

“Of course.” You turned to him fully now, your tone earnest and direct. “Because you’re here.”

His heart swelled at the simplicity of your statement, but before he could respond, Emily approached, arms crossed and brow arched.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, her tone teasing but laced with curiosity.

Spencer straightened in his chair, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of a file. “No, not at all. We were just—”

“Talking,” you interjected, your voice level. “Is that not allowed?”

Emily blinked, slightly taken aback, before recovering with a grin. “Of course it is. Just don’t let Hotch catch you slacking, okay?”

You nodded, your expression neutral but your fingers drumming rhythmically against the desk. Once Emily walked away, you leaned closer to Spencer. “They think we’re weird, don’t they?”

Spencer hesitated. He wanted to deny it, to shield you from the judgments of others, but you were too perceptive for that. “They… don’t understand,” he admitted finally. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” Your voice softened, your eyes searching his. “It doesn’t bother you when they look at us like we’re… not normal?”

Spencer frowned, reaching out to brush his fingers against yours, an unspoken reassurance in the gesture. “Normal is subjective,” he said gently. “Besides, I don’t care what others say. I want to be with you, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Your gaze lingered on his, unblinking. The world around you seemed to fade—the whirring air conditioner, the tap of Morgan’s pen, the low hum of office chatter. It was just the two of you, cocooned in your own space.

“I just can’t see myself ever living without you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of absolute certainty.

The words hit Spencer with a force he hadn’t anticipated, stealing his breath and grounding him all at once. He tightened his grip on your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You won’t have to,” he promised.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

(Later That Evening)

The team’s skepticism had been a silent undercurrent for months now. Conversations would lull whenever you entered a room, and Spencer could feel the weight of their glances. But tonight, as the team gathered at Rossi’s for dinner, the unease was almost palpable.

“Spence,” JJ began cautiously, her tone gentle but probing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said, though he already suspected the question.

“It’s just… you and Y/N. You’re so different. Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly, “you seem happy. It’s just… it’s not what we expected.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, his voice calm but tinged with defensiveness.

JJ hesitated, searching for the right words. “I think we just don’t… understand your dynamic. You’re so—analytical. And Y/N is so—”

“Direct?” Spencer supplied. “Blunt? Honest? Those aren’t bad things, JJ. They’re part of why I love them.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” JJ said quickly. “It’s just… different.”

Spencer leaned back, his expression softening as he glanced across the room to where you were chatting with Rossi about a book you’d both recently read. “Different doesn’t mean wrong. We might not fit into the conventional mold, but we understand each other. That’s more than enough for me.”

JJ smiled faintly, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “Fair enough.”

As the evening wore on, the team began to see it—how you instinctively leaned closer when Spencer rambled, grounding him with a single touch. How he adjusted his pace to match yours, always attuned to your needs. And how, despite their initial doubts, it was clear that you and Spencer had created a language all your own.

In the quiet moments, you and Spencer didn’t need words. The world didn’t have to understand your connection, because the two of you had already found something far more valuable—a love that fit, in all its imperfect perfection.

[pastelaspirations]

Reblogging 'cus they're my favorite pair of sillies too and I have a perfectly normal and healthy attachment to them-

Can you guys tell I have a favorite pair of sillies yet . . .

[loves1ckmoth]

NEW TATTOO

Non-WLF!Abby x Reader

Warnings ♡: fem reader, they tease and argue in the beginning, reader has an attitude, they cuddle at the end, reader gives Abby a stick and poke, Abby gets her dad's birthday and name tattooed, my babies

Word count ♡: 1169 (heh)

Your day had been long, and with the storm outside, you were sure the night would be even longer. Abby sat beside you like she always did before bed. Tonight, she was sorting through everything you had gathered from the town you ran across today. She frowns as she takes out a plastic bag of ballpoint pens.

“Did you need to grab these?” She grumbles, inspecting them. “Of course I did! How else am I supposed to cover your arms with tattoos?” You say jokingly, but the way she eyes you tells you that she does not take it as such. “How the hell would you tattoo me with these? Don’t they use a different ink? And a whole gun?”

You roll your eyes and snatch the bag from her, pulling one out. “You take out all the ink from these and put it into something. I like to use those old bottle caps from sodas. Then, you take a needle or something of the sort and stab a pattern onto yourself.

She looks disturbed, shooting you a weird look. “That doesn’t sound right at all. Isn’t there ink poisoning and infections from the needles? I wouldn’t trust you within five feet of me if you were going to do that.”

You groan, leaning over and falling into her lap. You press the back of your hand to your forehead, whimpering in faux pain. “You wound me… Implying I would hurt you… You’re so awful to me.” Once you’re finished whining, you peek up at her to see her reaction. She’s not amused.

“Are you quite done?” She says snarkily, and you sit up. You roll your eyes and she wants to smack you upside the head for your attitude, but the way your mouth quirks up and she can see your smile lines after teasing her makes it bearable. “Why can’t you be fun? I’d only do something simple. I’ve done it to myself before and I turned out fine.” She raises a brow and looks you over as if to say, ‘Did you?’ “I did, dammit!” You shout.

She finally grins, grabbing her stomach as she starts to laugh. It stuns you. All you can do is watch and stare. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and her nose scrunches. Her hair flies over her shoulder as she leans back. Was it that funny? As her laughter dies down to soft heaves and she rubs tears from her eyes, she looks back at your starstruck expression.

“‘M sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stop. I shouldn’t laugh at you.” She says as she finally manages to recuperate. You frown finally, leaning back against the wall and studying the pen that’s still in your hands. “So you won’t let me do it?” You ask softly. She leans back with you, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m just wary. I don’t want to get sick or hurt from it. But where would you put it? What would you put?” You also take a moment to think before tilting your head to face her. You like it when it’s quiet like this. Despite your fear of the storm taking down the house you’re staying in, you like the way her nose looks against the dark, rainy window. You wanna reach out and touch it? It’s not like it’s normal for you to poke her randomly but this time would feel too intimate.

“I’d like to put something on your arms. They’re so big and bulky and empty. I don’t want to do your stomach, That hurts a lot more. As for what… I’m not sure.” She hums quietly, messing with her arms as your gaze drops down to them. They might be your favorite part of her. The way they’re so huge, the way the muscles underneath ripple when she chops them, the way they feel around your neck and you start getting lightheaded… Yeah. You like it all.

“Do you have any quotes from books you like? Or maybe a name or a date?” You ask softly. A strange haze drops over her eyes and her brows furrow. She looks concentrated. “A date and a name. On my arm. Would you do that?” Even if you weren’t over the moon about doing it, you know you wouldn’t be able to tell her no. Not when that familiar mournful look takes control of her face.

“Of course, I would. Is it him and his birthday?” She nods solemnly. You don’t need to say his name. You both know. You’re sure if you said her dad's name aloud she’d finally break down in front of you. Out of all the walls she erected, most have fallen except that one. You want to see her finally surrender it all into your hands, but you’ll wait patiently for it. It feels better like that.

“I saw a soda bottle outside earlier. I’ll clean it up in the rain. You can use that spare needle from the sewing kit in my pack.” She says as she gets up and you’re quick to follow orders. Her bag is a maze to navigate and it frustrates you every time you have to look in it. You’re convinced only she can navigate it.

Once she’s back with the bottle, you’ve managed to find the needle. She sits in front of you as you get the ink from the pens into the cap. She rolls up her sleeve for you and places it in your lap. You gently draw out the date and her father's name with one of the pens that’s still intact.

You hum quietly, offering a gentle hand as you get to work on her. She likes the way your brows furrow as you concentrate and watching you stick out your tongue manages to distract her from your arm. It begins to come out nicely and she’s pleasantly surprised.

You pull back after a while and stretch, your body trembling. She bites the inside of her cheek as your shirt rides up, barely constraining herself from grabbing your midriff. “You done?” She asks quietly. When you nod, she takes her half-asleep arm off your lap and looks it over.

You study her face, waiting for a response. “Is it any good?” She huffs, barely holding back tears. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” You smile brightly, incredibly proud of your work. You clean up the space as a bright flash floods the house. She holds up a finger to silence you as she counts the time until the thunder comes, making the house shake. She sighs in relief once it passes. “It’s a ways away. We’ll be fine for the night.”

She moves with you now, helping set up a pallet on the floor next to the dying fire. Once it’s all laid out, she grabs you by the hip and pulls you into her. “Lay down and rest. Let me help you sleep.” You let out a soft breath and melt into her, finally collapsing for the night.

Hi everyone!! Back with Abby again because I missed her ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა ♡♡ reblogs and likes are the most appreciated ♡

[calliesmemes]

EVEN MORE ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED COMEDIC RELIEF

ASSORTED SENTENCE STARTERS FROM AROUND THE INTERNET, including quotes from Tumblr, Pinterest, TikTok, and X (formerly known as Twitter), for when a muse wants to lighten up the situation at hand.

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

“   It’s sea shanty time once again my fellow bastards of the ocean! ”

“   Partner, I reckon that I ain’t been feeling very yeehaw lately. ”

“   I don’t study; I consult the lore. ”

“   Yeah, I understand women — they all want daggers and swords. It’s all quite simple, really. ”

“   Lord forgive me but I may have to make a nonessential purchase. ”

“   Those are bold words for someone in stabbing range. ”

“   Yes I’m a gatekeeper and a hater. I’m also God’s most favorite princess and the most interesting girl in the world. ”

“   My primary motivations are fear, spite, and aesthetic longing. ”

“   Man — if I had a sword, I wouldn’t be worried about shit. ”

“   It’s not blood that runs through these veins but glitter gel pen ink. ”

“   If I was in a Jane Austen novel, I would be the one sent to the seaside for my health. ”

“   Half of me is a hopeless romantic, and the other half of me is … well … an asshole. ”

“   I am the nicest, sweetest, most rage-filled person I know. ”

“   I hope I give off the vibe to all animals that I am their ally and their friend. ”

“   I see you’re paying attention to someone who is not me. Why is that? ”

“   Normalize letting me talk without making any sense. ”

“   Don’t care, didn’t ask, plus my psychic visions have predicted the outcome of this encounter. ”

“   I could be so much worse. For example, I could start acting like my father. ”

“   Sorry for acting so strange and irregular; It will happen again. ”

“   i love sitting in my room.....alone....a girl in her cave....scheming and plotting and drinking tea. ”

“   These man made horrors are beyond YOUR comprehension. I get it though. ”

“   I’m a goth girl on the inside. On the outside? A father figure. ”

“   I don’t need to face reality; I’m not just that type of girl. ”

“   DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A frickle-frackle? ”

“   I’m about to cha cha real smooth off a fucking cliff. ”

“   Sorry I told you about my trauma. Do you still think I’m hot? ”

“   My priorities aren’t straight and neither am I. ”

“   I have felt permanently guilty for no reason since I was like eight years old. ”

“   Of course I have a lot of pent up rage, you fool! I’ve been the same height since I was twelve years old! ”

“   I was born for shock value. ”

“   Good morning! God has let me live another day and I’m about to make it everyone’s problem. ”

“   Oh, I slept miserably because I was tormented by terrible visions all night. I hope none of them were prophetic! ”

“   Be the surreal nonsense that you want to see in the world. ”

“   Being smart has never stopped me from being a complete fucking idiot. ”

“   My hobbies include knowing things and being right. ”

“   This is good advice, but don’t tell me what to do. ”

“   I hate the idea of authority. What the fuck is someone being superior to me? Bitch I’m gonna take your kneecaps. ”

“   Stop forgiving my crimes! I worked so hard on those! ”

“   My hobbies? Uhhhh, symbolism mostly. Metaphors and implications and the like. ”

“   I may not have any braincells, but I make up for it by having many heart cells. ”

“   I can’t mansplain manipulate manwhore my way out of this one guys! ”

“   Not all your life decisions have to be smart. Some can be purely for cinematic value. ”

“   Sometimes I wish I looked more fragile and feminine like a dainty flower, but I do enjoy looking like I hate everyone. ”

“   Any dream can be a prophetic dream if you’re willing to do some really weird shit. ”

“   girl help there is not enough enrichment in my enclosure. ”

“   BRO, you NEED to stop SUMMONING DEMONS in the FRAT HOUSE. ”

“   I just gave your address to some spiders! ”

“   I disappoint my father as a hobby now. ”

“   I think that the dark circles under my eyes add to my aesthetic actually. ”

“   Good news! I’ve successfully replaced all of my emotions with jokes! ”

“   I have half a braincell left and I’m very scared to use it! ”

“   Listen, son — in this world, it’s either yeet or be yeeted. ”

“   I appreciate the advice, but I think that I’m old enough to make my own bad decisions. ”

“   I’m disappointed in me too. Y’all aren’t special. ”

“   Running from your demons is the best exercise! ”

“   Sorry; I can’t commit any crimes with you. My mom says that I have to study. ”

“   Time flies when you don’t know what the fuck is going on. ”

“   If I run out of tacos, I can no longer maintain my human form. ”

“   Bestie, I don’t think that I can girlboss under these conditions. ”

“   Yeah I’ve had combat training; I can do anxiety attacks! ”

“   Swag is earned, not learned. ”

“   Contrary to popular belief, violence solves a lot. ”

“   I CANNOT STAND YOU ALL so I will SIT DOWN. ”

“   Please God no … I don’t need any more character development right now! ”

“   If you can’t beat ‘em, yeet ‘em. ”

“   Do not put me in a situation. I’m at my limit and I am very tired. ”

“   I may be depressed, but at least I’m not basic. ”

“   It’s MY LIFE and I’ll sabotage it myself, thank you. ”

“   Think twice? Bold of you to assume that I think once. ”

“   At the next inconvenience, I will start biting people. ”

“   Oops I think that I just experienced an emotion. ”

“   Did you know that rats spelled backwards is star? ”

“   One day, I’ll be reincarnated as a pigeon, and I’ll shit on your head. ”

“   On the outside, I’m a baddie — but on the inside, I’m a saddie. ”

“   My grandma bullies me through the Ouija board. ”

“   I’m a cool person if you can just look past my personality. ”

“   Beetles don’t have to do taxes, and I think that is a beautiful way to live. ”

“   I hope that you get your character development arc soon. ”

“   Those are some nice kneecaps … It’d be a shame if someone stole them … ”

“   I’ve wanted to be a trophy wife ever since I was a little boy. ”

“   I’m done being baby; I want POWER ”

“   Wait, “Just Standing There Ominously” doesn’t count as socializing? ”

“   Yes I am smart, and yes, I am stupid. It’s called being flexible. ”

“   I am NOT delusional!!!!! I am OPTIMISTIC! ”

“   I deserve compensation for not being the menace to society that i could be, like i'm skipping out on a lot of fun here. ”

“   Do not ask me if you should or shouldn't do something !!! Before I am a friend I am an enabler !!! ”

“   i am the WORLDS PRETTYIST PINK PRINCESS and im gonna KILL YOU WITH MY HUGE FUCKING HAMMER ”

[2b4st4r]

Hello! I noticed your requests are open! May you please do a fic of woman reader x Thatch. Established relationship. I'd love to see a fic where the reader is going through horrible stress from work as an office worker and has started to act different because of it. They're grumpy and snappy but not disrespectful. They feel guilty for how they've acted towards their sweet partner and go cry in the bedroom instead of sleeping like they said they would. Thatch notices an instantly goes into Papa bear mode and comforts the shit out of her with praises and teases to get her to laugh and when that doesn't work some sweet or mean (I'll let you pick hehe) comforting tickles would do the trick then a fat nap would ensue for both of them as the air feels lighter and things are back to normal. I love that man! I feel like he'd be the sweetest yet most teasing boyfriend/husband ever.

The Secretary Storm 

Thatch x Reader

Words: 2,819

Warnings: emotional breakdown, verbal outburst, relationship conflict, and use of y/n. 

Sorry if I did him wrong!!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The tremor started subtly, a familiar vibration in the Moby Dick's sturdy hull that usually meant Whitebeard was simply shifting in his sleep. But lately, those tremors had escalated, morphing into full-blown quakes that rattled your teeth and sent ink bottles dancing across your desk. Being the Whitebeard Pirates' secretary for three years meant you were no stranger to chaos, but this past month had been a maelstrom of paperwork, emergency meetings, and frantic attempts to keep the ship, and its crew, from capsizing under the weight of Whitebeard's increasingly erratic behavior.

"Another one, huh?" Thatch's warm voice cut through the din, and you felt his gentle hands on your shoulders, kneading away some of the tension that had practically become a permanent fixture in your muscles. You leaned back, a sigh escaping your lips as his scent, a comforting mix of spices and something uniquely him, enveloped you. "Rough day at the office, sweetheart?"

You managed a weak chuckle, the vibrations from Whitebeard's latest outburst still humming in the air. "Rough month, more like. He almost took out the crow's nest this morning trying to scratch an itch." You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his touch for a moment. Thatch, your sweet Thatch, had been your anchor through it all. He was always there, a steady, comforting presence, offering a soothing word, a warm embrace, or a perfectly timed joke to ease the relentless pressure.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. His smile was soft, understanding, and in it, you saw a promise of calm amidst the storm. But even his unwavering support couldn't fully alleviate the gnawing worry in your gut. Whitebeard, your beloved Pops, was going through something truly "crazy," as the crew whispered. And as his secretary, it was your job to keep the ship afloat, even when its captain threatened to sink it with a single, massive sneeze.

You reached up, threading your fingers into Thatch's soft hair, and pulled him down for a quick, firm kiss. "I've got to go," you murmured against his lips, "I'll see you later."

He squeezed your shoulders one last time. "You got this, sweets. And I've got to get to the galley anyway. The crew's stomachs are probably rumbling loud enough to compete with Pops right about now."

A Day in the Life of a Whitebeard Pirates' Secretary

The ship's clock had barely chimed 9:00 AM, and already your day was a spiraling descent into bureaucratic hell.

You were in the main deck, trying to mediate a shouting match between Jozu and Vista over who got the last takoyaki from breakfast. Suddenly, the ship lurched violently. Whitebeard, in his infinite "wisdom," had decided to use his Devil Fruit ability to scratch an itch on his back against a passing iceberg. The resulting shockwave sent Jozu's diamonds clattering and Vista's sword skittering across the deck. "Pops!" you’d yelled, exasperated, but he was already drifting off, oblivious to the chaos he’d wrought.

Next, you were wrestling with a stack of supply requisitions, trying to decipher a scribbled note from Haruta about "more sparkly things" and "less… well, less boring stuff." Just as you thought you'd finally made sense of it, a loud clang echoed from above. You rushed to the deck to find Fossa, looking sheepish, next to a smoldering hole where the main mast's flag should have been. "Accidentally ignited it," he mumbled, gesturing vaguely with his flaming elbow. So much for the new Whitebeard jolly roger.

The afternoon brought its own special brand of torment. You were in the medical bay, attempting to organize Marco’s ncredibly… enthusiastic medical supplies, which seemed to consist mostly of brightly colored potions and giant mushrooms. Suddenly, the door burst open and a frantic crewmate dragged in another, covered head to toe in what looked suspiciously like melted caramel. "Thatch’s new dessert experiment went… sideways," he gasped. You stared at the sticky mess, then at the mountain of paperwork on your desk, and felt a vein throb in your temple.

Later, you were back in your office, trying to update the ship's log when the tremors began again, stronger this time. Your inkwell tipped, spilling black liquid across the freshly written page about the ship's dwindling cola supply. Then, the entire desk rattled, and a small, porcelain teacup, a gift from Izo, slid off the edge and shattered on the floor. You stared at the broken pieces, the black ink spreading, and felt a scream building in your chest.

The final straw came as dusk settled. You were attempting to file away some crucial navigation charts when you heard a series of loud thumps from the deck. Rushing out, you found Marco trying to reattach one of the Moby Dick's giant figurehead whales, which Whitebeard, in a moment of playful exuberance, had apparently tried to "teach to fly." The sight of the half-dismantled figurehead, coupled with the sheer exhaustion of the day, finally broke your composure. You just stood there, hands on your hips, staring at the chaos, a long, drawn-out groan escaping your lips.

Everywhere you turned, there was another problem, another task to add to the ever-growing pile, another consequence of Whitebeard's unpredictable moods. You couldn't even remember the last time you'd had a moment of true peace. How were you ever going to get everything done?

You were a coiled spring of raw nerves, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Every attempt to salvage the day had backfired spectacularly, leaving you with nothing but a headache and a lingering scent of burned pirate flag. Your grumpiness had reached legendary proportions, even for you.

Later that night, nestled in the familiar comfort of your shared bunk, Thatch was recounting his day. His voice, usually so boisterous, was a soft murmur in the dim light, weaving a tale of a particularly stubborn batch of sea king calamari and a minor explosion in the galley. He chuckled, reaching for your hand, but his words trailed off as he realized you hadn't spoken a single word in response. Your jaw was clenched so tight your teeth ached.

He slipped off the bed, rounding to your side, and gently pulled you into his arms from behind. You tensed, bracing yourself for… you weren't even sure what. His lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, and a shiver ran through you, despite your irritation. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

You just grumbled, a low, guttural sound that was more animal than human. You didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to relive the parade of calamities that had been your day.

But Thatch, bless his persistent soul, wouldn't let up. He leaned over your shoulder, pecking your cheek, then your temple, then your neck again. "Come on, my grumpy little secretary," he cajoled, his voice a playful tease. "Tell your, ‘huzz’ as the kids say, what's got you all tied up in knots." He gave a final, gentle kiss to your hair. "Spill it."

You couldn't hold it in anymore. The day's relentless tide of frustrations, the constant struggle against Whitebeard's unwitting destruction, and the sheer exhaustion of it all finally reached a crescendo. The pressure under your skin, the hot, eager anger simmering just above boiling point, demanded release.

"It's everything!" you yelled, the words tearing from your throat, sharp and ragged. You twisted in his arms, facing him now, your eyes probably blazing. "It's the flag burning, and the figurehead trying to fly, and the spilled ink, and the endless tremors, and the fact that I can't get one single thing done without something else going catastrophically wrong!" You gestured wildly around the room, as if the very air was complicit in your torment. "He's going crazy, Thatch! And I'm the one picking up the pieces, all day, every day, until I feel like I'm going to snap in half!"

It wasn't aimed at him, not really. It was the accumulated fury of a hundred tiny aggravations, the raw edge of a nerve stretched too thin, finally fraying and breaking. The words hung in the air, thick with your barely contained rage, leaving you panting slightly, the sudden silence almost deafening after your outburst.

The words hung in the air, a raw, ugly sound that had ripped from your throat. The second they were out, a wave of regret washed over you, cold and immediate. Thatch's hands, which had been so comforting around your waist, slowly, carefully, dropped away. His expression shifted, the playful teasing melting into a soft, almost worried look that twisted your gut.

You took a hefty, shuddering breath, your chest tight. Tears welled in your eyes, stinging, but you stubbornly held them back. You wouldn't cry. Not now. Not after that.

"I... I'm going to sleep in my own room tonight," you mumbled, the words barely a whisper. It was an old habit, one you hadn't indulged in nearly a year, not since you’d fully moved into his bunk after your marriage. Without another glance, you turned and walked out of what was now, truly, his room.

"Y/N, wait—" His voice, quiet and concerned, was cut off by the soft click of the door as you shut it behind you.

You reached your own room, a space you hadn't truly inhabited in months, the silence a stark contrast to the familiar sounds of Thatch's soft breathing and shifting beside you. The click of the door latch felt definitive, a final punctuation mark on the awful, exasperating day. The tears you'd been fighting all day finally broke free, a hot, stinging stream that blurred your vision and traced salty paths down your cheeks.

You stumbled toward the bed, the familiar mattress feeling foreign beneath you. Every muscle in your body screamed with exhaustion, a deep, bone-weary fatigue that no amount of sleep seemed to alleviate. You buried your face in the pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that wracked your body, but it was no use. The dam had broken.

Guilt, sharp and agonizing, twisted in your gut. You hadn't meant to yell at him. Not like that. Thatch, sweet, understanding Thatch, who had spent the entire day trying to soothe your frayed nerves, had only offered comfort and you had repaid him with a torrent of your own frustrations. His worried face, the gentle drop of his hands – it replayed in your mind, twisting the knife of regret deeper.

The stress, the relentless, suffocating stress, was a physical weight on your chest, making it hard to breathe. Whitebeard’s unpredictable outbursts, the endless paperwork, the constant sense of being on the brink of disaster—it was all too much. Every small, annoying incident from the day resurfaced, each one a fresh spark igniting the embers of your self-recrimination. You were drowning, and you had just pushed away the one person who always tried to pull you back to the surface. The tears flowed harder, a raw, uncontrollable release of everything you'd been holding in, wishing desperately you could rewind the last five minutes and just apologize.

Nearly twenty minutes later, your sobs began to quiet, leaving you with a raw throat and aching eyes. The storm had passed, leaving only a heavy calm in its wake. That's when a soft knock sounded from outside your door. You tensed, your breath catching in your throat, not daring to hope.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing no one other than Thatch. He stood framed in the doorway, a soft, understanding smile on his lips, a stark contrast to the worried look he'd worn earlier. He wasn't angry, not even distant. He was just... Thatch.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he murmured, his voice a gentle balm to your frayed nerves. He walked slowly towards the bed, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor. "Figured you might be feeling a bit better now. It’s okay, you know." He sat on the edge of the mattress, not too close, not too far. "It's okay to feel overwhelmed. And it's definitely okay to tell me when things are getting too much. You don't have to carry it all by yourself, Y/N."

He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently stroking your hair. "We're a team, remember? Always."

At his words, at his gentle touch, the dam that had briefly held back your tears broke once more. Fresh sobs wracked your body, sharper now with the added sting of guilt. You didn't deserve him, not after how you'd just acted.

You buried your face in your hands, the shame burning hot behind your eyelids. "I'm so sorry," you choked out, the words muffled, tasting of salt and regret. "I didn't mean to yell. I didn't mean any of it. I just... I was so angry, and it all just came out, and you don't deserve that. You never do."

Thatch didn't hesitate. He shifted closer, pulling your hands away from your face with a tenderness that only made you sob harder. He gathered you into his arms, holding you close against his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a grounding presence amidst your turmoil.

"Shh, hey," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble against your ear. His hand stroked soothing circles on your back. "It's okay, Y/N. It's really okay. I know you didn't mean it. You were overwhelmed, sweetheart, and you're allowed to be angry when things are tough." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze unwavering, full of warmth and understanding. "You're allowed to be human. And I'm here for all of it. The good, the bad, and the 'wanting to punch an iceberg' moments." He gave a soft, reassuring squeeze. "You never have to apologize for feeling things. Not to me."

Your body still convulsed with quiet sobs, your hands instinctively rising to cover your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds. You hated being this vulnerable, this broken.

"Hey, hey," Thatch murmured, his voice a low, soothing hum against your ear. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay." He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

Slowly, his comforting presence began to work its magic. The desperate jerking of your body lessened, your breathing evening out into shaky gulps of air. His fingers traced gentle, repetitive patterns on your back, a silent promise of comfort. After a few minutes, the raw intensity of your emotions began to recede, leaving behind only the dull ache of exhaustion. You pulled your hands down, revealing eyes that were raw and bloodshot, but no longer streaming tears.

Thatch's thumb gently wiped away a stray tear from your cheek. "Feeling a little lighter now?" he asked softly, his gaze tender and unwavering. "Ready to talk about it, or do you just want to pretend today never happened?"

You just looked at him, your red-rimmed eyes wide, before a small pout formed on your lips and you covered your face again. The lingering embarrassment was still too much.

Thatch chuckled softly, a warm, melodic sound that always managed to soothe you. "Aw, come on now, don't hide that pretty face," he teased gently, his voice laced with affection. "You know, for someone who spent the entire day fighting off an emotional hurricane, you're looking pretty impressive right now. And honestly? Watching you go full 'boss mode' on a rogue iceberg is pretty hot." He paused, letting that sink in, then added, "Plus, you successfully wrangled Jozu and Vista, which I'm pretty sure is a feat even Whitebeard himself struggles with. You're a miracle worker, Y/N."

When you still didn't respond, though a small smile was trying to fight its way onto your face, Thatch's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Alright, if praise won't work..."

Before you could react, his fingers were wiggling, then darting to your sides, tickling you mercilessly. You shrieked, a mix of surprise and laughter bubbling up, twisting away from him as genuine giggles finally escaped your lips.

You shrieked and giggled, twisting away from his relentless fingers. Your laughter, a sound that had felt entirely alien just moments before, bubbled up freely. You gasped for breath, tears of mirth now streaming down your face, entirely replacing the tears of sorrow.

Thatch finally relented, pulling his hands back with a triumphant grin. "I knew that'd work," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. He then gathered you gently into his arms, pulling you close against his chest. Your body, still weak from crying and laughter, melted into his warmth. He held you tightly, his presence a solid, comforting anchor in the stormy sea of your day. You buried your face in his shoulder, feeling the last vestiges of stress and anger finally drain away, replaced by the profound, comforting knowledge that you were safe, loved, and exactly where you belonged.

[salmonskinrolltf]

Emilio Bedilio

[Author’s Note: Proof of life! I can’t say I’ll be back to writing consistently any time soon, but I’m really trying to master short stories that are ACTUALLY short, because that would help me at least dip my toe into TF writing more often. So here’s my attempt to do that. Of course it’s over 2,000 words. Oops. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!]

I am Emilio Bedilio, the genie of the- sweet Agamemnon, this man is beautiful!

Sorry, I got sidtracked. I am Emilio Bedilio, the genie of the lamp. That lamp over there. The one that just got rubbed by this hunk. It looks a little dented and tarnished, sure, but it’s home. I’ve lived there a long time. Such a very long time. So long, in fact, that my English is a little rusty. It’s not my fault! I speak 16,000 languages, after all, and English is one of the newer ones.

Last time I was out, a guy wished to be the hottest person at his school, so I changed his internal temperature to 99.7 degrees Fahrenheit. He wasn’t too happy with me. But I thought I was giving him what he wanted! So that’s why I reeeeeeeally need to pay attention to what Aaron wants. That’s this guy’s name, by the way. My powers give me access to so much more information than you mortals could ever process. Anyway, stop distracting me! I’ll let Aaron tell the rest of the story, so I can focus.

——————————————

Holy shit! There really was a genie in that lamp I bought at the flea market that Stacy dragged me to! I didn’t even rub it. I was just heading back from the dorm shower and brushed it with my towel, then this huge purple plume of smoke came out, clarifying into a floating man with a huge mustache. The genie of the lamp, apparently. He says I only get one wish, which seems like a ripoff, but who am I to complain? Genies are fucking real, man!

I don’t need much time to choose my wish. I already look like.. well, like this. I’ve already got the best, hottest girlfriend in the world. And the coolest friends. All I need is some cash, so I can ditch this shitty dorm and move into that swanky off-campus apartment I’ve had my eye on. And live a comfortable life down the road and shit. Anyway, it takes me like three seconds before I say, “I wish I was the richest person in town!”

The genie sits there for like a full minute and a half. Did he not hear me? But then all of a sudden he snaps his fingers and dissolves back into smoke, which gets sucked back into the lamp. I feel a rush of energy sweep over me and my body begins to tingle. Weird. I kinda just figured my wallet would feel heavier or something, but maybe being rich would fundamentally change how I look in some way. Nicer teeth or whatever.

I look over to the warped full-length mirror on the closet door. I pull back my lips and inspect my teeth. Nope, nothing. I glance down, making sure my dick is still the same size it always was. Yup. Weird…

Suddenly, I feel a chill on my solar plexus. A silver chain has appeared around my neck, and a ring that’s hanging on it is pressing into my skin. I inspect it. Does it have like… my new family crest? Nope. It looks like a pretty normal ring. I set it back down, but instead of the cold feeling returning, the skin on my chest suddenly feels boiling hot. I watch as dark ink begins to flow across my skin, seemingly emanating from the spot where the ring is touching me.

It forms a word in loopy script that I can’t read in the mirror, and I’m distracted when the burning sensation envelops my left arm and more tattoos emerge on my shoulder. A shark and a cross. My chest and arm hurt at first, but the feeling slowly fades, as does the ink, settling into a dark grey, like I got them done a few years ago.

I’m confused about what’s going on. But haven’t I always said that if I won the lottery, the first thing I’d do was get a tattoo? That probably explains why - ouch! My cheek is hurting now.

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. I watch in horror as another cross tattoo inks its way across my cheekbone, right where a gangster would have a teardrop tattoo. Fuck. I rub my face. Do these things come off? It looks so trashy. Why would I get that, even if I was rich? I- I feel- I feel… full.

My stomach is inflating, starting from the beltline, each row of abs disappearing one by one behind a layer of fat that forms a small but sturdy gut. All that hard work, gone in just a couple seconds. I want to cry. I rub at my new stomach, feeling its heft. I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet a bit. At least it’s not jiggling too much. It’s like… tight. I can fix this pretty easily I think, if I up my gym time over the next couple months.

I remove my hands from my stomach, leaving two handprints behind on my skin. The skin there looks darker than it was before. Redder, almost halfway between a sunburn and a tan. As I look, the color slowly spreads from my handprints across my entire stomach, speeding up as it races downward, turning my dick, legs, and feet the exact same human-lobster color. It goes upward too, spreading across my chest like I’m flushed, filling in the formerly ivory skin beneath my new tattoo, spreading up to my neck, my cheeks, my nose, my eyebrows, my forehead… Which I can suddenly see more of.

As the color rushes upward across my forehead, my still-damp bangs begin to retract, shrinking past my eyes until I can only see them in the mirror. They stop halfway up my forehead. Then, as if I’m watching a time-lapse video of someone using a hair dryer set on high, my hair frizzes out, going from sleek salon-cut bangs to a dry, unconditioned mess that looks like it was cut by a three-year-old with safety scissors.

But I don’t even have time to process any of this as the changes accelerate. My forehead is now fully brown-orange, and as the color reaches my hairline, it spreads to the roots of my hair, too, as they begin to fade from my standard brunette to a light auburn, the color rising to the ends of each strand like that time in grade school when we put food coloring in the water those roses were dipped in.

I turn my head to see that the new hair color is spreading on the back of my head too, but it doesn’t stop at the ends of the strands this time. As the auburn color reaches each tip, it just… keeps going. The strands lengthen and twist, forming cascading waves as the mass of frizzy, newly lightened hair extends to my neckline and cascades down to my shoulders. Some strands in the messy mullet - and that’s what it is now, a mullet - are even spilling out over my ears in their eagerness to bounce in every direction possible.

I shake my head, feeling the voluminous hair tickling against the back of my neck. It feels kind of… nice? But fuck no, I look like a tool. This definitely isn’t what I wished for. But… I shake my head a little more, enjoying the sensation. As I do so, my eyebrow color begins to fade to a lighter auburn, too. And… did one of them fall over my lips? No, a bristly mustache is beginning the form, the same color as the rest of my new hair. As it fluffs out over my lips - god, that’s going to get in my mouth when I eat - more scraggly hairs burst out from under my lip, forming a bristling soul patch that then spreads into a straw-colored goatee, reddening further as it spreads up my cheeks, my sideburns, and eventually connects to my hair. My… My mullet.

A few more straw-colored hairs burst forth in the center of my chest, though they don’t spread quite as thickly. They just seem to be… hanging out. Lazily, almost. Sparse. Prickly. Ruining my whole smooth aesthetic, not that I have the same musculature to highlight anymore. My pecs grow thicker, smoother, the tattoos tightening against my newly forming bulk. The same thing happens to my arms and legs. They don’t swell with fat, they just get… thick.

I rub my beard, feeling the prickly feeling against my sensitive palms and trying not to enjoy it. But I’ve always wanted to be the type of guy who could easily grow facial hair… Haven’t I? I must have tweaked my nose when I was doing that, because it looks shorter now. Rounder. My lips are thinning out, too. Fuck. No. The magic is still going. My face continues to shift. Eyebrows grow a little closer together. Skin gets a little drier. But then… everything settles. I poke at my new face and body, in awe of how different I look from the way I was just a few minutes earlier.

I stare at the mirror in trepidation, but nothing else seems to change. I think… it’s over? Thank goodness. I need to-

There’s a knock at the door. Suddenly I remember the reason I was showering in the first place. Stacy was coming over. Fuck! I can’t let her see me like this. Or… can I? Maybe she can help. And a growing part of me feels like I mostly look pretty good. But I should at least try to cover the gut. And the tats. Well, the ones I can cover. I can’t look so different that she won’t believe me. Maybe I can convince her that my drama kid roommate was testing out a wig and fake beard on me or something.

I go to grab a button-down from my dresser, but all I find in there is a vest with an American flag pattern. Shit, that won’t cover the tats at all. But at least it’ll hide the gut.

Pants. Need to find pants. I open the next drawer down, and of course all that’s in there is a pair of worn denim overalls. This will have to do. I slip the overalls on easily (it feels so natural), then turn toward the door and swing it open to reveal Stacy. She has her same dark black hair, bold red lips, and sultry look as usual.

She stares at me, jaw agape. “… Aaron?”

Thank fuck. She recognizes me. Maybe it’s the eyes. Maybe we really are in love. I’m so elated and grateful. I want to hug her, kiss her, nuzzle her neck. But I don’t do that.

As if on autopilot, I lean against the door, revealing a thick thatch of auburn armpit hair in the process. She wrinkles her nose. Do I smell? I just showered!

I try to act nonchalant and say “hey,” but my voice cracks. Is it higher than usual? More nasal? And is that a hint of a drawl I’m detecting? While trying to hear the sound of my own voice, I don’t even notice what I’m saying.

“Hey, darlin’. You look sweeter’n a spoonful of molasses. How ‘bout we get you out of them clothes?”

Stacy’s face falls. “What the fuck did you just say to me? We’re going to the movies, remember?”

I’m so embarrassed by what just came out of my mouth that I can’t even figure out what to say next. My mouth moves anyway, and I say, “I ain’t going to no chick flick. I’m a real man. Now get over here or get out.”

“What is WRONG with you?” she snaps. “And are these tattoos real?” She grabs my collar and widens it to read my chest. “RENECK? Is that supposed to say ‘redneck’? It’s not even spelled properly.”

I splutter, staring down at my chest. Is that what it says?

She gives me a long, hard stare. “You have nothing to say for yourself? You know what? I have finals next week. I can’t handle this right now.” And just like that, she turns around and storms out.

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck! What the hell is going on? I need to talk to that stupid-ass genie. I know he said I only get one wish, but the least he can do is reverse whatever the fuck he did. I rub the lamp, but nothing happens. I rub it again. Nothing. I knock, and the lid opens up a crack. Emilio’s voice emanates from within. “Your wish has been granted. What is it, Aaron?”

Exasperated, I ask “What did you do to me? I asked to be the richest man in town, not some redneck asshole.”

To my surprise, Emilio laughed, saying “Well, isn’t that funny? Now, I gave your request a lot of thought. It turns out the word “rich” means a lot of things in English, and I had trouble figuring out which you meant. But given the high concentration of men named “Rich” in your area, I assumed you were talking about exhibiting their qualities, but in a more concentrated way than any other Rich. The Rich-est if you will. And more than 70% of those men named Rich live in trailer parks in the area. I didn’t know why that’s what you wanted, but humans are funny that way. Sorry about the mixup. It can’t be fixed, but at least you’re healthy and safe. No harm, no foul!”

The lid snaps shut as I scream “Very harm! Very foul!” My accent is definitely a full-on country twang now, emerging in my agitation. I need to fix this. All of it. I decide that I can at least get rid of the beard right now. The hair would have to wait for a proper stylist and the tattoos would be a whole process, but I can shave. I turn around to run to the bathroom and grab my razor, but as I spin, the world whirls around me. When my dizziness settles, I’m no longer looking at my dorm room, but the dingy interior of a trailer home. Empty beer bottles are on the couch, dirty laundry is in the sink. A huge Confederate flag hangs above a bed sitting against the far wall.

I try to peer out the window on the front door, which has blinds so dusty that they look black. I can’t really see, so I open it up and step outside, the steps creaking under my newfound weight. Yup. I’m in a trailer park. In a daze (but not so much so that I don’t lock the door behind me, using a key that has materialized in my pocket), I wander aimlessly, trying to get my bearings and find my way back to the school.

As I make my way through a park I swear I’ve never been in before, I catch sight of a swing set. A vivid memory of pushing a kid on those swings blossoms in my mind. Oh yeah. Colton. My son. Had him back in high school, before I dropped out. I get to see him once a month, make sure he learns to be a proper man. Go to football games and spit on the ground and all that shit.

As I look around, my sense of direction grows clearer. Oh yeah. That corner is the liquor store where I get my Bud Light. Across from the bar where I try to pick up girls on Saturday nights. Where was I trying to go, again? Some school? Nah, I’m not looking to bang any college chicks today. Too snobby. Maybe I’ll hit up the tattoo parlor though, I picked up a few extra shifts this week at the EZ-Mart and I know exactly what to spend the extra cash on…

[m1ckeyb3rry]

hii, i was wondering if i could submit a request for a fic🤔I don't rlly have any specific prompt but i want it to be about karasu or zantetsu, either one is fine. i've read all of ur karasu fics and they're so good! i love ur writing sm!! if u don't want to i totally understand but i also just want to tell u that i think ur writing is awesome (^◡^)

Synopsis: You become taken with your coworker’s roommate, Karasu, unaware that he’s just as fascinated by you — and maybe he has been for longer than you realize.

BLLK Masterlist

Pairing: Karasu x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 8.6k

Content Warnings: relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…, <- never thought i’d be using THAT for a karasu fic, i’m bored of normal karasu characterization so i made him ooc, he’s like fr a weirdo icl, otoya catches strays, yukimiya is just trying to get through the workday, reader is a model, reader’s feet are mentioned a lot?? not sexually in the slightest (they’re injured so she complains abt them) but i mean it’s there ig if you’re a hater, very vague and unfinished feeling not on purpose i just gave up tbh

A/N: you sent this to me so long ago idek if you remember it LMAOAOAO i am so sorry i like fell off the face of the earth in terms of answering requests but HERE IT IS erm sorry it actually highkey sucks but at least karasu is in it…i guess…UGHHHH I HATE THIS BUT I COULDN’T KEEP PROCRASTINATING IT YOU LITERALLY SENT THIS IN THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST I’M SO SORRY MY DEAR but also tysm HAHHA you are very sweet!! i’m glad you like my writing and once again i am sorry for disappearing…

Additional: check my pinned post to make sure i have requests open; after reading the rules, please feel free to make your own!

You had never seen the man leaning against the wall behind the camera before. He wore a dark trench coat and a plaid scarf looped around his neck, and unlike everyone else bustling about the set, barking out orders and shoving each other into place, he was entirely calm. In his right hand, he held his phone, scrolling through something on it with his thumb, and in between his teeth was a lollipop — cherry flavored, which you only knew because of the wrapper lying at his feet.

“That’s not Yukimiya, right?” you whispered to the girl who was buttoning up the back of your top.

“Hm?” she said. “No, Mr. Yukimiya hasn’t checked in yet. I have no idea who that is.”

He was tall, with wide shoulders and the type of face that must have been crafted with painstaking detail by someone or another, his features keen, his eyes a brilliant shade of blue so dark they were nearly violet or black. Dark hair fell into darker eyebrows like the ink of a ballpoint pen on a paper-pale forehead, and just above his left cheekbone was a black beauty mark, which changed everything and yet nothing about him.

You supposed he must’ve sensed your gaze lingering on him, for he furrowed his brow and then lifted his chin, scanning the room before his eyes meet yours. He didn’t seem offended by the prying, his lips curling into a smile as he lifted his left hand into a jaunty wave, returning his attention to whatever he was reading on his phone before you could respond in turn or do anything to feel less like you had been caught committing some crime.

“I’m sorry I’m late!”

This must’ve been Kenyu Yukimiya, your partner for the shoot. He was handsome, too, with a harried, windswept appearance to his reddened cheeks and tousled hair; when he grinned at you apologetically, he was entirely reminiscent of a painting from antiquity.

He sat in the chair next to you as the makeup team got to work, applying the faintest touch of product so that he was not entirely washed out by the blinding lights of the cameras in your faces. You returned his smile with one of your own, polite and careful.

“Luckily, the director hasn’t arrived yet, so it’s not a problem,” you said. “Apparently, he’s strict on everyone but himself.”

Yukimiya winced as a heap of clothes was thrown at him and the finishing touches were placed on his chestnut hair. You watched him with amusement, your hands folded in your lap as he was yanked to his feet.

“Guess I got lucky this time, then,” he said, stumbling into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood yourself, stretching your arms and legs with a deep breath, rolling your ankles in the air, alternating as you did so, and then pacing back and forth in an attempt to accustom yourself to the monstrosities that your feet had been shoved into.

The man in the corner didn’t seem affected by the chaos Yukimiya’s appearance had thrown everyone into. You thought you saw something like a snort escape him, but otherwise he was calm — although you noticed he had tucked his phone away and shoved his hands in his pockets, opting to instead observe his surroundings with a soft curiosity.

You turned away before he could shift his attention to you once again, because your pride could not handle being caught by him a second time, and you pretended like you were entirely fascinated with putting one foot in front of the other, walking in a line so straight it was as if it had been drawn with a ruler.

Yukimiya reappeared completely ready a few seconds later, tying the laces of his dress shoes and then joining you at your side, although of course he did not need to practice walking or anything so silly. Like most men, he had been afforded the luxury of comfort; he wasn’t the showpiece of this edition, after all. You were, and so you were the one made up into a spectacle beyond natural ability or attempt.

“Everyone, in your places!” the director shouted as he entered the studio, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the other on his hip. He was diminutive in stature and wore a ridiculously feathered hat, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in position, so nobody would dare to say that to him, least of all you, who could so easily be replaced.

Still, for one final time, you allowed yourself to look at the man standing all by himself, wondering if he’d offer some reaction to the getup, some indication that you weren’t alone in your feelings. You weren’t sure why it was him who you sought out; perhaps because he, unlike everyone else, was a mystery, an enigma, and so while you could map out without knowing what all the other faces in the room looked like at that moment, you needed to see his to understand it.

He wrinkled his nose into a snicker, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, and then he took his phone back out of his pocket, maybe to give himself an excuse for laughing. It wasn’t like he really needed an excuse, because no one else was even looking at him, but then again, there was never any harm in caution.

“You’re Y/N L/N, right?” Yukimiya said to you, his hand on your shoulder as you faced the camera, waiting for the director to adjust your stances. “It’s a pleasure. I’m surprised this is the first time we’re actually talking.”

“The pleasure is mine,” you said. “And yes, it’s a wonder we haven’t worked together before, given how frequently I’ve heard your name mentioned. I’m looking forward to it.”

Something about Yukimiya served to enhance everyone he was around, and so, instead of stealing the attention from you, he somehow managed to direct the spotlight so that it shone only on your placid face. You had been expecting the opposite, but you weren’t angry about it; in fact, you couldn’t have been more pleased. It was always the worst thing when your coworker was jostling you out of the way for a few extra seconds in front of the cameras, and you thought to yourself that you’d have to find some way of ensuring you were booked with him more often.

“Amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever been so quickly satisfied by a shoot!” the director said, clapping his hands together and nodding at you both. “Excellent work. I think we can wrap up for the day. I’ll see you two here at the same time tomorrow!”

“Wow,” Yukimiya said as everyone started disassembling the set. “I thought you said he was strict.”

You shrugged as you walked over to the dressing rooms. “I thought he was.”

“Well, we probably shouldn’t complain,” he said. “Between this and practice, my schedule is booked. I have no space to be ungrateful about a little extra time.”

“Very true,” you said. “It’s always nice when things like this end sooner than anticipated. Better than later, anyways.”

The first thing you took off were those excuses for shoes, kicking them under the door for good measure and shoving your feet into a pair of fluffy slippers, wiggling your toes with a sigh. Peeling off every layer you had squeezed into for the sake of the director’s creative vision, you curled up on the bench in only your underwear, sipping on water through a metal straw and staring at the wall, hugging your knees to your chest, lost in thinking about nothing.

Only when you grew cold did you stand, pulling on a sweatshirt three sizes too large and sweatpants that puddled at your shoes, shielding you from the world as you trudged out of the dressing room, wanting to rub your eyes but knowing that you would smear makeup all over the backs of your hands. You settled instead for playing with the thread you had taped to the handle of your water bottle for exactly such an occasion, twirling the loose ends of the meticulous knots in between your fingers idly.

“Ah — L/N!” Yukimiya waved at you as you made your way towards the exit. Unaccustomed to further camaraderie after the end of the workday, you had to fight to keep your expression neutral, and when you noticed the man from earlier was at Yukimiya’s side, the lollipop long gone, you had to fight even harder.

“Is something the matter?” you said.

“No, nothing at all,” he said. “I just figured we might as well walk to the parking garage together, since it’s late and all.”

“I appreciate it,” you said. The studio you were at had only one security guard in its employ, a man that inspired pity more than fear, with a few strands of hair glued into a desperate attempt at a combover and a shirt that was far too thin to be considered professional, so you hadn’t even considered asking for an escort, figuring you would take your chances. Still, the thought of walking alone wasn’t the most appealing, and while you wouldn’t have asked for it yourself, you were glad Yukimiya had offered his company nonetheless.

“Oh! Karasu, this is Y/N L/N. L/N, this is Tabito Karasu,” Yukimiya said as you reached the door and the other man — Karasu — used one black-gloved hand to open it.

“Is he your bodyguard or something? Thank you,” you said, nodding at Karasu for holding the door.

“He wishes,” Karasu said. His voice was rough and deep and sounded like he was perpetually in on some private joke, but you didn’t mind it, not in the slightest. “I’m his roommate — the one with a car, by the way. And a driver’s license. And the time to pick his sorry ass up.”

“What he means is that he offered to stop by on his way home to get me,” Yukimiya said.

“That’s very generous of you,” you said. “Especially considering you were there even before Yukimiya was.”

“Don’t you think? It’s fine, now he owes me one,” Karasu said, his eyes glimmering. “And I intend to collect, of course.”

“He never does anything out of the goodness of his heart,” Yukimiya said with a long-suffering sigh. “You better be careful around him, L/N. Whatever he gives you, he’ll expect the same in return.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, though of course you had no intentions of ever being around Karasu in any way that mattered.

“We play soccer for the Japanese team, you know,” Karasu said. “You should come to one of our games, L/N. I’m sure some of our teammates would be delighted by that. Right, Yuki?”

Yukimiya sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If you’re talking about Otoya and Aiku, then yes, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“Not for her, it isn’t,” Karasu said. “For them, sure it is. But I wasn’t talking about those two, anyways.”

“Pardon?” you said.

“Ignore him,” Yukimiya said. “I don’t really know what he’s going on about.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Karasu said, picking up before Yukimiya on the fact that your steps had stuttered to a stop. “L/N, was it?”

He offered you his hand. You took it and shook, arching a brow at the firmness of his grip, which was much more in line with a businessman than a soccer player. 

“Yes,” you said. “Karasu? It was nice to meet you as well.”

“Don’t worry,” Yukimiya said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll make my other roommate pick me up tomorrow.”

“Otoya?” Karasu said. “Good luck with that. He’ll be late to his own funeral, so don’t think you’re high on his priority list. The only time he comes early is—”

“Karasu,” Yukimiya interjected. “Don’t be crass.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “See you around, L/N. Or maybe not.”

“See you,” you said, starting your car so that it wasn’t freezing when you got in, deciding it wouldn’t be polite to tack on a definitely not to the farewell and instead opting to stay silent.

“Bye, L/N,” Yukimiya said. “Until tomorrow.”

Although your apartment wasn’t large by any means, it wasn’t small, either, sitting at a comfortable medium that was paid for half by you and half by your brother, who was hardly ever home, anyways, but needed somewhere for his mail to be delivered. He was a free spirit, always traveling: for work, for fun, for women and wine, for anything his heart desired, which left you the entire space to yourself more often than not. People were jealous of you when they found out, but when you sat on the couch alone, a blanket pulled up around your shoulders and a bowl of salad held in between your knees, the television on only to ward away the silence that permeated the room, you wondered what they had to be jealous of.

The next day, you didn’t look for Karasu when you entered the studio, but you knew as you stepped in that he wasn’t there. There was something missing, the room a little brighter without him in the corner, waiting with an unmatched patience for Yukimiya to be done. Yukimiya must’ve made good on his threat, then, to call their other roommate to pick him up, although privately you wondered why he couldn’t just drive himself.

The shoot went even smoother the second day than it had the first, and it was a surprise the director didn’t fall to your feet and grovel at the speed with which you executed his vision. Yukimiya struck that perfect balance of workmanlike and personable, and you were content to play along with him, so all in all things moved with relative swiftness.

When you went to leave, you noticed that Yukimiya was standing by the door on his own, tapping his phone furiously. You were under no obligation to stop, but for some reason, you did, waiting awkwardly for a second before clearing your throat.

“Is everything alright?” you said. He startled, almost dropping his phone as he blinked at you.

“Yes! Yes, it’s fine, it’s just my roommate is a jerk, that’s all. Last night, he told me he was fine with picking me up, but now all of a sudden he’s busy,” he said with a scoff.

“Otoya, right?” you said. Yukimiya cocked his head.

“Yes, how’d you know?” he said.

“Karasu — your other roommate mentioned him yesterday,” you said, correcting yourself so that it didn’t seem like Karasu was someone you paid special attention to. Judging by Yukimiya’s expression, you didn’t think you had been entirely successful in the attempt, which was unlike you. You bit the tip of your tongue so that you didn’t say anything further, waiting for him to respond.

“Right,” he said.

“Why don’t you drive yourself?” you said, crossing your arms and standing beside him, facing the road as he was. 

“I can’t,” he said.

“You never learned?” you said. He shook his head, adjusting his glasses self-consciously.

“It’s not recommended I do,” he said. He didn’t elaborate further, but he didn’t have to; you recognized it wasn’t your place and hummed in acknowledgement.

“If you want, I don’t mind taking you,” you said. You didn’t know where Yukimiya lived — for all you knew, it was across the city entirely — but it didn’t hurt to extend your hand like that, especially because you had a sense that he wouldn’t even accept it.

“It’s alright,” Yukimiya said. “Karasu said he’s on his way, since last he checked, Otoya’s in the shower now, for some reason.”

“Oh,” you said. “That’s kind of him.”

“Kind?” Yukimiya said, and then to your surprise, he laughed. “I wish I knew as little about him as you do.”

“Is he a bad person?” you said.

“Not at all,” Yukimiya said. “He’s great. He’s one of my best friends, in fact; it’s just that kind and Karasu rarely if ever go together in the same sentence.”

“How can someone be your best friend if you don’t even think they’re kind?” you said, intrigued by the puzzle Yukimiya had presented you with. The way he spoke of Karasu, it was as if he were some willful spirit that occasionally deigned to lend his aid to those who could bring him some benefit, but the way the two of them treated one another didn’t seem anything like that.

“I don’t know,” Yukimiya said. “If you knew him better, I wouldn’t have to explain this. He’s a hard person to understand, and just when you think you’ve finally got it, he goes and complicates things further.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you said.

“That’s the strangest thing about it all,” Yukimiya said as a car pulled up in front of you both, the hazard lights turning on. “With him, it’s entirely natural.”

Karasu stepped out of the driver’s side, shutting it behind him and joining the two of you on the curb, grinning at Yukimiya in a way that almost felt mocking.

“Told you Otoya wasn’t to be trusted,” he said. “You’re paying for dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yukimiya said, tossing his bag at Karasu, who caught it without flinching. “Put this in for me.”

“Whatever you say,” Karasu said, opening the back door of the car and throwing the bag onto the floor before slamming it shut and patting the handle for good measure. “Is that everything, your royal highness?”

“Yes,” Yukimiya said. “I’m going to kill Otoya when we get back.”

“Hm,” Karasu said. “Violent.”

“He deserves it,” Yukimiya said. “Bye, L/N. Thanks for waiting with me.”

“It’s not an issue,” you said, especially because you hadn’t done it on purpose, and even if you had, it hadn’t been for him. “I’m glad everything worked out.”

You wanted to say something more, something to Karasu in particular, but you didn’t know what or how. It wasn’t like you knew him — not a little and not at all, as Yukimiya had pointed out, and indeed you had no reason to speak to him in the first place. He wasn’t anything but your coworker’s roommate, so what did he mean to you?

Yukimiya shut his door with a hurried apology about the cold, and then it was just you and Karasu on the curb, and you couldn’t tell why, but the way he looked at you made you think he could hear every thought which was racing through your mind. 

“Yukimiya’s right. It’s cold out,” he said. “You should go home now.”

“I’m just about to,” you said.

“Are you?” he said. 

“Why are you questioning that?” you said, surprisingly affronted, although he hadn’t said anything insulting. “Of course I am. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

“I’m not questioning anything,” he said. “Drive safely.”

“Wait,” you said. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Would you prefer it if I am?” he said.

“I’d prefer it if you answered my questions instead of coming up with more of your own,” you said, which you thought would be met with shock — after all, it was a rare thing that you broke character and said anything that could be perceived as cutting — but was instead received with a snicker.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Early, if that’s what you want.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” you said. “Do what you’d like.”

“I think that I will,” he said, and then Yukimiya was rolling down the window, telling him to hurry up, damnit, so he left you behind without another word, the car’s engine purring as they drove away.

You must’ve looked like such a fool the next morning, the final of the shoot, your eyes immediately going to the corner where Karasu had been that first day. It was empty, and despite yourself, your shoulders slumped when you realized that he wasn’t there, which was enough for you to break out of that strange trance. Why had you even hoped in the first place? He had made no indication that he was going to come, and you were old enough to know that hoping and wishing were certain paths to disappointment.

“Do you want me to take you back tonight?” you asked Yukimiya, sitting in a chair beside him as you waited for the director to come. It was a clumsy and roundabout way of getting to what you actually wanted out of him, but the last thing you could do was tell him the truth. What would he say, if he knew why you were actually offering? What would he think of you then?

“Hm? No, it’s fine, Karasu’s already got it. He’s at the gym with Shidou — er, another teammate of ours — right now, but he’ll be done before we are, and the studio’s closer to the gym than our apartment is, so he told me it wouldn’t be any extra trouble,” he said, and you thought he must’ve added those extra details for the sole purpose of seeing what your response to them would be, but then you remembered that Yukimiya wasn’t that kind of person. He was just telling you as a way to fill the time, not to get one over you or anything like that.

“That’s good,” you said. “Convenient.”

“Yup,” Yukimiya said. “My agent told me we’d be doing individual photos today.”

“Huh?” you said. “Oh, right. Yes, I think that’s the case.”

“That’s a shame. I enjoyed working with you,” he said.

“Me, too,” you said, and unlike most times, you weren’t lying when you did. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon, though. There’s not so many of us our age.”

“True,” he said. “It’s a given.”

“Exactly,” you said.

“Yukimiya! You’re up first!” the director shouted, entering as he always did — like a whirlwind, leaving papers scattered and assistants flustered in his wake. 

“That’s my cue,” Yukimiya said with a long-suffering sigh.

“Good luck,” you said, glad that it wasn’t your turn just yet. The shoes you were meant to wear sat innocently before you, about two feet away, and although it was impossible for inanimate objects to be snide, they were quite close to it, glaring at you with their bejeweled straps and their impossible tall heels, tittering between themselves at the thought of the cuts already forming on your ankles, the bandages you’d have to remove in order for those terrors to slide on without fuss.

You set your water bottle on the armrest of your chair, taking up the thread and crossing it over itself in the patterns you had been taught in elementary school. You didn’t have anyone to tie these bracelets around, and you couldn’t wear them yourself, for they’d be cut away almost immediately, but the repetitive motions soothed your mind, distracting you from the red soaking through your white socks.

“L/N!” the director screamed, even though you were sitting right there and could hear him perfectly fine. “Put your damn shoes on and get the hell up here!”

Without Yukimiya there to soften the blow, you were the direct target of all of his anger. Swallowing back every emotion you had ever felt and would ever feel, you bent over and began to rip the nude-colored band-aids, stained rusty at the edges, off. Balling them up and throwing them in the trash, you stood on aching soles and pulled the shoes on, one after another, clenching your teeth and taking off your sweater so that you could waltz over to where the cameras were trained.

“Took you long enough,” the director groused. 

“Yes, sir,” you said. “How should I stand?”

“Just put your hands there, and your one leg there,” the director said vaguely, waving his arms about before striking what must’ve been an approximation of the pose he wanted you to take. You did your best to copy it, and the cameras went off, your vision temporarily fleeing and then coming back in spots as the lights faded. “No!”

“No?” you said.

“That’s all wrong! It’s horrible, horrible — you’re not even trying to do what I asked!” he said. “Yukimiya could do it, so why can’t you? Just do this!”

He did the same thing again. You weren’t sure what else you could adjust, but you moved slightly, twisting your torso at a different angle and smiling without your teeth this time. He grunted and motioned for the cameras to go again, but after a few more photos, he groaned, dragging his face over his hands.

“This is horrendous! You look entirely stiff and posed. It’s like you're a mannequin!” he said.

“I don’t — I’m not — what should I fix?” you said, unable to stop nerves from creeping into your voice and jostling it about. As difficult as he was to work with, you knew that the director was a big name in the industry, and if he only had bad things to say about you, then your entire livelihood would be threatened.

“Ugh!” he said, stomping onto the set and grabbing your arm, wrenching it down so hard you were surprised it didn’t dislocate. You chewed on the frayed flesh of the inside of your cheek to keep from yelping, allowing yourself to be pliable as he dragged your leg forward into what he wanted from you. “It’s like you’re a completely different person today! Just disappointing.”

Whatever position he had coerced you into was nothing like the one he had wanted you to imitate, but you refrained from pointing that out, holding it in place while the photographers adjusted their lenses. It was uncomfortable and made the lace lining your collar dig into your throat even more, but at least that served as a reminder for you to be silent.

“That’s enough,” the director said, massaging his temples. “We’re not getting anything more out of you.”

“What?” you said, standing normally, tired of contorting yourself for the impossible-to-please man. “What do you mean?”

“You’re lifeless. I don’t know how you managed to fool me yesterday and the day before, but I see it now. Honestly, if it weren’t for the concerning accusations I’d face, I’d just dig up a grave and pay the families half the royalties. It’d be a cheaper and better performance than whatever you’re giving me,” he said.

“What?” you said again, shame pouring over you, cold in a way that was closer to heat, ringing in your ears and coating your tongue. You couldn’t think of another response, any other way to defend yourself. If he was saying it, then it really was the truth. You swallowed, about to bow your head and shuffle off of the set for good, but then, like a bird in your peripheral vision, you noticed someone standing in the corner.

It was Karasu, and he was muffling a laugh. When he noticed you were looking at him, he dropped his hand from in front of his mouth and jerked his head towards the director, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like get a load of this guy. Your eyes widened, and then you, too, were fighting back a giggle, because you were so tired of the entire charade and your feet hurt and you wanted to go home and sleep for a few hours but this director, this stupid fucking director, couldn’t make up his mind about what he wanted from you. And now your career was ruined and you’d go back to waiting tables and Karasu was standing there, which was ridiculous, because where had even come from? But, then again, did it matter? Because the most amazing thing of all was that he was laughing. The situation was horrible and he was laughing as if it was the most entertaining moment of his life.

“There!”

You cringed as the cameras went off in quick succession, but they were faster than you, and you knew for sure they had caught you before you had cowered away. The director stroked his chin, and then, to your surprise, clicked his tongue in approval.

“Well done,” he said. “That’s the kind of genuine appeal I was looking for. If you can bring more of that to the table, then anyone would be happy to have you.”

You frowned, his sudden switch in mood giving you whiplash. Only seconds earlier, he had been berating you, and now he was praising you? You couldn’t understand what had brought about the change, but you were at least quick enough to not question it. 

“Thank you,” you said. “I appreciate the advice. And the opportunity to work with you.”

“I’ll hire you again,” he said, which sounded as much like a threat as it did a promise. “We’ll bring it out of you. Now that I know what you’re capable of, I won’t rest until I’ve perfected it in the way only I can.”

The thought of being perfected by him, molded and shaped and honed, was the most unappealing you had had in a while. You could imagine him tugging your limbs out of their sockets, rearranging them at his leisure, slicing gashes into your skin so that his clothes and accessories sat better, smoother, without unappealing wrinkles or reflections marring their surfaces.

“Thank you,” you said once more. “It’s an honor.”

“Are you alright?” Yukimiya said when you wobbled over to where your shoes and clothes were strewn about. 

“I’m fine,” you said, but you weren’t looking at him. Your distracted eyes were following Karasu as he left the studio, your eyebrows knitting together as you tried to ascertain what the point of him even coming inside had been, if he was going to leave without you — without Yukimiya. 

He didn’t come for you, a voice in the back of your head, sounding eerily similar to the director’s, said. He came to pick up his roommate, just like he promised he would.

“I can’t believe he chose you as his favorite. Maybe you’ll be his muse for the next few years!” Yukimiya said. The director was known for picking one model to fixate on for an extended period of time. His every project revolved around them, and they were catapulted into unprecedented stardom under his guiding hand, staying there until their retirement. It was everyone’s dream, and you should’ve been happy at the prospect of being next in that line, but when you beamed at Yukimiya, it was fake, the muscles in your mouth straining at the unnatural position you were putting them into.

“Who knows?” you said. “I don’t want to rely on it. It’s not a guarantee.”

“Smart idea,” he said, scrunching up his face. “I’m sorry. I’m used to soccer more than all of this. Everyone’s very…full of themselves.”

“You’re not full of yourself,” you said, shutting the door of your dressing room behind you and calling through it as you changed, hoping to delay him even slightly.

“You’ve never seen me on the field,” he said. “There, everyone’s different. You have to be, if you want to live. Ego’s a form of survival out there.”

“Doesn’t sound much different than modeling,” you said.

“A little different,” he said. “People here are just vain. That’s not the same.”

You hadn’t ever gotten changed so quickly, but in record time, you were swinging your bag over your shoulder and rejoining Yukimiya, who seemed as surprised as you were that you had finished so quickly. After all, you had a bit of a reputation for…sulking? Brooding? You weren’t sure what word they were using for it nowadays, but regardless, your proclivity for sitting in your dressing room in silence was well-known, as much a part of your character as it was a habit. 

“You’re not wrong about that,” you said. “But vanity’s a necessary evil, I think. If you want to succeed.”

“Er, right,” he said, standing in place like he was unsure of how to react. “I suppose so.”

When you did not halt but instead kept moving towards the exit, he straightened and hurried after you. You weren’t going very fast, and his strides were so long that he caught up with you before you could even brace for the biting wind that rushed in as soon as you opened the door. The two of you went along in silence, Yukimiya obviously befuddled why you were still with him but too polite to say anything about it, and it was only when you reached the entrance to the parking garage, where a familiar car was waiting, that you allowed yourself to smile.

“Man, talk about an asshole,” Karasu said, stretching like a cat as he got out of the still-running sedan. “That director is a piece of work.”

“Karasu!” Yukimiya reprimanded, which got him nothing but a sly smile from the man in question. “He’s our boss. We can’t say stuff like that about him.”

“He’s your boss,” Karasu corrected. “So you can’t say stuff like that. I can say whatever I want.”

“You’re going to get me fired,” Yukimiya said. “It’s a good thing I have soccer to fall back on, or else I’d be in trouble.”

“Go sit in the car, then, if you want to stay blameless,” Karasu said.  

“I will! And you better not bother poor L/N. I don’t want her to have a bad opinion of all of us just because of you,” Yukimiya said, jabbing his finger at Karasu, who raised his hands in the air innocently.

Today, he wore a white windbreaker over a grey shirt, and because he was not wearing gloves, you could see that there were calluses on his palms, standing out pale at the seams of his fingers. You weren’t used to seeing calluses on anyone, not when the few people you met on a semi-regular basis took such diligent measures to prevent them, but now that you were faced with them sans demonization, you found their roughness was warm and friendly, not hideous.

“He was pretty bad,” you mumbled as soon as Yukimiya had shut himself away in the car. 

“Yuki, or the director?” Karasu said.

“Don’t be horrible,” you said. “You know who I’m talking about.”

“I can’t believe he compared you to a dead body,” Karasu said.

“That’s not the worst I’ve gotten,” you said. “It took me by surprise because things had been going so well until then, but he was relatively tame, all things considered.”

“Really?” Karasu said. 

“Yes,” you said, dropping your voice to a murmur in case anyone was around, not wanting to give yourself a reputation as a whiner. “Once, someone asked me if my mother was a fish, because there was no other explanation for how I was flopping around.”

“That’s rude,” he said.

“It was!” you said. No one had ever listened to you before, least of all with such a benign expression on their face, and you were so starved of it that you could not contain yourself any longer. “Especially because I was standing still, not flopping around or whatever. Honestly, I wanted to ask him if his mother was a fish, because you know what? There was no other explanation for how he smelled!”

“Horrid!” Karasu said, beaming at you. “You should’ve.”

“Oh, no, no, I couldn’t. I shouldn’t even have said it to you,” you said, shaking your head and pressing your hands over your mouth, unsure of any other method of stopping yourself that would be nearly as effective. 

“But you did,” he said, zipping up his jacket in a swift movement. “I’ll think of something about myself to tell you in return. Give me a day or two.”

“That’s not why I did that,” you protested. “And we don’t have a day or two, anyways, so you’ll have to do it now or never again.”

“Sure we do,” he said. “We live in the same city, don’t we? I bet our paths will cross. Where do you go grocery shopping?”

“Grocery shopping?” you said.

“Karasu! You’re low on gas!” Yukimiya said, rolling down his window. 

“I go to the place across from the park on South 18th Street. Every Thursday after practice,” Karasu said. “Meet all sorts of people there. Never know who I’m going to run into.”

You could picture exactly the store he was talking about; it wasn’t where you typically went, but sometimes, if you were running low on something hard to find, you’d walk the extra few blocks. It was much bigger than the one close to your apartment, after all, and suddenly you wondered if you had seen Karasu there before, if you had seen him ten or twenty times and just not noticed.

“When do you finish practice?” you said, right before he got into his car. 

“Lunchtime,” he said. “I’m hungry more often than not.”

“It’s not good to shop for food when you’re hungry,” you said.

“Then I’ll have to do something about it before I do,” he said. “Well, it depends. Only if I have good company.”

You didn’t realize until you were halfway home what he meant by that, and by then it was too late for you to change your mind — not that you would’ve. Not that you needed to. He wasn’t holding you to anything, even though you knew as well as he did that you would be there; still, ultimately it was your decision. Your choice. 

That was a strange characteristic of his, one that Yukimiya hadn’t mentioned. Karasu didn’t ask for things; he didn’t command them, either. He only made suggestions, nudging you along until you reached the destination that he wanted you to arrive at. You had never met a person quite so adept at it, at presenting choices and questions as disguises for inevitabilities, at guiding people’s thoughts so precisely. It would’ve been unsettling coming from anyone else, but from him, it was natural. It was how he operated. Who were you to chafe at it when that was simply who he was?

The grocery store was large, but they never changed their layout, so you knew where everything was familiarly and without checking the signs. You didn’t have anything to shop for, so you decided to wander the aisles, thinking that if something caught your eye, you’d buy it without further consideration.

You found yourself staring at a bag of oranges, a bright red 50% Off! sticker slapped right on the netted packaging. Swallowing, you reached for it, but before you could, someone snatched them away, holding them in the air teasingly.

“I thought you shouldn’t shop for food when you’re hungry,” Karasu said. “And might I add, what a coincidence it is, seeing you here!”

“I’m not hungry,” you said, taking the oranges back and holding them to your chest protectively. “And I wasn’t looking for you.”

“I didn’t say that you were,” he said. “I distinctly recall saying that it was a coincidence we even met, in fact. Anyways, maybe you’re not hungry, but I am, so I should be off. Meals to eat, shopping lists to plan…it’s a busy life I have.”

“Sounds mundane,” you said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “You’re right. That reminds me! Before I go, what is it that should I tell you?”

You couldn’t deny that that was the real reason for why you had come to the grocery store — what was he going to reveal? For as much as he knew about you, you knew frighteningly little about him, and now that you were faced with a chance to learn what kind of person he really was, you didn’t want to let it leave your grasp.

“Whatever you want,” you said. He plucked the oranges from your grasp again, and before you could complain, set them at the bottom of the small basket he held in his arms.

“How about this? I knew you were going to go for the oranges,” he said.

“How?” you said.

His eyes sparkled as he leaned closer to you, and you suddenly remembered Yukimiya’s warnings. Whatever you thought you knew about Karasu, it was likely only half or maybe a quarter the truth. Really, he was shifting and cunning, a fox and a crow, far from comprehension, not a danger but not kind, either.

“I’ll answer if you tell me something else about yourself,” he said.

“Why are you acting like I’m entering some kind of contract with a devil?” you said.

“I’m not a devil,” he said. “Just Karasu. My teammates think I’m a great guy, if the recommendation sets you at ease.”

“It sounds more like you’re trying to blackmail me,” you said. He shook his head.

“Couldn’t it be said that you’re doing the same? You’re asking questions about me and expecting that I answer when you have no intentions of reciprocating,” he said. 

You pouted, because when he put it like that, he wasn’t wrong, and it wasn’t that you didn’t trust him — because you did. You trusted him more than you should’ve, considering how guarded you had learned to become.

“I have an older brother,” you said. “He’s overseas right now. I don’t think he’ll be back for a while.”

“I have an older sister,” Karasu said. “Maybe they know each other.”

“Probably don’t,” you said. “Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I guess I didn’t,” he said, reaching around you to take two boxes of cereal off of a shelf. “Try again.”

“My parents didn’t want me to be a model,” you said. “They thought I should be a teacher. I’m good at it. Children like me.”

“I was going to go into investment banking,” he said. “Or consulting. One of those such fields. Maybe I still will, but soccer is fine for now.”

This was a game for him, you realized. Like tennis, but better, and so, instead of being irritated, you decided you might as well indulge it. It had been so long, anyways, since the last time you had spoken to someone freely, without concern for what they might spread about you, whose ears they would whisper your secrets in just to get one or two steps ahead.

“I threw a dress at a designer’s face once,” you said. “He didn’t like the shade of lipstick I was wearing, even though he was the one that picked it. The only reason my reputation wasn’t ruined was because he ended up liking the way the lipstick turned up digitally and promised not to say anything about it if I allowed them to use my photos after all.”

Karasu laughed, opening the doors to the fridge and taking out milk, stacking it neatly in the basket. You weren’t sure when the two of you had begun shopping in earnest, but it seemed he had forgotten about his plans to eat lunch. 

“In high school, my teammate pissed me off, so I made sure to shove him around extra when we tried out for a nearby youth team. It made him look so inept that he didn’t make the cut,” he said, taking an abandoned cart and depositing his things in it, motioning for you to put your purse in as well.

“That’s mean!” you said, but it was hard to disguise the fact that you, too, were laughing. “You’re mean.”

“His fault. He should’ve played better, anyways,” Karasu said. “I had been helping his sorry ass out for too long. He would’ve been cut regardless. You could say I just…expedited the process.”

“I’m the only one in my family who still wishes my brother happy birthday,” you said. “He’s a disappointment in everyone else’s eyes, but he lets me live with him and pays his share of the bills, so how can I disown him?”

“Between the two of us, my sister is the perfect one, so I’m afraid I can’t relate. Vanilla or hazelnut?” he said without skipping a beat. Before you could even answer, he face-palmed. “Oh, wait, Otoya hates hazelnut. I’ll get that so he doesn’t mistake it for his own.”

“I used to be a waitress,” you said. “Before I was a model. It was a lot less glamorous of a career. I don’t think my feet ever recovered from it.”

“I’m sure those shoes that you were forced into for your last job didn’t help any,” he said. “They looked inhumane.”

“They were,” you said, your ankles panging at the reminder, still inflamed and angry as they were. “Though I think anyone would’ve suffered with them on. I doubt the designer had human anatomy in mind when making them; I haven’t bled like that in a while.”

“They made you bleed?” he said. You hummed.

“Yeah,” you said, seeing no point in lying. Who would he tell? Who would even believe him? “Fashion over function, right? It was only for a few photos. They’ll be healed so quickly I’ll forget I had them in the first place. Enough about me, though. Tell me something else about yourself.”

“I sprained my wrist playing soccer as a kid,” he said. “It was a long time ago, but even now, I can feel it when it rains.”

He still hadn’t answered your original question, and you didn’t think he would, not until you offered him something of equal or greater value. But what did you have like that? What aspect of your silly life held enough weight that it would make someone like Karasu, always so ready with his wit and his charm, willing to part with something he clearly deemed to be a secret?

“I’m lonely,” you said, turning away from him, pretending to be fascinated with comparing two different brands of yogurt, neither of which you would buy. “You’ll laugh, but I think this is the longest conversation I’ve had with someone outside of work since my brother last came home. It’s nice, surprisingly. Talking to you and all. I like it.”

Or maybe you just liked him. You couldn’t really separate the two. Either way, it remained that ever since you had met Karasu, you could not conceive of a time when you had not known him, a time when you had gone home to your empty apartment and watched your empty shows and eaten your empty salads and thought you were satisfied by it all. You doubted he knew he had this effect, and you certainly wouldn’t be the one to tell him — after all, he’d probably be frightened if he found out that you had, in such a short time, grown so attached to him and his games and his conduct.

“The oranges,” he said. “You tried to buy them the first time I saw you.”

“What?” you said. Now it was his turn to avert his eyes and yours to watch him in fascination, finding it far easier to stomach a secret than to spit it out.

“It was a long time ago, but it was definitely you,” he said. “It was a Thursday, and I was just coming back from practice; this grocery store is far from my apartment but close enough to the field that, when Otoya — he was sick, so he had skipped that day — texted me that we were out of bread, I decided I’d make the detour. I wasn’t planning on staying here long, but right when I was about to leave, I saw you. You only had a packet of instant noodles and a bag of oranges in your hands. They were on sale back then, too, but—”

“But I had to put them back,” you finished for him, remembering that day as well as he did, albeit not his role. “Because I didn’t have enough money to get them, even when they were 50% off.”

“Yes,” he said. “I left before you noticed me, but I always — I always wish I hadn’t. I kept making the trip here, doing my shopping every Thursday at the same time until it became ingrained in me like routine, and I told myself if I ever saw you again, I’d buy them for you.”

“I can buy my own oranges now,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “That wasn’t the only reason I came back each week.”

“Why else?” you said.

“Well,” he said. “I can’t just tell you everything in one go like that, can I?”

You scoffed. “You can.”

“But I won’t,” he said.

“But you won’t,” you said with a sigh. “Anyways. So you knew me even before we met?”

“I knew of you,” he corrected you. “Though not as a model. Just as an absurdly beautiful girl I saw in a supermarket once and thought about occasionally.”

“So it was a coincidence that you happened to be at that shoot?” you said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“When Yukimiya told us about the girl he’d be working with, Otoya looked you up,” he said. “And despite how long it had been since you last crossed my mind as well as how much longer it had been since the only time I saw you in the flesh, I recognized you immediately.”

“You have a good memory,” you said.

“So I’ve been told,” he said. “I didn’t go with any strange intentions, if you’re wondering. I only wanted to know what kind of person you actually were.”

He wasn’t a typical admirer, taken with your celebrity or your status. He was curious, not about Y/N L/N the model, but you, the girl he nearly met in a grocery store so long ago it was all but inconsequential. You wondered what it said about you that instead of being wary, you only felt all the more inclined to reveal yourself to him. You wondered if this was some lack of self-preservation, as your brother would declare it, or if this was an innate knowledge, an instinctual understanding that the man before you was different.

Maybe he was or maybe he wasn’t. You didn’t know, and maybe, on some level, you didn’t care. Taking his hand, you set it on the bag of oranges, placing your own atop it firmly, your thumb tracing his scratched knuckles.

“Buy them for me,” you said. “And I’ll tell you who I am, plainly and without fuss.”

“Is that what you consider a good deal?” he said. “I’d say you’re a bit more valuable than a discount bag of oranges.”

“Do you think so?” you said. “Fine, then. The oranges, and a pack of instant noodles.”

“Closer,” he said. “But I’m a fair person. I can’t accept.”

“You,” you said, all in a rush. “The oranges, the noodles, and you. That’s my final offer. I’ll give you everything if you give me that much.”

He didn’t even pretend to consider it. You thought that it must’ve been what he was waiting for all along, what he had been, in that way of his, leading you towards.

“You’re a tough bargainer,” he said.

“So you agree to it?” you said.

“Sure,” he said, and when he noticed your face falling at the noncommittal nature of his acceptance, he laughed. “Yes. Yes, yes, I agree. The oranges, the noodles, and me; you can have all three as you please.”

And it was odd, but just for a moment, the reprieve lasting only for as long as his breathy chuckle, your feet ceased to ache.

[princeoftheeternalbog]

THE KING HAS RETURNED

guys im so sorry I can't believe i havent posted in so long its very unsexy of me so this is sweet comfort fluff about embarrassment as i am very embarrassed right now of my own actions (taking over two months to post again)

i was considering posting this without the old men and then decided that if im doing the strawhats im doing everyone ESPECIALLY sans and moby dick

Luffy

Laughs. But if you look sad he starts feeling bad and tries to make you laugh instead. But also he'll forget that it made you sad and bring it up again later. He tries his best to accommodate for your feelings but he's a naturally casual guy so he doesn't see what's embarrassing. There's a few miscommunications about this at the start of your relationship until he explains that no matter what you do he adores you🥲

Zoro

He didn't even notice it to be honest, or he thinks it's really cute. And if you bring it up to ask him about it he's just like what are you talking about, nobody was even looking. That's a lie, he was looking because he he's lowkey obsessed with you, but he doesn't want to make you feel worse so he just lies. He even pretends that him always saving you from falling is coincidental, you at least know that ones a lie but sweet nonetheless.

Sanji

Tries to reassure you but draws attention to it by accident, and then he does something more embarrassing to cover it up. To be honest though it really works, people just talk about him instead. But he also makes you feel less embarrassed just by how much he dotes on you, if you fall then he's swooping you up bridal style to go to chopper, if you spill something on your clothing he'll cover you up with his jacket, he'll clean anything you break with not a single complaint, he just adores every fibre of your being, even the wayward clumsy ones.

Usopp

Always thinks it's cute. And he really relates to the anxious feelings so he's just treats it like a normal situation, if anyone else saw it then he makes sure to tell them to not speak of it. He will also replace your clothes if you accidentally damage them :) like you wake up and your favourite shirt that you accidentally spilled ink all over and had to bin is now on your bed, looking brand new(it is). He also makes little inventions to help you out, both silly and serious, like a portable air bag that inflates with a button, a little robot that is essentially a roomba, little things like that.

Nami

Threatens everyone who saw it to never speak of it and then distracts you as much as possible until you stop thinking about it. Will cuddle you if you get really upset about it but she doesn't really understand why you would be embarrassed because she thinks everything you do is perfect. She does eventually learn when there's going to be a possible chance for an accident, she's predicting your clumsiness like the weather🫡 she stops what she can and tries to teach you how to avoid these situations :)

Robin

Prevents said embarrassing moment. Listen she's just so efficient and she spots problems before they happen so she's just secretly fixing stuff because she never wants you to feel bad. It's not until like months into your relationship and you're apart for some reason that theres like a series of unfortunate events that reminds you how clumsy you can be and realise what she's been doing. Lots of appreciation kisses after that for sure.

Franky

Honestly you never really feel embarrassed around him, he's just so easy going and he manages to make everything seem normal. If you trip or walk into something he just checks to see if you're okay, if you spill something on yourself or rip something he uses his shirt to cover you while you go and get changed. He really could not gaf as long as you still fancy him tbh. But if someone makes you feel bad then it's like that scene from the cat in the hat(he will make it look like an accident) :

Brook

Concerned if you're hurt or if you get upset, but otherwise completely doesn't care. He just nonchalantly fixes the vase you broke, or helps you up from the floor and just pretends that he didn't watch you accidentally eat a fly. He really is just so in love with you and he still carries the manners of his youth so he refuses to contribute to your embarrassment in any way. But he loves an excuse to keep his hands on you, guiding you by the shoulders, holding your arm, carrying you around, he can't get enough of it.

Jinbei

Lovely beautiful man, he is always embarrassing himself but he's old enough to not care anymore and neither should you, if you fall over guaranteed it's because you're laughing at him just having slipped on deck. With Jinbei you become the type of couple where you bring each other down literally and up metaphorically, there can hardly be any embarrassment to you're sharing happiness all the time.

[megamagimugi]

It's finally 2025 where I am. Since I only joined Tumblr in June 2024, this is the first New Year's celebration I get to share with you guys. I hope it's okay if I say a few words on this special occasion.

Real talk: I can't say 2024 was a particularly good year for me, though like any year it certainly had its ups and downs. My mental health hasn't really been good since 2017, and it seemed to only be getting worse as my life kept falling apart over the years. The consequences of my bad decisions along with some things outside my control not working out in my favor kept eating away at my hope bit by bit, slowly killing my normally optimistic nature. In the first half of 2024, I had an increasingly hard time finding reasons to even keep going.

But then I joined Tumblr for one reason only: to read some cool Mario fan comics as Tumblr kept telling me to sign in. Annoyed, I eventually caved in and created this little Mario themed blog. Little did I know it would be my best decision of the year.

Turns out, while there are certainly things I don't like about Tumblr just as I initially thought, they all pale in comparison to one of the first things I found here: a surprisingly wholesome and supportive community full of joy, kindness, creativity and camaraderie. It proved me wrong when I thought it wasn't possible to find and maintain true friendship online, especially without ever meeting in person. It also proved me wrong when I thought I was unlovable and unworthy. It has also validated me a lot as an artist, welcoming the fanart I've shared with a level of enthusiasm I never expected to see. And finally, it has been changing me as a person, inspiring me to be a little gentler and more caring.

As I recently noticed, ever since joining Tumblr my mental health has significantly improved. It's nowhere near perfect (ha! I wish it was that simple), but I'm overall significantly less lonely, quite a bit happier and it's not as hard to find the motivation to keep going anymore. I'm more thankful to you all for this than I can express with words. I'll still say it: thank you for everything, guys!

Some people I'd like to tag here, that I can think of off the top of my head (if I'm forgetting anyone, then I'm really sorry!): @silenzahra @bberetd @vulpixfairy1985 @peaches2217 @itsavee4117 @stripetkattelalala54-gf @coffeecat1983 @multicolour-ink @jelly-fish-wishes @pepperycar @supergay-64 @roscolate @doodleydoo101 @drones-of-innocence @elitadream @akiiame-blog

I just really love this community that has become such an important part of my life. I also love the Mario franchise for leading me to it, and for always bringing me joy and fun even in the darkest of times❤️

Say what you want about 2024, but I think we can all agree that at least it was a great year for Mario!

Happy New Year, everyone!🥳🎉🎉🎉

[darknight3904]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

129 AC

Her chamber is suffocatingly warm, the soft morning breeze that she normally was indulged in was missing today. However, it was not the stifling heat that bothered her today, the news that was being spoken to her was.

"How long have you known?"

Her voice is stronger than she thought it'd be.

"Since Rhaenrya and Laenor's wedding. His...face that night gave his actions away."

Rhaella could scarcely believe what Rhaenys had just said. She had known for so many years and chosen not to tell her? Every night at supper she had looked at Rhaella and chosen to withhold information from her?

Her hands shook with anger. Anger for what might've been her life, for a mother she did not know.

"I will not return to Driftmark with you and my cousins on the morrow." She said

"I am sorry." Rhaenys said. As much as Rhaella hated it, she sounded sincere

"Get out!" She yelled, hoping no tears had escaped her eyes yet.

"I thought that if I kept my silence he'd tell you himself," Rhaenys explained

"He clearly had no intentions of ever telling me of Lady Rhea." Rhaella yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Rhaenys, "Just like you he is content with keeping me in the dark."

"You were a little girl when you came to me, I did not want to burden you with such a truth." Rhaenys said, trying to take a step closer to Rhaella.

"I am not a child any longer! You have had every opportunity to tell me!" Rhaella cried

"I know...I was wrong in withholding it...If you might-"

Rhaella lets her hands come down on the trinkets and ink well that sit on the table that separates her from Rhaenys. Papers and a jewelry box go flying to the floor while the ink well smashes into the wall.

"No. You knew how much I yearned for a family, for kin that were related to me, that is why I accepted your invitation to live with you. Because Baela and Rheana are my blood, yet you stood by and let me build a relationship with the very man who murdered my mother!"

Rhaenys' lips press into a firm line and Rhaella feels her face twitch in anger and sadness.

"I never wish to see you again." Rhaella declares, "Leave. Go back to Driftmark and let the tides swallow you whole."

She turns so her cousin cannot see the tears that are beginning to fall. The clicking of heels and the sound of a door shutting let her know Rhaenys is finally gone. Rhaella lets herself drop onto her bed. The blankets are soft and comforting as she cries into them. She's not even sure why she cries, mourning for a woman she has never met, a woman she will never know.

Aemond takes note of Rhaella's absence in the training yard immediately. She had just a day left her in Kings Landing and now she was standing him up after he offered to show her how to hold a longsword better. His spine was tight with anger as he searched the Red Keep for her. She wasn't in the library, her chamber, or even with Heleana. He was ready to even check in Aegon's chamber when the sight of his own chamber's door ajar caught his eye. Surely he had shut it entirely before departing for the training yard this morning.

He pushes it open, expecting one of Heleana's twins to be riffling though his things again. He'd had candy on his desk one time and now they expected it every time, they were truly going to be the fattest Targaryens if they weren't careful. Fortunately, it is not his niece or nephew who is in his chamber but Rhaella herself. She sits at his desk writing something. She had stood him up in the training yard to invade his private chambers?

"What are you doing?" He asked, still upset about her absence, "You have your own quill."

He crossed the room quickly and his dexterous hands snatched the quill from her hand. He expects her to laugh and try to take it back, like she usually would but instead is met with bright violet eyes tear-filled eyes.

"What has happened?" He asks, suddenly fearing the worse," Was it Aegon? I'll kill him if he touched you."

His hand jumps to the thin dagger he keeps at his side, a practice he had adopted after he lost his eye.

"It wasn't, Aegon. It's Daemon." She says sadly

"What has he done?" Aemond asks

Daemon was not eve in attendance for his name day celebration, he and Rhaenrya had stayed on Dragonstone.

"Rhaenys told me the truth of my mother's death. She did it today, I do not know why she chose to do it now, after knowing for so long. But Daemon is the reason my mother was taken from me, not a hunting accident like I was told for so many years." Rhaella explains, a stray tear escaping her eye

Aemond's fingers twitch with the need to wipe it away.

"I'm writing Daemon to tell him what a terrible person he is for doing that to my mother. I want him to regret it for the rest of his life." Rhaella says, glancing at a half-written raven scroll.

"I am sorry, for your mother," Aemond said

He doesn't know what to do. He has no experience with tears or feelings, even his own are a mystery to him. Most of all though the tears of a woman are something he has never been trained to deal with.

He is even more unsure of himself when she suddenly stands and wraps her arms around him. He's sure her snot is now wiped in his hair.

"Thank you." She whispers

He can feel the movement of her lips on his neck.

"What can I do for you? Is there anything?" He asks, tightening his own arms around her.

"Ask your father if I can stay here again. I cannot go back to Driftmark with Rhaenys and my cousins. I'll die if I have to see her again." Rhaella confesses

"Of course. I'll make sure he agrees." Aemond says

Soft silence settles around them as Aemond gently runs a soothing hand up and down Rhaella's back. He had seen the wet nurses do it to his niece and nephew when they cried so it seemed appropriate.

"I also ask that you let me use your quill and ink...I broke mine." Rhaella confesses

"Use as much as you want," Aemond says, a smile forming on his lips.

Okay, now our filler chapters can begin. A fluff arc is incoming. Also for reference, As of this chapter, Rhaella is 14 and Aemond is 13.

Next Part

Comment below to join the taglist. (The taglist is not by chapter, once added, you will remain there unless you ask to be removed.)

Taglist:

@caspianobsessed

@starryhiraeth

@franzelt

@holymusicalmothman

@koobratzy

@schelfinser

@mizuki80

@flusteredmoonn

@sunmigs

@mizuki80

[ohthewh0rror]

ETERNALLY YOURS.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚ prompt — The follow up to ‘I’ve Dug Two Graves For Us, My Dear.’ Now that your marriage has been irreparably damaged, where do the two of you go from here?

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Word count: 2k

A/N: I changed my mind after writing a completely different ending. At first I wanted to make it angst-filled and unhappy but I keep writing sad stuff, and you guys deserve a break. Thank you to my best friend Madie for proof-reading/editing this once again and to @brooklynscherry-z for helping me get a better understanding of Tom & Mattheo’s lore. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this (much shorter) continuation to ‘I’ve Dug Two Graves For Us, My Dear”!

“A letter arrived for you this morning, Y/N,” came the soft voice of your great aunt Delia, her wrinkled hand holding the letter out for you. For a second you were confused, unsure of who would have sent you a letter, especially at such an early hour, until it dawned on you.

Your husband.

A pang of hurt hit your heart at the thought of him. It had been two months since you had seen or spoken to him and though you hated him, another, smaller, part of you missed him terribly. He had been your first love and dearest friend, and his infidelity wasn’t enough to completely erase the love you’ve held for him since the two of you were only seventeen.

As you held the letter in your hands you contemplated not opening it, to instead toss it in the trash and forget it ever arrived. You eyed the entrance to the kitchens, the trash was right through that door, you could throw it away and leave the contents of the letter a mystery. But, as you turned the letter over in your hands, you felt curiosity eating at the back of your mind, beckoning you to open the letter and dissect its contents.

‘Well…it couldn’t hurt,’ you thought, gently unfolding the parchment. As your eyes skimmed over the opening of the letter, you soon realized this was not a letter you should read in the company of others. Folding the letter back up, you looked at your aunt, asking “may I be excused?”

Her eyes darted between the parchment and your eyes, and she looked as if she wanted to ask you something but she waved you off instead, wordlessly telling you that you may take your leave.

You gave her a nod of gratitude before heading to the room you were staying in, trying your hardest to seem normal. Once you entered your room, you made sure to lock the doors and cast a silencing charm for good measure. You did not want your aunt to hear you in the event that you became upset.

Sitting at the desk in the corner of your room, you unfolded the letter and began to read it once again.

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you well. It has been two months since I have seen or spoken to you, and I must admit that I miss you more than I thought myself capable of. I understand that what I did was unforgivable in your eyes, but I hope by telling you everything it will help you process what is going on so we may move forward from this.

A year ago I approached Bellatrix with the proposition of conceiving and carrying my heir. I explained I did this out of a need to produce an heir and you had not been able to get pregnant yourself. Once she had the child, the child would be ours to raise, she was merely going to be a surrogate of sorts; she understood and agreed to the terms and from there we began the affair.

She finally fell pregnant 6 months ago with a boy. While I should've told you about my plans before approaching her, I most definitely should have told you once she was with child. I am sincerely sorry that you found out the way you did. I wish I could have told you myself, under better circumstances.

Please consider coming back home so that we may be a proper family.

Eternally yours, Tom

You felt a few tears slip out and drip from your eyes onto the parchment, smearing the ink that stained the page with its terrible words. Oh how you wish he hadn’t written to you. His answers did not bring any form of acceptance of his actions, only further heartbreak. It was hard for you to comprehend how he could have sex with her and then return home to you as if all was normal.

“Reducio,” you muttered, shrinking the letter. You carefully folded it, being sure not to rip it, before you got out of your seat and made your way to your closet. On the top shelf, in the furthest corner, sat an intricately carved wooden box with flowers lining the top and sides. The initials M.R sat right above the lock. You conjured a small stepping stool, but even with the stool you were still unable to reach it, leaving yourself to blindly swipe your hand across the shelf till you finally felt your fingers bump the edge.

With what you were looking for finally in your grasp, you got off the stool and went back to your desk. You sat down again, reaching towards one of the desk drawers, and pulling it open to retrieve the small key for the box. As soon as the lock clicked, you opened the top, revealing an empty interior.

The box was made to hold important milestone objects and keepsakes for your son. You planned to fill it with your own letters and pictures so that you could look back on it when he is older and no longer needs you, to remind yourself of simpler times. You hadn’t planned on putting anything related to Tom in there. The thought of him was far too painful, and you didn’t want to taint the little bits of happiness within.

Taking the shrunken letter you placed it in the box before sliding off your wedding ring and putting it on top of the letter. As you closed the box once again, you felt as if you were also closing the metaphorical lid on your marriage. You wouldn’t grace Tom with your presence, a simple letter would have to suffice as you decided you were going to effectively cut him out of your life.

Dear Tom,

I will keep this letter simple and to the point. I appreciate your honesty and your willingness to take some form of accountability for your actions, as I know it’s not something that comes easy to you. But, I will not be returning home nor will we be playing at being a happy family. If you want to be a family as badly as you say, then leave our marriage intact but let us live separate lives. Don’t worry, I do not plan to date or remarry, for you are my first and final love.

That all being said, do not contact me again unless it is with divorce proceedings.

P.s. congratulations on the heir you always wanted.

Sincerely, Y/N

Putting your quill down, you read over the letter one more time to be sure this was what you wanted your final words to him to be. Satisfied with what you wrote, you got out of your chair once again and left the room, heading towards the back garden where you knew the owl belonging to your aunt would be.

Walking into the small building that housed her owl you saw the bird, Chipp, still here and not away delivering mail for your aunt. You gave Chipp a few treats as a thank you for going out in the cold for delivering this letter for you before holding the letter out for the owl to take. Chipp happily took the parchment and flew off to take the letter to its recipient.

That was the last time you spoke to Tom. As the months turned to years, Tom became a distant, painful memory.

11 years later

“Mattheo! Wait up!” You called out to your son, as he excitedly ran ahead of you. You were winded trying to keep up with him, trying hard not to lose him in the crowd of teary-eyed mothers and nervous children. When you finally caught up to him, you grabbed him by the shoulder, halting him. “I understand you’re excited, but will you try not to run off,” you were panting slightly, “I would at least like to tell you goodbye.”

Mattheo looked exasperated, trying already to seem too cool to tell his mother bye. “But mum—” he started, trying to justify his running off. “No buts; now, let me see you,” you said, motioning him to turn around. He groaned, turning around to face you. You held him by his arms in front of you, “listen, and actually listen to me for once; listen to your professors and don’t cause trouble, I know how—” you paused mid sentence when something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention.

It was your husband.

Your husband, who you hadn’t seen in 11 years, with a young boy standing beside him. The two of you locked eyes and you felt a wave of discomfort hit you. How could you have been so stupid? Of course he would be here, his son and Mattheo are close in age, they’d obviously go to school together.

You decided to skip the speech and quickly walk further up the platform, trying to put more room between you and Tom. You didn’t want Tom to approach you and attempt to talk to you or your son. Mattheo didn’t need to go through such a confusing altercation on such an important day. This day was only about him and you wanted it to be special.

Once you put a satisfying amount of room between the two of you, you stopped and your son decided to ask why that man was staring at you. Waving him off, you explained, “he’s just someone I used to know, that’s all.” Mattheo looked like he had more questions, but you didn’t give him the chance to ask them. Instead, you gave him a parting kiss on the forehead and told him goodbye before all but pushing him onto the train.

You backed away and watched Mattheo walk further into the train before he finally disappeared from sight. You felt your eyes well up with tears at the reality of your son leaving for Hogwarts, giving you definitive proof of how old he was getting. It made you wish you possessed a time turner, just so you could go back to the beginning and do it all over again.

As you shuffled back toward the exit, you were lost in thought over how Mattheo would do at Hogwarts. What house would he be in? Would he make friends? How would he do academically? You were so lost in thought that you hadn’t noticed someone closing in on you until it was too late.

You felt a hand wrap around your bicep and pull you back slightly causing you to stumble into their chest. You whipped around, about to give the owner of the offending hand a piece of your mind when you saw who was touching you.

Tom looked at you, and though his face remained neutral, you swear you saw a glint of hurt in his eyes. He released your arm only to place a hand on the small of your back, “walk with me, Y/N?”

You hesitated for a second before giving him a small nod and walking with him back towards the entrance to platform 9 ¾. There was a moment of tense, awkward silence before he spoke.

“What is his name?” Tom asked. You thought about whether you wanted to tell him or not, as you knew where this conversation was headed.

“Mattheo,” was all you said. Not giving away his full name, as you weren’t ready to admit you’d given him Tom’s last name.

Tom went silent again and you looked up to see him deep in thought. Not wanting to make the situation any more uncomfortable by just staring at him, you looked away, waiting for him to speak once again. Though, once he spoke, you wish he had kept the awkward silence between you two.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

Taglist: @the-sweet-psycho @mypolicemanharryyy @jessysfangirlworld @homan-oid @motherofdragons1998 @theeslutintheroom @pasta01 @lovefks @mwahbella @storminacloud @brooklynscherry-z @eri-s-big-sis @eversei @tomhollandisabae @rlblackbarbie @cyphah @cookielovesbook-akie

[vmiuchi]

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 5.

Just another normal and quiet day at the tattoo parlor you work at in the heart of Helsinki, Finland. Or so you thought ?

(SLIGHT NSFW WARNING)

It had been hours since their last message. The conversation—flirty and tense—had fizzled into silence sometime after midnight, leaving Y/N alone with her hoodie, her horror show looping on the TV, and her thoughts spiraling out of control.

By the time the vampire villain on screen bared his fangs for the hundredth time, she was half-asleep, curled under a throw blanket, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, phone silent beside her. Whiskers had claimed her feet as a bed.

At least until 4:03AM.

The first buzz didn’t even register. But the second—followed by the third, and then the obnoxiously loud ring of a phone call—had her bolting upright on the couch like she'd been shot.

The screen glowed with his name.

Ville (???)

Incoming Call.

She stared. Let it ring.

Then again.

And again.

“What the fuck…” she whispered, heart hammering in her chest. She fumbled to silence it. Whiskers hissed and launched off her lap, disappearing under the coffee table like the whole world had offended him.

The phone finally went quiet.

But then the texts started.

One after another. Rapid fire.

She hovered over the screen, breath caught somewhere in her throat. It wasn’t just anyone. It was him. At four in the damn morning.

And judging by the spelling in the preview bubbles?

Drunk.

Her stomach dropped and twisted at the same time. A car crash of anxiety and curiosity. Against her better judgment, she opened the thread.

Ville (???): babyyyy are you sleepinn

i know its late but guess what

bam brought whisky and now i’m in his fucking hotel and he’s trying to do a backflip off the couch but he’s SHIT at it

we’re bonding

i told him about u

he said u must be hot if i’m texting u instead of flirting with the bartender

and i said he’s RIGHT

because you are. u r so hot. i’m like dying

u shoud be here. you'd love him

he’s insane. like actual brain damage levels

but good energy

like a chaotic raccoon in a leather jacket

Y/N blinked at the screen, mouth open. Bam? She had no idea who that even was. Ville clearly thought this information was wildly important.

Her screen lit up with another buzz before she could even finish reading.

Ville (???): i wish u were here

id make u sit on my lap

and we wouldn’t even talk

id just have my hands under ur hoodie

on ur thighs

theyre soft, right? i KNOW they are

like velvet. i bet u wear those little skirts all the time and u KNOW what they do to me

Her blood went cold and hot at once.

Ville (???): u make me so fcking crazy

i don’t even care if i sound gross

i just want to kiss u til the world ends

is that dramatic?

it is but idc

ur hoodie’s probly too big

i wanna crawl under it with u

like a perverted little bat

come hide me in ur hoodie please

She slapped a hand over her mouth. What the hell.

The typing bubble came up again. She stared, frozen.

Ville (???): ur prob asleep huh

or maybe ur staring at ur screen again like earlier

bet ur overthinking every word i said

bet ur blushing. maybe squirming. maybe both

u shy little thing

why do u do this to me huh

why do u make me want to write u poetry n bite ur neck at the same time

Her heart was trying to escape her ribcage. She didn’t know how to reply. Every single part of her screamed don’t engage, this is a trap, he’s drunk, he’s gonna forget all of this in the morning—

And yet.

Her thumb hovered.

She typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Y/N: do you always drunk text people at 4am or am i just special

The response came instantly.

Ville (???): only u

swear on bam’s broken spine

which he might ACTUALLY break if he tries the backflip again

god

ur so mean

“just special”

ur the most special thing ive seen since the first time i saw batman returns

She snorted despite herself. That was… actually kind of adorable.

Another ping.

Ville (???): also

my hand would fit SO good on ur ass

sorry had to say it

i was holding a beer bottle and i thought “huh this feels about right”

ur gonna block me huh

A pause from her, longer this time.

Y/N: Not yet

She regretted it as soon as she hit send.

Ville (???): ohhohoho

NOT YET

oh we’re in dangerous territory now my sweet little vampire

ur letting me talk like this

ur letting me in

Y/N swallowed thickly. She wasn’t. Not really. She was just… frozen. Caught in a web spun with his stupid flirtations and velvet voice now somehow bleeding through text.

Y/N: i’m just half asleep, don’t get too excited

Ville (???): too late

already imagining u curled up in ur hoodie like a cursed princess

and i’d kiss u awake

but not on the mouth

id start lower

like ur collarbones

bite them a little

u’d whine i KNOW u would

do u whine baby?

u seem like u do

She stared at that one for way too long.

The horror show continued playing on mute in the background. A vampire stalked through a cemetery.

Fitting.

Y/N: Ville.

That was it. Just his name. A warning. A pulse.

Ville (???): mmm say it again

say it while u sit on my face

She audibly choked. Whiskers popped his head back out from under the table like even he was concerned now.

Ville (???): fuck

sorry

that was a lot huh

i’m drunk

but i’m honest

god ur gonna hate me in the morning

Y/N: i don’t hate you

The typing bubble paused. Then started again.

Ville (???): don’t lie to me sweetheart

u prob think i’m disgusting rn

Y/N: no, just a little insane maybe

Ville (???): i’ll take it

insanity is sexy

ur sexy

i’m gonna shut up now before i say something worse

Then a longer pause from his end, but still not long enough for Y/N to think he finally passed out.

Ville (???): unless u want me to keep going

cause i can

i got HOURS of filthy things to say to u

sweet things too

like how ur eyes haunted me all fucking day

and how i miss ur voice already

and how badly i wanna know what u look like first thing in the morning

Her fingers trembled.

She didn’t respond.

And yet—

Ville (???): still not blocking me

brave girl

or maybe u like it

do u like it?

She didn’t answer that either.

But she didn’t close the chat.

Didn’t delete the messages.

Didn’t block him.

Which, in Ville’s mind, said more than words ever could.

The conversation continued relentlessly as the early hours bled into the darkness, each buzz and ping an assault on her steady attempt to reclaim sleep. Y/N’s phone lay open on the bed, its screen a harsh beacon in the quiet room. Despite her hoodie pulled tightly around her, her body trembled with a cocktail of anxiety and reluctant anticipation. Every new message from Ville blurred the lines between threat and promise, between danger and desire.

Ville (???): I swear, every time I think about your voice, I feel like I could drown in it. Like, if I got close enough I’d forget the taste of all the whiskey I’ve downed tonight.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She stared at the screen, the text bathing her in its raw, drunken honesty. His tone seeming a little bit more serious now. She wanted to say something—to push back, to retreat—but her fingers hesitated over the keyboard.

Ville (???): And you know, I keep picturing you curled up, half-asleep, that hoodie hiding everything except those eyes. I can almost see you, even if you're just a blur in the dark.

A shudder rippled through her. Every word made her pulse quicken and her thoughts scatter. She forced herself to respond in a clipped tone, determined to sound casual despite the terror knotting in her stomach.

Y/N: I'm not interested in fantasizing right now.

The message sat there for a few long beats before Ville replied.

Ville (???): You say that, but your silence is loud. You're scared—of me, or of getting hurt again? I get it, love. I've seen the walls you hide behind, and I’m not here to break them... unless that's what you want.

The rawness in his words was magnetic and maddening. Her mind raced—could she trust someone who spoke so openly, who seemed to know exactly where her scars lay? The thought made her stomach churn. Yet part of her longed to be seen, even in that vulnerable state.

Y/N: I don't know what you want from me.

Her message was short, terse. Too short, she thought, as her thumb hovered, trembling above the send button.

Ville (???): I want to help you unlearn the fear. I want to kiss away the things that hurt—gently, slowly—until you forget that it ever hurt.

Another buzz. Her anxiety deepened; it was as if every syllable he sent was a push against the fragile barrier she'd built around herself.

Ville (???): But I also want to feel you. Like, really feel you. I want to trace every line on your skin, to see if I can map out all your pain and turn it into something beautiful.

A long pause followed. Silence that made her question whether she should even engage with this reckless vulnerability. Her fingers hovered again, too paralyzed to type, as her mind replayed every whispered confession, every insinuation of intimacy and danger.

Y/N: I’m scared… of getting hurt again.

That one word, so vulnerable and raw, seemed to break the dam. For a moment, she regretted having sent it, as if admitting that fear meant she was already lost. But as the seconds ticked by, she saw that his next message wasn’t mean or mocking—it was soft, almost tender.

Ville (???): I know, and I’m sorry. I can be so damn intense. I get that, and I won’t push unless you let me. I just—sometimes, I want to believe in something real, and you… you make me want to be more than just this drunken fool.

He paused again, leaving a space filled with honesty and uncertainty. The vulnerability in his words struck something deep within her—a part that had longed for honesty but was terrified of its consequences.

Ville (???): I promise I won't hurt you, Y/N. I don’t know if I can promise I'll be gentle with my words, but I'll try. I want to be the one who makes you feel safe, even when every instinct tells you not to open up.

A shudder followed his confession, and Y/N felt tears prick at her eyes. How could he be so unabashedly raw, mixing the erotica of his drunken fantasies with a confession of care? Part of her wanted to believe him; another part screamed to run. She stared at the screen as if it held all the answers to what she had been trying to escape.

Y/N: I'm not sure I want to believe that right now. I've been hurt too many times.

Her words were soft and barely there, laden with the weight of previous scars. The room felt smaller, the silence after her reply heavy with possibility and peril.

Ville (???): I get it. I really do.

I know trust doesn't come easy, and I'm not here to force it on you.

Maybe it's just me being stupid and drunk, but if you're scared, lean on me instead of running away.

I promise—I won't treat your heart like it's disposable.

His words were interwoven with fervor and concern, a twisted mixture of lust and longing, pain and promise. The vulnerability in his voice was more than he probably intended, yet it resonated with her own hidden desires, those she fought so hard to keep locked away beneath layers of doubt and self-protection.

Another buzz. More texts flooded in.

Ville (???): I keep thinking about that moment at the shop—how you looked away when I said my name, like you were already guarding yourself against something brilliant and dangerous.

I want to be brilliant for you, Y/N.

I want to prove I'm not just another guy who will leave you bleeding from love.

Her heart pounded erratically, each beat a question: Could she afford to believe in him? Would letting him in mean risking everything she had spent so long protecting?

She typed slowly, her response cautious, laden with the weight of her fear.

Y/N: I’m tired of feeling like I have to be protected. But I’m terrified that if I let anyone in, I’ll just be shattered all over again.

The message took a long breath to send, each word a struggle to articulate the very fragility that defined her nights. For a moment, silence reigned in the thread.

Then Ville’s response came, steadying, persistent.

Ville (???): I know, and I’m not here to make you feel more fragile.

I'm here because I believe you deserve to feel something more than this perpetual numbness.

I’m not just another storm passing by—I want to stand by you even when the thunder rages.

A pause, and then the flood resumed—words that were laced with the kind of passion that made her want to scream and cry simultaneously.

Ville (???): I want to make you forget how deep your scars are, if only for a moment.

I want to fill the silence with my whispers and gentle touches that don’t hurt, but heal.

I want to know every secret you keep locked away behind that hoodie and those quiet eyes.

Her anxiety surged once again, a tidal wave threatening to pull her under. The thought of getting hurt again loomed large, dark and relentless. She could feel her inner walls trembling, slowly beginning to crumble under the weight of his obsessive declarations.

Y/N: I’m scared, Ville. Scared that if I let you in, I’ll end up broken all over again. I’m so tired of the pain.

Another long pause. The cursor blinked, impatient, then his response came—so gentle it almost felt like a caress.

Ville (???): I promise I won't be the one to add to your pain.

I promise I won’t be the storm that shatters you.

I just need a chance to show you I can be something different.

Something that holds you instead of breaking you.

His text was raw, dripping with a desperate tenderness that made her pulse quicken despite her fear. Every word was an invitation—and a risk.

Ville (???): If you ever feel like you can’t face the world alone, just remember I’m here.

I’m just a text away, ready to be the light in your darkest hours—even if I’m a little twisted right now.

Her hand trembled so badly she nearly dropped the phone again. In that moment, her heart wavered on the edge of a choice: to close the door on him, as she always had, or to risk a small, uncertain opening to let his chaotic warmth seep in.

Y/N: I don’t know if I can risk it, Ville...

She hit send before she could revise, a single, painful admission of her fear.

The phone remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Then, as if compelled by the raw vulnerability in her last words, Ville typed back:

Ville (???): Then let’s take it slow.

I won’t push if you don’t want me to.

I just... want you to know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

Even if my words are fucked up at 4AM, even if I’m drinking with Bam and acting like a lunatic.

I’ll be here when the sun rises, when you’re ready to decide whether to let someone in or not.

Another message, soft and urgent:

Ville (???): I care about you in a way that scares me more than my own demons.

And I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe—not just from me, but from the world that’s hurt you before.

Y/N’s eyes watered as she read his words, a mixture of fear and longing swirling within her. Despite all the chaos, despite the threat of more heartache, a part of her felt that maybe—just maybe—he could be different. That maybe he could be the one who wouldn’t let her fall apart.

She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she pressed the phone to her chest, feeling the warmth of its glow merge with her own beating heart. The noise of the world outside faded. All that existed were his words, his confessions—a tangle of kink, tenderness, desire, and promise.

Her phone vibrated one final time before the conversation fell silent again.

Ville (???): Goodnight, Y/N. Sleep tight.

I’ll be here when you wake.

The screen went dark once more. Y/N sat for long minutes in the quiet darkness, hoodie still pulled up around her head, heart pounding with a mix of terror and what might be hope. Outside, the night pressed on, and inside, her thoughts raced in chaotic loops, balancing on the precipice between past hurts and a fragile, new possibility.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to let sleep eventually overtake her—willing herself to trust that maybe, tomorrow might be kinder. And somewhere deep inside, despite the lingering fear, a tiny spark of courage kindled: maybe she could let someone in, even if just a little. Even if it meant risking the pain all over again.

And as her breathing deepened into uncertain sleep, her final thought was of Ville's promise—a promise that, no matter how fucked up the night might become, he wouldn’t let her disappear completely into the fog of past heartaches.