#ive watched it enough times to memorize

[elkian]

I've seen a lot of takes about the Hbomb video - here's a link; he's also done some similar works criticizing Allen Wakefield (accidentally instigated the prime anti-vax movement while trying to scam people) and Tommy Tallerico (similar vein to The Video, of plagiarism/credit theft).

I've also enjoyed some of his teardown videos, but my real favorites are his Why FNV Is Genius (and Here's Why) and Pathologic Is Genius (And Here's Why), which lead me to buying and playing (some of) Pathologic 2.

One thing worthy of note is that he specifically requests that nobody start a witch hunt over the subjects of his videos. He is an opinionated person and his righteous indignation is very entertaining, but I've never seen him seriously suggest people harass any real human beings. Suggestions to do so after watching the video have been made by the viewers and are explicitly condemned by Hbomb himself in the video. Just saying.

But more to the point is how he ends the video: he decides to cap it off with a reel of suggested viewing for people who create the kinds of things Somerton allegedly made himself, focusing on queer creators.

Here's the playlist linked in the video description:

I don't doubt other people have shared this already, but it hasn't crossed my dash, so I thought I'd give it a mention. It's a really nice way to end a video that, while focusing on informing the viewers and warning people of potential scammers essentially, does have a negative tone at times because he is, well, tearing into someone's monumental career of plagiarism.

The playlist links to videos by Alexander Avila (who was himself plagiarized by Somerton), Matt Baume, Lady Emily, verilybitchie, RickiHirsh, Shanspeare, Khadija Mbowe, hazel, Herby Revolus, Maggie Mae Fish, Kaz Rowe, Kat Blaque, Lily Alexandre, max teeth, drapetomania, Kameno -o, Lola Sebastian, Princess Weekers, CJ The X, Jennie Geist, Mia Mulder, Nick DiRamio, Sarah Z, Rowan Ellis, and finally Maven of the Eventide.

(I have chosen to spare my wrists and sanity by not hyperlinking those names because the playlist is literally right there.)

Fun facts: this list, which apparently also has nonbinary and trans artists on it, contains 0 names I am already familiar with. I don't spend a lot of time on Youtube outside of very specific needs, but this still makes for a good opportunity for me to familiarize myself with work from others in the community.

Anyways, I just think that's an extremely cool way to end a four-hour-video that, while extremely entertaining, is a bit of a down to watch and realize how easily extremely unmotivated people are stealing others' work and making bank off of it. That's all I had to say, goodnight.

#elk text #hbomberguy #i found him through the sherlock video that everyone was sharing a couple years ago #but that fnv video man #ive watched it enough times to memorize #comfort media

[obnoxiousarcade]

i neeeeed that book

#my birthday is soonish. maybe i can get it. #but idk where any english translations are. i mean i know they exist but rhe book didnt sell as well here like at all if i remember righr #ive watched the movie enough times to have memorized parts of the script #and yet. ive never read the book #its all i want in a book! and its out of my reeeeaaaaaach! #fox (vulpes vulpes) on the internet for the first time #one day....sigh

[miyaur]

hello! can you please write for liyue’s men (with like tartaglia/baizhu/scaramouche too) and their types? like what they look in a s/o and what kind of s/o they’d like/it would suit them best? thxxxxxx

⟢ my kind of woman ft. liyue men + tartaglia & scara ・synopsis. what kind of person are they into? or really who'd match them best? ・notes. yay jing yuan and blade theme my baes, anyways!! i love this sm ive rly wanted to write ab smth like this!! oh also this is really just my thoughts plus relationship headcannons :D ・warnings. suggestive , GN!READER. title is inspired by mac demarco's song :)

opposites attract, the olive theory, i like to believe that most lovers are usually the opposites of each other, or atleast disagree with something in a way. ・for zhongli, having to deal with childe and hu tao everyday, it isn't a breath of fresh air when it comes to an s/o that's overly affectionate and loud, not that he finds it annoying, finds it very cute, every little bit of affection you give him makes his day always. other people might find you overtly obnoxious, but he'd never, everything about you honestly is really.. perfect.. to him. can't describe it in words, even if you were to be similar, he's the type to always expect it, and be the only person not being scared by you, and he's honestly okay with that, hu tao is probably your guys' matchmaker! will trap you both in a closet together while you visited the funeral parlor, gives it about... 15 minutes.. and small hickey can definitely be seen on you and him, is both happy and goes "ew... get a room!!" and also the person to stash both of you guys into a cramped area when she knows very damn well you both like each other.. well took you both long enough honestly, definitely got impatient and pushed you guys... a bit..

・alatus xiao... definitely will tell you you are annoying at first, but you are the annoying he loves <3. the only annoying person he will listen to, and give forehead kisses to, and cuddle all night 'till he sleeps. you really are an exception... but if he'll be totally real with himself, he loves it when you bug him to tell him about what happened today, or who you've talked to, or if you've seen anything new, falls in love all over again every time that you do. likes zoning out when you rant, and all he can see is your pretty smile going on and on about some vendor who gave you free food. likes to shut you up with a kiss, does it often, and makes both of you red. whenever you hear him say something like "do you ever shut up?", it translates to "please keep talking with that soothing voice of yours." i promise he loves you so much, just is still getting used to it.

extrovert x introvert kind of way, one that talks alot, one that listens alot. ・oh loverboy childe/tartaglia.. literal devil x angel type of relationship, in this case, he's the devil. loves bothering you, like even if you give him something while he waits for you to be done with whatever you need to be done, he can't be distracted from distracting his lover?! still a huge sweetheart, don't get me wrong, the type to really memorize things about you too, notices so many little things about you, like even things you don't even notice. but someone who can tolerate his shenanigans are the best match for him. the best hugs ever too, so when you're stressed, just ask for cuddles and kisses and he'll be there to talk to you, even if you don't wanna talk about it, he'll talk to you about his day to comfort you instead. loves you like you are an angel from heaven that blessed him, because you were, and you did.

・kaedehara kazuha.. in this case you are the extrovert, likes to listen you rambling about something from work, the type to hold you close to his chest and hum a familiar tune to get you to sleep, likes to just watch and listen to someone who tends to talk a lot with no one listening to them, but he's always there for you. such a sweetheart with it too, loves to hold your hand while you do, if anyone tells you you're annoying best bet he'll deal with them, with words. isn't shy to say you're his s/o, unintentionally tells everyone about you, "honestly s/o is such a dear for me. they ---." he's ranting to a toucan by the way.

grumpy x sunshine, this is scaramouche with his s/o, if i do say so myself. literal showers of affection in private, 'cold-hearted' in public, promise he doesn't mean the insults he spits at you. still willing for a bit of pda though, basic holding hands is the only kinda he allows tbh, lowkey flexes you when he's with someone else, "oh you know, s/o would've done better than you." so even if you haven't even met them, probably one of his coworkers or friends are already fed up with you (as a joke and seriously), if he's ever upset, he'll really just come over to you, ready for your little kisses on his cheeks, and your head on his lap, just adoring each other, like no one else would.

sun x moon is what baizhu and you would be. and goes so far to already decide what to call your children together. stars. in this case, you're his sun, loud, kind, caring, everything he could imagine, him? oh he's not all that special. he thinks you fell from celestia because wow you really shine, and he's more than thankful everyday that, and likes to spend time with both you and qiqi. so he also does call qiqi a star too <3. just like kazuha, he likes listening more than talking, does the zoning out thing too, changsheng has to tell him to stop so he listens to you, a bright person with someone like him really just.. he knows how much he's been blessed by archons.

❀ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈）taglist: @edit-me-prettyplease | wanna be tagged for my posts? click here!

#genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin drabbles #genshin fluff #genshin headcanons #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact scenarios #genshin fanfic #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin x female reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact x you #genshin scenarios #baizhu x gender neutral reader #baizhu x male reader #baizhu x y/n #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #childe x reader #childe x you #kazuha x y/n #kazuha x you #xiao x y/n #xiao x reader #xiao genshin impact #xiao fluff #adeptus xiao

[spiderrmax]

soft moments

synopsis: soft moments shared with the main four word count: 500ish (each) author's note: i don't believe in proofreading. ive never made a mistake. ever

stan marsh

Stan's movements are sluggish as he enters your bedroom. Without care, he unties the laces of his sneakers, but making sure to leave them in a place you won't trip. Heaving out a long sigh, he collapses clumsily into your messy bed; your comforter is at the foot of your bed, and your pillows are placed haphazardly. Stan buries his head into one, and finds comfort in the familiar smell of your shampoo. You enter in behind him, and snort, amused, at how he's sprawled out. He has no energy to give you a snide comment, instead using that effort to take his beanie off, allowing his black hair to sprawl around his head, acting as a halo on your pillow.

The day's weight is heavy on you too, but you take more time in removing your shoes. Unlike Stan, who went to school in sweatpants, you have to change into something more comfortable. With his gaze in your pillow sheets, there's no discomfort in allowing yourself to find mix-matched pajamas to relax. He seems to sense when you're done shifting, and rolls over onto his back, watching as you finish pulling your shirt over your head. When you turn to face him, he shuts his eyes, just open enough he can just see your blurry figure.

He watches as you gently brush his hair from his forehead, clearing a spot so you can press a soft kiss onto it. Not wanting to give himself away, he doesn't allow a grin to show on his face, but his heart speeds up anyway, like it always does. When you go to pull away, most likely to let him rest, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist, pulling you down into the bed next to him. The scared yelp you let out does elicit an amused chuckle from him, and you can only shoot an unamused look his way. You don't pull away, lured in by his warmth.

One of his hands stays wrapped around you, while the other shoots to grab your comforter. He struggles for a bit to get it comfortably over the two of you, and you're forced to help throw the blanket. You fluff it up in the air, and it slowly falls over the two of you. Once it's situated, Stan pulls you in closer, gently placing your head into the crook of his shoulder. Despite being so strung up from the day, you find yourself relaxing into him, worries melting under the protection from the comforter and being in his arms. His breathing evens out pretty quickly, eyes shut and his features soft; you find yourself mapping out his skin, despite having every mole and freckle memorized from previous naps. He's prettiest like this, you think, when the world can't ruin everything. Subconsciously, he pulls you closer, and you grin. You fall asleep smiling, grateful to be in love and to be loved.

kyle broflovski

You know your attention should be on the copy of Hamlet in your lap, but you find it much more entertaining to admire your boyfriend as he reads the same book. His brows are furrowed, trying to decipher Shakespeare’s words, and his nose occasionally scrunches when he doesn’t understand it at first. Green eyes skirt around the page, going back and forth; he pauses to tab specific lines.

Sitting at the opposite end of the couch, you wish he decided to close the gap, most likely sitting far away in hopes you’ll stay focused. Long fingers turn the page, and you watch as he pauses, before making eye contact with you. A loving grin adorns your face, painting his pale skin pink. You laugh at his flustered state, scooting closer to him, subconsciously.

He’s unamused, rolling his eyes and nudging your leg with a sock-clad foot. After that, his attention is back on the book, intending to get it finished. You admire his dedication, wishing your brain was able to be enticed by the tragedy. A sigh escapes your lips, as you glance back down at your book. There is a lingering thought that you'll have to get a synopsis online.

Kyle must notice your struggle, and taps your leg with his foot again. He's smiling at you, shifting his left arm a bit, an invite for you to come lay. There's no hesitance, your copy of Hamlet falling onto the floor as you move to enter his embrace. Once you're situated, using his chest as a pillow, his left arm wraps around you, reaching again to open the book.

He opens earlier than he was, noticeable by the fact he's already tabbed some of the pages. You grin, giddy that he doesn't mind going back for you. Once he's found the first page you were assigned, he begins reading it aloud. His voice is deep, but lacks the emotion the characters should be having during their monologues. It's still perfect, and although some of the meanings fly over your head, the words stick clearer now. His left hand leaves the book to trace designs in the fabric of your shirt; it only leaves that spot when he needs to turn the page, returning as quickly as it left.

The words sound nice on his lips, and you can't help but glance up at him. He looks nicest like this, focused yet relaxed. You know if you vocalized this he would disagree, arguing that you aren't looking at him at a flattering angle. Again, once he's finished a page, he turns to glance down at you; your stare not subtle, but still loving. He rolls his eyes, but smiles despite himself fondly. Gently, he pushes a strand of hair out of your face, before pressing a kiss to your temple.

After, he returns reading aloud, and you snuggle closer, wrapped entirely in him.

eric cartman

Your legs swing as you sit atop of Eric's sink, waiting for him to find the product he plans to use. A headband is situated on your head, pushing your locks back to keep them out of your face; you're sure you look ridiculous right now.

Recently, Eric's taken an interest in skin care; buying a surplus of face masks and serums to use on his soft skin. He prides himself in the knowledge, and with that hubris, asked for you to partake in his new hobby with him. Not without limits of course, your boyfriend is always very particular with how things are done. He's taken care to pick out the products he'd think were the best for your skin, and hasn't let your hands near his product, saying you'd use too much. You don't mind, really, enjoying how gentle his touch gets as he massages the product into your skin; he's never this soft.

Eric lets out a noise of triumph before returning with a clay mask, and when he places it down next to you, you see it's meant to provide a deep cleanse. In his other hand is the tool meant to apply the mask, and you sit up to make his work easier. 

Slowly, he opens the container, and you can see visible usage of the product; you grin a bit at the realization he doesn't mind sharing a favored product with you. The mask itself is green, and you watch as Eric slowly dips the applicator in, and gets enough product to start coating your cheeks. It's cool on your skin, but you don't back away, allowing Eric to paint your face slowly. His brows are furrowed in concentration, biting his lip as he concentrates to cover your face evenly. Soon, he's painting over the bridge of your nose, before he's having to get a bit more from the container.

The process continues as such, and you're grateful that the green mask is covering most of the heat in your face. His fingers linger at your jaw, having to tilt your face to get better access to certain parts of your face. His stare is concentrated, but occasionally it softens when he backs up to admire you. Eric's hair is pushed back with a headband too, and once he's finished with the application with your mask, begins applying his own.

He's much quicker with applying his then he was when he was doing yours, swift with thinly coating it onto his face. By the time he's done, certain patches of the clay have dried on your face. The mask is patchy as you look in the mirror, and you can't help but stick your tongue out at your reflection. Your silly faces cause Eric to begin laughing, and it becomes a competition to make the craziest faces as you two wait for the masks to dry.

kenny mccormick

It's not rare for you to find yourself on a roof of a building with Kenny. It's where he tends to go when the weight of the world gets too much; recently, he's extended that invite to you.

There's not a lot of words exchanged as the two of you sit up there, finding solace in the night sky. Occasionally, you point out constellations, despite not knowing many of their names. Sometimes Kenny and you make up your own names for the stars, laughing at some of the ridiculous things you guys can come up with.

Tonight, neither of you say nothing; the day too long for jokes. You're still curled up together, your knees under your chin. Kenny is leaned back, propped up on his arms, with one being behind your back. You still enjoy looking at the stars, mapping them out quietly, allowing yourself to focus on something that isn't the stress of your typical day. Every time you turn back to look at Kenny, to quietly check to see if he's doing okay, he's always staring at you. Despite being embarrassed to be under his gaze, you can't help but notice how nice he looks under the moonlight, adding highlights to his blonde locks. He smirks, almost cat-like when you meet his eyes, and you quickly turn back to look at the sky.

It's cold, like it always is in South Park, but tonight the wind seems more brutal. The long shirt you're wearing isn't a lot to keep out the piercing breeze. It bites at your face, and in return you tuck your chin closer to your knees, hoping to provide some warmth. You can feel the rise of goose bumps on your arm, and try to grind your jaw to prevent your teeth from chattering.

Kenny shifts beside you, and you look over just in time to see him taking off his orange parka. He holds it out to you, still grinning, and you hesitate before taking it. You glance at the black shirt he's wearing, which seems to be made of a thick material, and he nods at you, reassuring. Slowly, you take it, and unwind yourself, sacrificing your minimal body heat for the warmth that radiates from Kenny's jacket. The sleeves hang off your arms, allowing your hands to be covered too.

Once you're situated, Kenny pulls you close, tucking you into his chest. Teasingly, he grabs the hood and pulls it over your head; you allow it to happen. His left arm wraps around you, and he continues to use his right to support his weight. You reach for the hand wrapped around your waist, squeezing it as to say thanks. Just barely, you can feel his lips press softly on your forehead. You grin, relaxing further into his embrace and his warmth.

Despite the lack of words, you can feel the love radiating off of Kenny.

#south park x reader #stan marsh x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #eric cartman x reader #kenny mccormick x reader

[python333]

task force 141 reacting to [reader] telling them corny jokes during a mission — python333

— — — —

synopsis just as the title says, tf141 reacts to you telling them some corny dad jokes during a mission!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], bad jokes.

note ME AND MY 23 FOLLOWERS ARE STRAIGHT CHILLING RN. i love all of u. anyway gaz is in this one!! yippee!! i thought about ghost and his jokes in that one part of one of the cod games idk ive never played them i watch other people play it but you guys know what im talking about. i also just figured out that i should probably specify gender neutral reader for my fics?? so i'll start doing that! ANYWAY enjoy!! this is all fluff and has some classic tired parent & hyper toddler energy in the first part :}

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ insert exasperated sigh here.

➥ he will let you keep telling him jokes, however he will only respond to them with a simple, tired, “Uh huh. Good one. Very funny. Nice one.”

➥ tired dad energy.

➥ the first one you told was okay. he laughed at that one. the tenth one? please, god, just stop talking and put him out of his misery.

➥ he wonders how you know so many jokes, and then wonders if you got them all from ghost.

➥ if you did get them from ghost, trust that he will be telling the man himself all about how you constantly told him bad jokes over comms.

➥ if you just happen to know all of these, he won’t be surprised.

➥ he’ll put up with all of the jokes, for your sake, of course.

➥ the first time this happens, you’re both on a pretty insignificant mission compared to other ones you’ve done.

➥ you’re both talking over comms, just making sure you’re both okay.

➥ that’s when you started your attack.

—

“Captain?” You’d asked, listening as Price hummed in acknowledgment of you talking, “Wanna hear a joke?”

You could practically hear his hesitation, before he responded with a tentative, almost scared, “... Sure, [c/n].”

A delighted grin split across your face as you asked him, “How does dry skin affect you at work?”

He thought for a moment before asking, “How?”

“You don’t have any elbow grease to put into it.” You heard Price give a small chuckle, and decided to ask, “Wanna hear another one?”

Price’s second mistake of the evening, “Sure.”

“Where do boats go when they’re sick?” You asked, still keeping a lookout on your surroundings on your end while focusing on telling your Captain shitty jokes.

“Where?” Price asked.

“To the boat doc.” It took Price a moment, before he huffed out a small laugh and muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “Jesus, that’s terrible.”

Without warning, you tell him another one. He asks why, when, how, or what, whichever was appropriate for the joke you told, and slowly but surely his questioning tone became tired and exasperated. You don’t know why, but somehow his miserable tone made you even more motivated to tell him corny jokes.

“Do you just… memorize all of these?” Price asked in the middle of you telling a new joke, sounding almost astonished.

“Yes I do. Just for these missions, I do,” You answered confidently, smiling when Price sighed. You continued on with your joke, and even though Price didn’t respond verbally, you still told the punch line. You had repeated this for at least ten minutes, all of those minutes appallingly slow to Price, the poor man having to endure your bullshit for such a short yet such a long time. At the tenth minute, the only thing that stopped you from continuing was Gaz’s voice coming on over comms and interrupting you, telling everyone else on the mission that they could head back to the rendezvous point. Price, relieved at the interruption, gave a thankful sigh and you could hear him getting up from his spot before he muted himself.

You sighed as well, yours a direct opposite of Prices, full of disappointment, but you let it go. Besides, you’ll always have more opportunities to terrorize Price with your jokes on the ride back to base!

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ he has the same reaction he had with ghost telling him corny jokes.

➥ he’ll call your jokes terrible, but will still laugh at them somehow.

➥ will 100% put up with your jokes, will laugh every time, even if his laughter slowly becomes more and more strained, he’ll laugh.

➥ tells you some jokes back, but after your 4th joke, he gives up and accepts his fate.

➥ he will suffer for your entertainment, guaranteed.

➥ he will be sure to remind you of how terrible your jokes are though!!

➥ he’s honestly impressed by how many jokes you’ve memorized.

➥ he’ll happily support you doing this to other people, no matter how much it damages his soul when you do it to him.

➥ the first time you do it to him, he starts getting deja vu from when ghost did it to him.

➥ “Oh, God, no’ ye too,” he’d groan playfully the moment you start telling him jokes, getting flashbacks.

➥ enjoys your jokes, even if he would do anything for you to shut up, he still enjoys them.

—

You and Soap were camping out in the same spot—atop a roof of a tall building that was just tall enough to give you a view of practically every other building in the area as well as the ground. It was cold up there, the air so cold that every time you’d exhaled, your breath turned to white condensation before fading into the clear sky.

It was fair to say that you and Soap were fairly bothered by the cold, so you really had no other option, you just had to start telling your jokes. How else could you warm the both of you up? Sure, it wouldn’t do anything physically, but mentally? It was sure to practically melt Soap’s brain.

“Soap?” Soap hummed and looked over at you, “Wanna hear a joke?”

Soap smiled, and decided to humor you, “Sure. Joke ‘way.”

“Why couldn’t the bike stand up by itself?” You asked, turning fully towards Soap. He didn’t bother to think before asking, “Why?”

“Because it was two-tired.” It took him a moment, but eventually he huffed out a small laugh and nodded.

“No’ bad,” He’d hummed, “Want me to say one?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did vikings communicate with one another?” Soap asked, turning fully towards you in turn.

“How?”

“By Norse code,” Soap had said with a grin on his face, clearly proud of the joke. You laughed quietly at it.

Without asking, you tell another joke. “Why did the bed wear a disguise?”

“Why?”

“It was undercover.”

Soap chuckled and turned back down to the ground, assuming you were done. But, oh boy, did he assume wrong. You told another one. He asked for the punchline. You delivered. You told another. He asked again. You delivered, again. Can you recall just how many jokes you told that fateful night? No. Does that make the memory any less funny to look back on? No.

Soap’s expression slowly turned to one of misery, his laughter becoming strained and slowly coming to a stop, the light in his eyes fading away as God himself seemed to appear behind you and reassure him that it would all be over soon. God, how he wished that were true.

Soon enough, you were both told over comms that you were able to safely make it back to the rendezvous point, and Soap couldn’t be happier.

He let you tell him more jokes during the walk over there, of course, and made sure to tell you how awful they were, but still endured them for your sake.

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ it’s like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life.

➥ he’ll put up with your jokes and will tell you a joke back every single time.

➥ at some point you guys will probably use a joke on each other that the other one told you.

➥ he actively enjoys the joke-telling.

➥ he probably tells the first joke and that’s what triggers you to tell him your own.

➥ he’s annoyed soap, gaz, price, and a few others with his jokes, yet you’re the first one to go back and forth with him.

➥ every time you tell him one he’ll make a mental note of it and remember it for annoying people on future missions.

➥ probably thinks some of the jokes are genuinely funny but still knows that it annoys people.

➥ if you tell him a corny joke related to ghosts, he’ll probably laugh more.

➥ i am aware that that is pretty corny in itself but look at the title man what did you expect.

➥ he’ll probably tell some jokes about your [c/n] to you back.

➥ he’ll know when you’re reusing a joke and calls you out on it.

➥ “Does this require more creativity than you expected, [c/n]?”

➥ [in a perfect imitation of matpat’s voice] i find his jokes delightful! [in regular voice, now whispering as if scared i’m going to get caught by ghost saying this] i’m lying. he’s my fictional father figure so i am very much obligated to enjoy his jokes.

—

”[c/n], how copy?” You heard Ghost’s voice crackle through over comms, and pushed the PTT button on your small ear piece to respond.

“Copy, doing just fine,” You responded, “Little bored, if I’m gonna be honest.”

“Oh really?” Ghost breathed out, sounding amused. You could hear some gunfire on his end, and the wind his his earpiece making the annoying whoosh noise you hated. Just a few moments later, Ghost spoke up again, “Y’wanna hear a joke to ease your boredom?”

“Sure,” You’d hummed, looking around to make sure you were still safe to just stay where you were and chat for a moment.

“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?” Ghost asked, his voice dry and sarcastic. You thought for a moment before shrugging—even though he couldn’t see you—and asking, “What?”

“A stick.” Ghost delivered. The stupid joke made you huff out a small laugh and mutter under your breath something about how good it was, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could practically hear Ghost’s self-satisfied smile.

“Another?” Ghost offered.

“How about I tell one?”

“Alright. Go ‘head.”

“How do ghosts stay in shape?” You asked, listening to Ghost’s amused huff on the other end of the line, like he knew where you were going with the joke but decided not to say the punch line for you.

“How?”

“They exorcize,” You responded, grinning, proud of yourself for thinking of that one.

“That’s not bad,” Ghost hummed, “Not bad at all.”

Ghost stayed quiet for another moment before asking, “Where do fish keep their money?”

“Where?”

“In a river bank,” Ghost said, his smile almost audible in his words.

“Nice one, L.t,” You breathed out, laughing quietly.

“We could do this all night,” Ghost mused, oddly happy at the sound of your quiet laughter, a little rustling audible on his end.

“Is that a challenge?” You asked in response to his musings, to which Ghost responds with a simple, affirmative hum. You think for a moment, before asking, “Why can’t a leopard hide?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s always spotted.”

Ghost hummed, mentally writing that one down before asking, “Why did the scarecrow get an award?”

“Why?”

“Because he was outstanding in his field,” Ghost delivered. With each joke you cringed more, and yet you kept responding with the same bullshit. The two of you went back and forth with the shitty jokes, eliciting responses from each other like, “That’s a good one,” or, “God, that’s awful.” It really had no in between, it was one or the other.

Eventually, and just in time because you were beginning to run out of jokes, Price’s voice crackled through over comms, letting you both know that everything was now under control and gave you both the coordinates for the rendezvous point. Before you get up from your spot, you can hear Ghost asking Price, “Wanna hear a joke?”, and Price’s quick response of, “I’m good”, the quick interaction making you laugh quietly.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,” You muttered, voice full of amusement.

“Damn right he doesn’t,” Ghost huffed out, chuckling quietly when Price groaned and muted himself.

—

KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK

➥ he just gives up and accepts his fate.

➥ i’m actually in full belief that he’ll just let you tell jokes and won’t even respond.

➥ if y’all are in the same spot, he’ll just stare at you in astonished silence, wondering how you know all of this and also wondering if he’ll make it out of this alive.

➥ i think he’s lovely, i also think that he would just let you do whatever.

➥ it’s like an older brother participating in his younger sibling’s tea party with their stuffed animals and bright pink plastic tea cups and fake tea.

➥ he considers taking out his earpiece but then realizes that that’s a bad idea so he just suffers through it.

➥ surprisingly, it’s easy to focus on his tasks even with your voice in the background.

➥ he’s only heard of ghost’s shitty jokes, and thinks that this might be worse, somehow.

➥ i mean, it’s not like he can’t ignore it, but he feels kind of bad that he does.

➥ he hums every now and then to remind you that he’s listening but he’s too caught up in pretending to listen to actually listen.

➥ when the mission’s over and you eventually stop telling your jokes he realizes how quiet it is without your voice in the background laughing at your own jokes.

—

“Why do bees have sticky hair?” You asked, this being about your twentieth joke of that evening. Gaz hummed in response, tone questioning, and you delivered the punch line, “Because they use a honeycomb.”

Gaz didn’t pay much attention to any of your punchlines, really just letting you get all of this out of your system, figuring that if you didn’t do it now it’d happen to some poor soul later. He accepted his fate early on, the moment you told your third dad joke, he knew it wouldn’t end. Call it a sixth sense of his, knowing when you’d be persistent in your quest to annoy every member of the 141, but he just knew.

“Where do surfers learn to surf?” You asked, giggling quietly at your own joke, despite the punchline being stupid. Gaz didn’t even respond, yet you still delivered, “At boarding school.”

Gaz considers taking his earpiece out for a moment, then thinks again and decides it’s probably better not to, knowing Price’s voice could crackle through into the earpiece and let you both know to head to the rendezvous point. Sighing quietly, he continued to look around him, scanning the area as he walked around, making sure no enemies were left alive. Your voice still hummed in the background, the sound becoming more normal to him and less distracting.

“Why did the tourists feel disappointed after seeing the Liberty Bell?” No response from Gaz. “Because it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

“What do rabbits need after getting caught in the rain?” A small, questioning hum. “A hare dryer.”

You continued to tell your jokes, and in the middle of one, Gaz interrupted.

“Y’know,” He started, “If you didn’t already have a call sign, we’d be calling you Jester.”

“I’d love to go by Jester,” You laughed quietly, lightly, “I feel like it’d be more fitting.”

“Probably, yeah,” Gaz chuckled quietly, about to say something else before Price’s voice came through over comms and let you both know to head over to the rendezvous point. After you stop telling your jokes and mute yourself, Gaz can’t help but notice how quiet it becomes.

He got a bit too used to your voice, it seems. He muted himself and sighed, pulling up the coordinates to the rendezvous point and heading over there.

#yippee #this took me longer to write than i expected tbh #i procrastinated so hard but we r still here!! still posting daily!! #hey guys whats up its ya boy back at it again #ew i hate myself #anyway #cod #cod hcs #hcs #task force 141 #tf141 #task force 141 x reader #platonic task force 141 x reader #platonic taskforce141 #captain john price #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #i think thats good #still trying to remember every tag ive ever used on here

[catscidr]

// aquarium (i want you dead or alive) //  

i. note — hihihi enjoy this short thing i did as a warmup to get my brain juices flowing _(:3」∠)_ this was inspired by aquarium from funny boy matt watson (its a good song trust)…..heard the chorus n went "wow this sure does remind me of someone" ii. includes — modern au akademiya (university) student dottore, gn!reader  iii. cw — stalking and yandere tendencies, obsession, smoking, blood, homicidal thoughts. no dialogue; just dottore nd his thoughts. also not quite proofread ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ iv. wc — 1k -> now also on ao3 (b˙◁˙ )b

It’s hard to ignore things when your brain is so hellbent on making you notice. 

Forcing your eyes to flit over every single inch of a room you walk in, making your legs carry you towards something that, unconsciously, caught your attention because they just happened to remind you of something. 

When it’s curiosity driven it isn’t too bad, since the worst that can happen is a slight pang of disappointment when your curiosity isn’t sated from your inquisition.

It’s an entirely different problem when the urge to look for something specific is caused by a deep-rooted obsession with something. 

Someone. 

And it’s even worse when you see things in places where they simply are not. 

Walking out of the Akademiya to seek shelter at the dingy bus stop the city can’t bother fixing, catching a glimpse of the poster on the side of it. A model posing with a bottle of perfume stares back, the advertisement almost mocking him as he stops walking shy of being under the bus stop’s roof. 

Its face morphs into one he’s all too familiar with instead of being a stranger’s, and his mouth inhales more air than it needs to. 

Stepping into the squalid convenience store near his flat to grab an energy drink and a pack of cigarettes, wordlessly paying for the items until the cashier says ‘have a nice evening’ in a tired, unenthusiastic tone. Hands faltering for a millisecond as he awkwardly grabs what he purchased, immediately taking out and lighting up a dart to exhale the agitation simmering inside his gut. 

The pitch of their voice was uncannily close to yours. 

Slamming his apartment door shut and kicking his shoes off, dragging himself into his room to make good use of the energy drink he just bought. Opening his laptop only to be met with the sight of sanguine boring into the screen before it dissipates and the screen lights up, displaying his hard work. 

Curtains drawn at all hours of the day, his bedroom was no stranger to gloom. Though void of any natural luminescence, multiple copies of your face smile back at him. 

He exhales smoke through his nose, tapping the excess ash forming at the tip of his cigarette into a tray and takes a sip of his drink, never blinking. 

... 

To him, not having any classes together didn’t matter at all. Didn’t even make a single difference. 

None. 

Because sitting in the same lecture hall as you wouldn’t matter or change a thing, since he would be just as far away in that hypothetical than if he were in a different class.  

Which he is. 

His grades are high enough that he can afford to ditch his class to loiter in the vicinity of your classroom instead. You don’t speak much, but he doesn’t particularly care since it allows him to listen. To memorize the sound of your chair screeching as quietly as it can behind you, memorize your tendency to be one of the first people to leave the class in order to rush to your next one. 

Memorize how you fail to take notice of your surroundings on days like these where you have a class right after the other, as he watches your legs work overtime to carry you to the other side of the building to make it in time. 

It lets him think, undisturbed. 

... 

He never musters up the courage to speak to you. You only spoke because he was careless and accidentally made himself noticeable in the sea of students one too many times, and he apparently looked so out of place that you sparked up a conversation with him despite not being the type to reach out first. 

Maybe God was playing with him by making you do something he hadn’t predicted. The conversation itself was brief, but long enough for him to want to talk to you again. 

And for you to want to talk to him again, too. 

...And talk to you again he does when you spot his minty bedhead in the library and sit across from him, making his poor heart leap out of his chest, bringing one hand down to close his laptop screen a little too harshly. Bile rose in his throat; too engrossed in his research, he hadn’t heard you approach him at all. A fault he’ll have to rectify later. 

After you apologize in his stead to the students that gave you both a side-eye for making noise, God how he wants to pluck each and every single one of their eyes out, you take out your own laptop from your bag and open it up to get to work alongside him. 

He tries to keep his mind at bay for now, wanting to enjoy his impromptu date with you. 

... 

Washing blood off his clothes has always been a hassle, especially considering how he had to walk to the laundromat to do so. He somehow always has a stain somewhere on his person, whether it’s from accidentally hurting himself or from his proneness to getting nosebleeds. 

Or other reasons. 

Standing over the sink, he watches the liquid drip from his nose down to the porcelain basin. Observing the pattern it makes as it slides down the drain, watching the vibrant red turn into slithers of watery vermillion. He clutches the edges of the sink tightly, letting himself fantasize about assaulting the students from a few hours ago. Cleaning their blood off of his shirt, then watching his clothes tumble in the washing machine in the laundromat. 

Now that he was alone, he shuts his eyes and sighs. He refused to let himself think anything less than pure thoughts around you lest you somehow gain the ability to read minds and decide to read his, if they could even be called that. 

They were more akin to promises than anything else. 

Opening his eyes, he’s met with more red than white, his nose’s blood having taken up more surface area than the sink itself. Some had even gotten on his previously pristine collar. 

Zandik glances up, staring at his stained button-up in the mirror. 

Maybe he wouldn’t wash your blood off of his clothes. 

#made him be one of those ppl that get nosebleeds bc i like to think he has a deviated septum #get it #bc he probably broke his nose at least once #patting myself on the back for that one Im So Creative #୧ ‧₊˚cat's work! #genshin x reader #dottore x reader #genshin x you #dottore x you #dottore x gn reader #dottore genshin impact #genshin impact #tw yandere #tw blood #tw stalking #tw violence #tw smoking

[ms0milk]

𝟗 | 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐭

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"You are mine."

no cw bkg is no poet laureate. the curtain falls on y/n's business formal era. a long overdue confrontation, an eerie garden, IV drip of catharsis, romance a la knock down drag out fight, and an unexpected guest. memories of Alderan monsoons. we're halfway through, folks. the prince and his guard are more similar than they'd like to admit 5.8k

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glossary lmao featherbit is what happens when you're shooting with feather fletching (not plastic) and you don't move the thumb supporting the arrow out of the way fast enough. the feathers move so fast they slice your hand-- i once had to pull some out of my bone, they really get in there. i practiced archery with a bunch of old women as a kid so this might be their special term and not technically accurate. not sure, pls enjoy :)

In the interim between spring and summer, there are a few weeks filled with rage. Fights break out in the kitchens, porcelain shatters at the market. Children used to bumps and bruises suddenly snap the necks off their dolls in the moments after stubbing toes or pinching fingers.

The string of your bow snapped in a tight draw this past spring, while you were training in the forests beyond Aldera’s gates. The nocked arrow bucked sideways with no clear direction and panicked into the ground a few feet away but not so aimlessly that it didn’t catch your bowhand with its fletching first. You screamed that day, for the first time you ever remember and not because it hurt. A quirk like a sneeze maybe. You screamed again, something pent-up and ferocious, after biting the feathers from the thick of your thumb and then calmly packed up to go home.

When misfortunes pile up, there isn’t a person alive that won’t eventually snap. That’s what May is for, that’s all May is for. Those few weeks before summer are especially unlucky and nothing else, and the rage doesn’t mean a thing. Takoba is a vacuum and the prince is fire in a jar, nothing else. It doesn’t mean anything that your fingers are twitching, or that it’s November.

In the sandpit of Aizawa’s training quarters, Takoban soldiers watch on as Uraraka finally convinces you to shoot for her. They whisper on the sidelines sipping from their waterskins, chatting, gossiping all half dressed in some combination of armor and day clothes, or some just look. More than a few only watch you, somewhat apprehensive of the Alderan girl who fired into a crowd with no discipline from Aizawa.

In fact, the Master watches the pit now from his office above the sprawling arena, nursing black tea and a scowl.

You ready a borrowed bow. It’s so natural, the weight of the weapon in your bicep and the sting of fresh strings under your fingertips. “This one’s mine!” Uraraka beams while you repeatedly draw the empty string to your cheek and lower it again for adjustments, “I’m a terrible shot so it doesn’t get much use.”

For a week it’s been this. Training with the timid soldiers and their sweet apprentice captain. Declining a great many invitations from Denki and Mina to “sleepover.” Rising earlier than dawn, banishing the guard sent to watch your door and searching again for your prince. Avoiding the kitchens. Memorizing every corner of the seashell castle in cold autumnal hallways, its sprawling outer walkways battered by sea air, and studying all of the history parsed out in seedsized carvings along odd walls.

For someone so loud, your prince is adept at hiding. For someone so highly trained, your ego cannot take much more of this. Every morning spent searching for someone who thinks nothing of you unless it is to torment.

When the prince is at home he hardly dresses daintily, opting instead for hunting vests and all their loops and hooks for weapons. He wears gold and furs at home, so do you. In Takoba he wears stiff linens with silver climbing from the cuffs. Little blue bows to tie closed his tunic like a viscous babydoll. If you couldn’t still feel his hands at your throat you would laugh.

Shinsou is off running errands for his master and so your only other companion is Sero, gangly as ever, and grinning sleepily as he watches beside Uraraka and her men. “I haven’t seen you shoot in years, Y/n!”

“Why have you seen me shoot at all?” You murmur as you reach into the quiver at your hip to select an arrow. There’s no gallery in Jeanist’s arena at home so unless a lord or lady would like to stand amongst sparring soldiers there is no place to watch you train.

You finger through the decorative fletching and select the one that reminds you most of your queen. Oilslick green feathers, every shimmering color of a peacock sewn to a white birch shaft.

Everyday you find him at lunch, your prince and his friends, growling and smiling through their food in the Great Hall with all the other hundreds of castle staff taking meals. Everyday you station yourself outside the Hall, safe from lunch rush crowds, and everyday he must pass you to leave. You can follow him then. Noon is when you begin your shift. He doesn’t grunt or rumble or speak a single word. Not once all week has he looked at you and no longer do you want to watch him.

Uraraka beams, “Bullseye and lunch is on me!”

“Lunch is free,” you whisper through the draw of your nicely nocked arrow. The bowstrings sit heavy under your fingers as you pull strength to your shoulders in Alderan form. Hips grounded, back straight, shoulders bulging under the pressure, familiar and sore is the draw of a bow and arrow.

Hands trembling, sweat pooling, legs clenched and chest heaving, no matter how often you work your body to exhaustion you can feel him near you. Baths and laundry do not wash away the too soft touch of his hands. Even if it’s only to yawn– to blink– each time your eyes close the prince’s flushed face comes to you, and even more haunting than that is how cold you feel when those same eyes open again. How pitiful your appetite for remembering humiliation. You ready your body to shoot.

You haven’t trained for fifteen years just to miss a shot in front of foreign company. It’s perfect, you are perfect, you know exactly where this arrow will land and how to get it there, like a magnet the arrowhead screams bullseye. You draw tighter, pull the green fletching close enough to your cheek that it’ll cut you on release because the pain will distract from the rock between your ribs, the suffocating anguish tucked under your heart. Why can’t you ever shake him? It helps to hold your breath.

Prince Bakugou's eyes haven’t changed a single time in his life. Wet and worried in a violent carriage. Disinterested in passing on your way to class, bored and rolling when his mother stops to speak with you. Conceited around a campfire. Viscously entertained in windy hallways. No matter what they’re looking at, you will never mistake them, no matter where he is you will find them.

He’s watching you somehow now, you can feel it.

“Kats wait, look!” Sero hollers just loudly enough that you’re shaken from the memories and again focus on aiming. By now the soldiers around him grow impatient and they groan when Sero shouts again, “drinks‘er on Ochako if Y/n hits the mark!”

“I did not say that.”

Above the arena, beside Aizawa’s office, a great distance away, is a little blue balcony and its little blue princess. Right beside her, your prince glowers and slows to a halt as she does. It is well before noon.

Uraraka tries to calm the growing excitement from the crowd, “Princess Fuyumi, please note I said no such thing!” But her soldiers only chuckle and whistle when the princess pretends not to hear her.

What are they doing together? You flex the tips of your fingers just enough to cause pain. Bakugou is not merry, he swells too wide without his cape, he is not with his Champion and so he is not safe and gods how he sucks the soul from a room.

Steady.

Blood red eyes glow from under his fair hair as they always do and they brand you like two pinpoint spotlights. He doesn’t pay attention to Sero chiding or Uraraka bemoaning her wallet or the princess waving her lacey handkerchief beside him. He only watches you.

Smooth pressure like a papercut at your cheekbone and the tension in your shoulders disappears as it always does when an arrow goes flying. Release. For a second you do think you smile.

Perfect center. Finally you breathe again when the room bursts into laughter and clapping, lowering your aiming fingers from your cheek when you look up to the balcony. Amid the cheers, Uraraka is the only one to notice oilslick green blooming from the side of your thumb. Blood begins to pour when you make a point to turn, and to bow deeply to the observing princess while Bakugou glares silently beside her. His charged stare closes the noisy distance. It vibrates the feathers that pierce your flesh.

“I suppose we already knew you were an excellent shot!” Fuyumi cups her hands around her mouth so that you can hear the smile in her words.

Overlapping with her glow, savage eyes drink your blood– the blood that seeps between your fingers as you cup your featherbit hand and your weapon with the other and bow even slightly deeper before rising, weeping wound tucked politely behind your back, to catch the your golden prince leading the princess away.

Bakugou skips lunch today. He skips second lunch and tea and attends not a single meeting, and so you spend your entire wretched day searching for him.

What you would have given to stay in Uraraka’s training pit. To spread out in the sand and watch the soldiers laugh and spar while she bandaged your hand. While she scolded you lightly and slipped you sweet cookies to help with the bloodloss. Instead you left with Sero at lunchtime as you always do, to collect your prince from his hiding place.

The rock of your ribs turns to lead when relief hits you before worry. When Bakugou’s golden head doesn’t appear among his friends at their regular table. You cannot know rest until you know where he is and once you find him you will never know rest again.

You’re wandering now like you have been for hours, without direction from one twinkling meeting room to the next. From silly tea parlors, to the armories, to cartography offices, all empty of the Alderan Prince.

You don’t miss your mother often. In fact, there’s a warm wet hole where her face should be when you think back on golden fields and cotton aprons. You do miss Aldera, obviously you do, and with each mission’s obstacle it becomes more and more clear that home will never be what you left it as. Home will never again be dazzling your queen or hunting with your master, it will be dousing the prince’s flames. Aldera will never again be verdant and protective, it will be Bakugou’s hands on your throat and hips and cheeks and surely he will kill you.

Passing a tidying chambermaid or lazing guard, Takoba Castle has opened up. The prince’s chambers still evade you, but you’re no longer lost in chilly halls or tripping on the odd floor runner. Staff don’t stare anymore. A lord or lady might shirk away from your halberd but they don’t seem too concerned with the woman attached to it. Takoba is getting quieter. In your prince’s distance this week something like peace grows.

A collection of hardly audible voices are the first things to stir the castle in hours and you turn under the stairwell archway to mark where they come from. It’s easily evening now, cold sunsets tipping through windows you happen to pass.

“No– of course I will, but I don’t think–”

“Not for you to think about.”

Winding soft around nothing the voices become distinctly two. One of them is clearly a growling Alderan and as you climb up the tight butlers’ stairwell, the grandeur of an East Wing walkway spills over your face with that same sleepy sun. Seaglass Hall. A mnemonic device from your week of wandering; the ceiling of this appendage hallway like so many others in the castle is made of bottled glass, but in the east, only in the east, is it in shades of seafoam green.

Your eyes land squarely on Prince Bakugou, peering startled into the stairwell’s darkness and framed by the archway you trudge through. You’re not sure how much longer you can survive the sight of your jewelry twinkling in his ears. His gold is awash in soft greens beside Deku, who sinks into the shadows under such cool-toned light and you speak before thinking while dusting your hands on your trousers, “Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

Bakugou hasn’t so much as frowned at you since the incident in the kitchens. Besides the archery demonstration this morning, he hasn’t even flicked his hateful eyes in your direction. He hides, he’s hiding, the way he’s kept to himself this week is different than dislike and now the death of your peace is palpable.

You pretend not to feel your pulse jump when his lips part, before he remembers that you are no longer worth speaking to. Is that what he’s thinking as his jaw clenches? As he rights himself from standing casually with Deku to his usual intimidating loom. As his pretty red eyes drift through the empty hallway and do a terrible job of hiding his frustration with your words.

There is a crater distance between you and family, between you and any semblance of familiar and soft or vulnerable and whose fault is that? So often it’s no one’s– it’s the queen and her station, it’s Jeanist and his rank, it’s your dead mother, it's the uniform you wear and the eyes that interpret it, it’s the soldiers who drink together and who salute when you walk past, sometimes it’s the color red, sometimes it’s recovering from an injury, it’s in the sympathy of strangers, it’s in your muscles and your favorite weapons and your inability to lose.

Even if only for a second, down the hallway, as you move forward Bakugou seems to lean back.

Deku perks up behind the broad frame of your prince who has begun to puff like a cat in the lengthy silence, and even though you haven’t had much of a chance to speak with the little Champion past your accidental spat in the throne room he doesn’t seem bothered by the memory or by the prince who seethes as he’s talked over.

“He’s all yours Y/n! I’m sorry, didn’t realize you were looking for him.”

Where Bakugou should have snapped or snatched, he only stills. No barking, not even a cross of his arms. He turns his head away as you approach as if pretending to roll his eyes but the prince you know doesn’t shrink in his anger. If he truly wanted you to meet his irritation all he’d need to do is blink. All else fails, he could just grab you again– a puppet on strings pulled too close and smile as you fall to pieces. It worked so well last time.

All three of you seem to realize more words won’t cure this quiet and as Bakugou peels away to storm down the hall, the little Champion nods his goodnights sympathetically and gestures through the seaglass after him.

Maybe this is what the sea looks like beneath its frothing waves? Maybe it’s quiet like this, sun bleeding through cool light at lengths immeasurable and asking at a whisper for you to follow.

“Royal summons. Katsuki hates being late.”

Maybe this is what hell looks like? Maybe the heat of the setting sun through stained glass is a warning and your prince, a golden fire, is just a trick the light can use to draw you in like a bug who doesn’t know better. Bakugou’s broad shoulders shrink the longer you let him get away. Maybe you shouldn’t fall for it again.

“Thank you Champion.”

When Deku slips down the stairwell you came up from, peace truly dies at sea.

Ten and some years ago was Aldera’s wettest summer. Thunderstorms, flooding, bugs like you wouldn’t imagine– most of the season was spent rescuing crops and standing still in rare breezes, but the children had school.

Between training and sleep you dragged yourself to class with civilian kids to learn numbers and poems that would do nothing to protect the queen, in a room full of people too nervous to speak with you. Green lightning ripped through the afternoon sky and caused such bruises that the clouds turned purple. Rain pelted the castle walls sideways.

You were late. You fell asleep standing on shift in the North Wing, tricked into resting your head on the wall from the lull of storm on stone and so when you remember this day the first thing that comes to you is sprinting through golden halls, school bag swatting your hips and back. Sliding down the banister of the Main Hall as if it were a playground, a swift turn under the maiddoor and then a mad dash to the East Wing where your lessons were bound to have started without you. Thunder shook the castle.

The sound of rain grew louder and after bounding round the building faster than a magpie, you realized why. In one of the four hallways overlooking the courtyard, wind, rain, and debris sailed through the line of open windows and beneath them an exquisitely detailed rug drank up the water that pooled inside. As the red and gold details wet, the castle seemed to be bleeding. It slipped beneath the floorboards and the space was soaked in an ancient smell that could only be dredged out of wood by divine floodwater.

If you were old enough to know the words, curses might have sprung from your mouth as you abandoned the school mission to seal your home back up. At eleven years old this was no easy task. Perhaps the bugs hiding in their trees outside laughed as they watched you leap to catch the first great window frame and drag it down shut. Maybe the birds winced as water filled your school bag and plastered your hair hot across your throat– at your soldier’s uniform, already too big, clinging to your bones now that the rain had taken them too.

Who left these windows open?!

The queen loved her art, she loved every floor runner and tapestry, and you would not watch on as the wilderness tried to reclaim her castle. As an adult now, fighting the rain for a rug is of course too silly to be noble but at eleven it seemed to be the most important thing in the world. You burned with purpose. You burned too with embarrassment, at the state of your uniform no other child wore and the mess of your hair even as you refused to take shelter or call for help. Then Aldera’s little prince rushed onto the scene from the opposite end of the hall.

Oh how you could have laughed at the state of it all. At Bakugou, scrawny and pretty and dressed up in jewels like he’d just come from an party, and at the thought of what he saw when he turned the corner. Besides how silly you knew you looked, the comedy of the situation hit you for a moment as curtains of rain, branches, and wind whipped inside the eight still-open windows between you.

It was the first of many days you would feel painfully ridiculous beside your beautiful prince. When an unripe peach sailed inside on the gales and cracked you over the head, the pity in his soft eyes stung. This was not how a royal guard should hold herself. Her hair should be kept back, her face should remain neutral, and most of all her cursed uniform was supposed to fit.

As you were knocked off balance, the prince jerked towards you but before he could take a full step into the storm another few fruits were dislodged from their tree and whipped inside around rain and leaves. Bakugou too was clocked in the head, a peach to his cheek and caught another before it could fly into his mouth and knock out a tooth.

As the pair of you righted yourselves and the hallway grew wetter, the thought of class felt too cruel. The decision between your queen’s rugs and her son, too overwhelming– which should you shelter? A bruised prince or a ruined hallway, which would the queen hate more? Your redemption for falling asleep on duty kept drifting farther away, and then Bakugou began to laugh.

He reached up for the window closest to him and shut it tight with a little hop and a whip of his shoulder. A vine of lightning lit the hallway in negatives for a moment.

He grinned, “Get outta here!” And tossed the peach in his fist across seven open stormy windows to you.

Bakugou’s hands are always fists and if you had known this when you were eleven it wouldn’t have charmed you so much. When the prince cracked a smile in the petulant wind tunnel something light like wheat fields came to life inside of you.

“Yes sir.”

As if reading your mind, the grown prince growls when you catch up to him in the Takoban hallway.

Bakugou takes up too much space to hide from anything. He could suck the air from the room like a great big fireplace if he truly wanted to and suffocate every soul inside, so it’s somewhat remarkable, as you fall behind him, that you aren’t brought to your knees or sent through the pretty glass ceiling.

Why doesn’t he speak? What right does he have to be acting strange after pulling you apart for all to see?

The sky through the ceiling above you shifts quietly to purple as the sun sets, although anything but blue feels wrong in Takoba. Immediately at the thought, the red glow of the kitchens plays over the backs of your eyes and your focus darts down again to those dangerous hands you keep at a distance. Bakugou flexes them as he steps.

His big hands dance. At no more than a step or two behind your prince, marching together down the longest hallway you’ve ever seen, you can’t quite look away from his gold fists under the bottlegreen light. Truly, they are always fists. Always a threat and a reminder like an iron to a branded dog. His hands that cupped your face and pinched you close in the cursed kitchens, exalted by your fear. They lifted you like you weighed nothing and then they caged you in. His hands are only for pain. Playing tricks around a campfire. They are only good for fighting, sweaty and tickling with ripping explosions.

Bakugou pretends he can’t feel your warmth at his back as you drift closer.

Those are the hands that tore through a royal crowd and grabbed hold of your nightgown when they thought no one was around to see. They’re thick and violent– they’re soft. Your well-kept rage stirs as you remember. When they brushed your knuckles warm in a cream calm dream or gripped the fabric at your waist on horseback. Plucking splinters from your bloody cheeks. Gentle when they smothered the flames in your hair at the edge of the forest.

The prince jerks to a sudden stop and when you’re too busy watching the ripple of veins in his fingers, you bump into his back. You both flinch on contact; only at the touch do you realize your prince has been keeping you exactly as distant as you him and then that flinch becomes a fling of mismatched magnets when he snaps his head around, you raise yours, and your pair of fraught eyes meet in lieu of shouting. It aches like a strike to the temple.

In a second your prince is turned and down the hallway again towards a set of modest wooden doors still ages away. “Fucking airhead,” he rumbles. The first words all week. Nostalgia turns to ash in your throat.

The seaglass hallway stretches on like a draconian landing pad with no decoration past the stained glass ceiling. From your week of research this is the only path in all of Takoba Castle that leads straight to the ocean. Something about floodwaters and enemy attacks by sea means that this maze of a seashell at least serves a purpose and that this hallway must be special. Your mind races with the possibilities of what your prince has to do on the other side of it. You wish he would speak to you, and then you wince.

What do you miss? His hate-filled spew? You just wish to be rid of this silence you determine, and slow down behind him with generous distance when you both finally approach the exit.

As the prince pulls simple wooden doors apart a great gust of salted air blows the loose hairs around your face with a horrible tickle and where you expect the sea, iron and blue flowers stare back instead. You and your golden prince look over some kind of solemn garden suspended under the moon.

Aldera is a lush green kingdom, Takoba is a portside merchant city. You know nature and fields and crops. This garden is man-made and more than that it is poorly kept. Metal flower beds, soil spilling over their lips from holes dug by birds or damage done by sea winds, and eerily, no weeds. Maybe the sea doesn’t carry weeds like rivers do? Only one type of sad blue flower wilting like a bell. The garden is at least as large as Aizawa’s training pit and filled with copies of the same bellflower weeping up trellises or littering the ground but still it feels vast and empty. Like a cemetery with no more plots to offer.

It’s only you two in the cliffside clearing, not a royal in sight. Who summoned him? Bakugou keeps his back to you while stepping between the garden beds and you wonder if he is unsettled too. You’re glad he does not watch you while you begin to wander.

By all calculations this path should have led to the sea but when you approach the precarious edge of the garden there is still a five story drop between you and high tide. The castle is built on a bluff above the beach. A foundation of rock. Below even that, black water stretches spindly fingers in the sand.

Who is this place for? On one side of you, Takoba Castle’s white spires reach into the now-night sky and on the other a deadly drop into the sea. A single type of flower planted over and over again into boxes that could hardly keep them alive. When you happen a glance between your feet, you’re startled by the movement you can see under them. Candles flickering inside a great many feet below you. A garden with a glass floor.

The air becomes suddenly thick with realization as you scan what parts of the clearing aren’t shadowed by clouds passing over the moon. The one door you came through and a steep drop off the edge with no railings. A single way in but decidedly two ways out. This is no garden.

“Hey.”

Something is trying to distract you. Had it not been just the two of you out here, you never would have registered the quiet voice drifting low through the breeze as Bakugou. Gentle? When you don’t turn around he rumbles soft again, “Eyes.”

His second words all week. The sound is warm wool. Bakugou is trying to speak with you and where surprise at his voice should make your heart race, something much more sinister has settled on your pulse. You are not listening, in fact you cut him off with a wave of your hand instead of turning at his shockingly soft cadence.

“Highness, who sent for you?” You demand delicately, back still turned as you skim the ruined garden. This place is meant to be a prison. You shouldn’t be here. Who is it supposed to keep in?

Had you been watching him, you would have caught the prince’s jaw slack and then coil tight again with your dismissal. He holds himself tenser and tenser.

“Highness–” You try again, but his voice, noticeably less gentle, cuts you off.

“Eyes, not n–” It’s your prince’s turn to try again, but this time you spin around to keep him quiet and take the upper hand.

“We have to leave.”

Suddenly you’re approaching him in the center of the garden, weaving over spilt soil and sad flowers faster than he is able to stop you coming closer, and you don’t yet know that there’s a reason he drifted so far away before trying to speak. You are too busy identifying blindspots to notice him curling inward from rage. All you register is his lack of haste and it compounds a preexisting fury in your bones. You can parse out your feelings about his words later, about the way he called to you, about his tenor, about a thousand things– later. Strong is the sea air tonight.

The distance you kept between his hands and your body this week vanishes under the circumstances and now you are so close you should smell the sweet of his ignition begin to drip in anger. Instead you watch shadows over his shoulder and pause in front of him, “Who summoned you?”

“Will you–”

“Highness who–”

“Shut up!”

Faster than immediately, somehow simultaneously, your body registers his threat that you are so practiced in withstanding and you take a steadying step back, no longer hiding your gaze from that which wants to kill you. Up, up, up is his shadowed face and those tiny shining suns that have done too good of a job until now, in protecting him.

The last time you watched each other like this you feared you might have to hurt him. He is a bit taller, he is much more beautiful than you. You wish you could have known him. It is only one terrible second before the shouting begins but in it is your prince’s final moments of softness, what might be fragility under the reds of his eyes, what looks like worry at the corners of his lips, washed over by crimson fumes like an eclipse or the death of a star.

“Highness–”

“Be quiet.”

But you have already had your fill of his golden cheeks and so you turn with your arm outstretched in the direction of the door, “We need to–”

“Are you fucking demented?” He growls. He does not budge. He stares and you no longer have the patience for him. It is slipping from you like sand.

“Walk and talk my prince, we have–”

“Excuse–?”

“Highness,” you hiss back at him and steady your hand on the hilt of your short sword.

You’ve pushed too far because oh how he bites the air now. He spits, “If you cannot–”

“I cannot–”

“– listen–” 

“Come, now.”

“You will listen when I speak.”

“You do not speak to me!” And how you bite back.

He rushes you.

The prince is threatening in the best of situations and when the wall of his body obliterates the space between you, your arms move faster than you’re able to control as they pull your sword from its scabbard. Bakugou flies against your blade as you raise it, pressing his own chest against the flat steel you keep vertical in defense. You hate to admit that he scares you.

“You will lose the fight you pick with me,” you murmur close enough to taste the air he breathes too close. He does not fight back or raise his hands and sparks do not come to life around you. At your back, Jeanist’s halberd itches to hunt.

“And you will lower your weapon.”

“I am your mother’s soldier, not yours.”

Bakugou bares his teeth to the realization that your obedience has only been a courtesy to this point. Pillowed chest to yours, you are close enough to feel the rumblings of his ribcage. Of his biceps as he holds them still at his sides like two great snakes that would like nothing more than to kill you. Dripping fists. You can see it in the tremble of his throat, his resisting a thousand things, screaming, flying, eating you alive, biting down into the meat of your neck that his lips brush as he bows into your blade– all at once like an implosion. What is he holding back?

“Then run back home to your queen.”

“You are my responsibility.”

“Oh yeah my hero,” he swells and pressed deeper, drawing blood, “my little captain–”

The nickname from the night in the kitchens cracks the wax seal of your rage before it can even melt and in seconds you’re losing the fight to contain your ancient violence. Blade now cutting through his tunic and Bakugou still does not pull back. He does not raise his own weapon or his magic and his hands don’t reach for you.

“Check that ego, Eyes.”

“I am doing my job!”

“You! The havoc wreaker, charged with my protection? Careful not to make me laugh Captain or I might just slit my throat.”

The threat oozing from this garden is as far as a thought has ever been from your mind while it is otherwise filled with curses. Could you kill him? You will bite through your tongue before holding it. Every time he calls you captain something inside heaves like the sea.

“Do you tire of torture?”

“You think yourself so special?”

“You are a beast!”

“You are insufferable!”

“You suffer my charity easily enough!”

You almost want to wince at the shape your prince’s lips make when he remembers the weight of your earrings and he presses so deep into the curve of your body and blade that your foreheads bump in threat.

“Run away home.”

“You are not my queen and not my master.”

“And you are still Alderan!” He snaps sweet, “You are my responsibility!”

Sparks come like tears to Bakugou’s eyes and his canines shine when he bares them to you, too close to see the details of his delicate face. 

“I am your prince and she’s not here! She is not fighting for her life in Takoba– Fuck the queen!”

“You–!”

“You!”

“You are cruel!”

“And you are mine.”

Somehow the ocean falls. The world stops turning and at the words neither you nor your prince make a single sound.

His scowl melts to shock, jeweled eyes first slits and now wide under slack brows. Blade to his neck and still Bakugou’s hands do not crackle and your breath hardly comes when you need it, and you want to touch him– strike him– you think you might kiss him. You think he might let you, and then comes a voice from the sea.

“Get a room.”

In a shadowed corner of the glass garden your blue ghost bends at the waist to smell bellflowers. His hair is white.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @jctaro @nonomesupposedto @zombiewarprincess @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @eirlysian @lunrai @km7474 @arayoflia @annoyingleftpinky @noomaisdone @cr33pycrawler @iced-chai-tea-latte @cathwritestragediesnotsins @tragicallygray @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @kiwifuji @mmmaackerel @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @dududubebo @falling4fandoms @katanaski @babitchsuki @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @madmayo @bakugouswh0r3 @heart-of-haunt @zukowantshishonourback @420mitskilover @ultracrii @nochuonii @carrobrumbrum @bkgthinker @chandiewashere @sleezy-axeriix @screechingdreameater @mecuryxmoonstone @onlysarcasm @ilovemushroomss @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2

couldn't tag for some reason :,( pls check your security settings!

#bakugou x reader #a hymn to black water #bakugo x reader #bnha #mha #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au

[dostoyevsky-official]

Hello! I am excited to participate in your poetry challenge!!!

My January poem is going to be My Heart and I by E B Browning. It’s been my favorite for a long time and I think it’s time that I memorized it. It’s on the longer side but I have faith!!

I

Enough! we’re tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason’s knife, As heaven’s sweet life renews earth’s life With which we’re tired, my heart and I.

II

You see we’re tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune’s end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we’re tired, my heart and I.

III

How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men’s eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

IV

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me, ’neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. “Dear love, you’re looking tired,” he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head: 'Tis now we’re tired, my heart and I.

V

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

VI

Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God’s blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.

VII

Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,--well enough, I think, we’ve fared, my heart and I.

#i've always considered her a better poet than her husband #thanks for sending! i have faith in you as well! #2024 poetry challenge

[raccoonhearteyes]

Part I  | Part II  | Part III | Part IV  | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII

Read on AO3

January 16th, 2019

Lexa ran from the gallery. She saw herself on every wall. She was surrounded by a room full of people looking at her, while right next to her, and not one remembered her. 

And then there was Clarke. God she looked beautiful. And so happy. But there was a moment there when she saw her and Lexa thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. For a brief moment, she let herself believe. She paused just long enough to hear Clarke say “Your eyes are like a forest,” yet again, and something inside her broke even more. The second of false hope was too brutal for Lexa to face, so she ran. And now she’s back squatting in an empty AirBnB, heart aching, trying not to let tears fall. 

There’s a knock at the door. Lexa doesn’t typically answer the door, but something tells her to check so she cautiously makes her way to the front door, wary of the owners there to evict her. She looks through the peephole, holding her breath. 

It’s Clarke.

She’s bouncing on her toes, nervously shifting her weight back and forth, but it is definitely Clarke. How did she find her? Did she mean to knock on someone else’s door? Curiosity gets the best of her, and she cautiously opens the door. 

“Hi?” she starts, careful not to startle her more by using her name. She’s never seen Clarke look this nervous. She’s never seen Clarke with anything other than an air of confidence, a cocky grin, and a lewd pick up line. But this nervous version of Clarke is right on Lexa’s doorstep, and Lexa can’t quite calm her heart as it threatens to thud its way out of her ribcage. 

For a quick moment, she thinks she sees the Darkness standing a few feet behind Clarke. She thinks she watches him wink then vanish into mist, as if this is some prank he’s pulling.  Alarm bells begin blaring in her mind only to be suddenly cut off completely by the next word out of Clarke’s mouth.

“Lexa,” Clarke breathes. It’s barely a whisper.  And Lexa doesn’t even have a chance to ask how Clarke knew that before Clarke steps into her space and kisses her. 

Lexa’s brain takes a second to catch up, but once she realizes what’s happening, she settles her hand on Clarke’s neck, the other on her waist. It is sweet and urgent, and Lexa’s mind goes blissfully blank for the duration of the kiss. When she finally pulls away, she starts to ask, “How?”, but Clarke cuts her off.  The hurricane of swirling emotions settles with the kiss. 

“Thank god I found you,” she leans back in for another kiss, cradling Lexa’s face like she’s afraid to let go. Clarke pulls back to look at her in full, and Lexa watches blue eyes scan every detail of her face as if she’s trying to memorize it. 

“You’re really here. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” 

“I’ve been right in front of you the whole time,” Lexa offers. 

Clarke’s face softens, “I know, I’m sorry,” and she kisses her again, long and gentle. 

Lexa finally convinces herself to pull away and think about what this means, what having Clarke  in her arms saying her name really means, the flood of uncertainty comes rushing back to the forefront of her mind. Lexa already has a thousand questions. And the way Clarke is looking at her, it looks like she might have just as many. 

“Do you want to come in?” 

They enter the small kitchen and Lexa moves to make them some tea. Her mind is racing. Clarke is here. Clarke said her name. The Darkness may have hand-delivered her to Lexa. Does Clarke remember that they’ve met before? She decides to test it to guard her heart a bit before diving head first.

She sprinkles some cinnamon into Clarke’s tea before handing it over, and carefully watches for Clarke’s reaction. Clarke looks surprised to see her do it, which answers one of Lexa’s questions. Clarke doesn't remember any of their past meetings. Just knows her for right now, and Lexa deflates a little. Will she remember me after this one? 

Lexa’s afraid to test it, but knows it’ll hurt more the longer she waits, so she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She splashes some water on her face and paces for a few minutes before coming back out. Every muscle in her body is clenched, bracing herself for the inevitable, “Who are you?”

Instead, she’s met with a look of concern and, “Everything okay?” and relief that floods through her, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

“Yes. Better than I have been in a while.” She tries to casually slide into the chair next to Clarke at the kitchen table, but she’s still so in awe of Clarke being here that she can’t tear her eyes away from Clarke’s for a moment. 

“Your eyes are like a forest.”

Lexa laughs, “Yeah, you’ve said that before.” 

“How many times have we met?” Clarke asks, seemingly genuinely curious. 

“A lot.” Lexa’s nervous. How much does she share? What if she scares her off? “It started at a rooftop event.”

“I was late for work that next morning,” Clarke recalls. 

Lexa’s ears flush a deep red, “That might have been my fault,” She stutters the words ‘shower’ and ‘naked’, and watches as Clarke turns red this time. Lexa continues, “Then there was a gallery tour, some dumplings, coffee shop run-ins, bars, paintings, more paintings, and now you’re here.”

“Why don’t I remember you?”

Lexa spends the next few minutes explaining the last twenty years of her life. How she was desperate and afraid as a foster kid and just wanted her freedom and safety. How the Darkness twisted her request into no one remembering her. In her inability to leave a mark on the world. “This though… This is uncharted territory. How do you recognize me now?” 

“I had a gallery opening tonight. You were everywhere. You’ve been everywhere for months. I had to find you, and I think your same Darkness found me too.”

“Clarke, no.”

“What?” 

“His deals are never what they seem. Look at me. I’m practically a ghost. What did you trade?” Lexa is pacing the floor in front of Clarke, trying to figure out how she could let this happen. 

“My art.”

“He took your paintings?”

“No. My art…”

Understanding hits Lexa like a bus. Clarke won’t be able to draw or paint anymore. She traded her life for Lexa. “You gave up your art for me? Clarke,” her voice drops to a soft murmur, “I can’t let you do that.” She drops to her knees between Clarke’s legs, pleading with her.

“I had to trade one love for another. Seemed fair enough to me,” Clarke shrugs. 

How can she be so cavalier about this? She spent a career trying to make it as an artist. She had her first gallery exhibit six hours ago. She deserves more than one. 

“Did you just say love?”

“I did.”

“I thought you didn’t remember me?”

“I don’t. At least, not in full. But I have pieces of you dating back six months. I have fallen for you I don’t even know how many times. And there’s this gnawing feeling in my gut when I see those pieces.”

“But Clarke, your art. What if I’m not worth it? It’s not too late. Maybe we can convince him to undo your deal.”

“I want this more,” Clarke says sternly. She then pulls out her phone and taps for a moment, then hits play on an old voicemail from an unknown number. Lexa watches in confusion until she hears her own voice echo in the room. “This is you, isn’t it?” 

“I didn’t think that went through,” but Lexa nods, suddenly sheepish. 

“That. That’s what I traded for,” and she leans into Lexa’s space again.            

Lexa’s eyes are misty with tears and they are so close, holding each other’s gazes, noses touching and their breath mingling. Lexa’s heart thuds wildly in her chest. For a moment, they are still, frozen in place, both afraid to make the first move, and then Clarke closes the gap. Their lips touch, and Lexa feels like she can finally breathe. Clarke’s hands reach for her, grip onto waist and her neck, desperate and pleading, and Lexa cannot stop the tear from slipping down her cheek or her lip from trembling. 

They stumble backwards into the bedroom, Lexa presses gentle unhurried kisses to Clarke’s lips and cheeks, her nose, her neck. She feels Clarke hand over control and let herself be led.

Lexa reaches for the hem of Clarke’s shirt, “Can I take this off?”

“Yes,” Clarke whispers.

Lexa tugs gently and lifts it up and over Clarke’s head, reconnecting their lips as soon as they are available again, “And this?” she asks, reaching for the pencil skirt. 

Clarke nods, and runs her own hands over Lexa’s arms. 

“Is this okay?” Lexa asks. Clarke’s eyes are dark and hooded, and Lexa loves her. She loves her, she loves her, she loves her. 

“Take everything,” Clarke offers. Clarke’s thumb swipes at Lexa’s bottom lip and Lexa leans in again. 

Lexa kisses down the length of Clarke’s body, hears a trembling sigh above her, and she moves back up to be face to face with Clarke. Their fingers tangle together between them, resting nose to nose in the bed. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more clearly in my life than I see you,” Clarke whispers into the small space between them. 

----------

The sunlight peers through soft curtains into the stolen bedroom. Suffocated beneath an unruly mess of blonde hair, Lexa inhales the smell of it there, enjoying the feeling Clarke in her arms for a moment until she startles awake out of habit, sure that Clarke will have forgotten her again. 

Instead, Clarke turns in her arms, kissing naked chest and nipping at neck. She hums quietly to herself before saying, “Good morning, Lex.” 

Hearing her own name has never felt so good.

“Is there anything you want to do today?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa bites her tongue to prevent from answering ‘you’, and instead offers, “We could go to your favorite coffee shop.” 

Clarke lifts her head off Lexa’s shoulder and asks, “You know my favorite coffee shop?” 

“I know a lot about you, Clarke.”

“Prove it,” Clarke challenges, shifting her body to rest atop Lexa. 

“Your favorite coffee shop is Grounders,” Lexa states, pleased with herself. They’ve met there a few times. 

Clarke kisses her neck and hums in agreement. Lexa shifts her head to give Clarke more room to work with, but instead of getting more kisses, earns another question, “What’s my go-to order there?” 

“Lavender latte,” Lexa supplies, earning herself another kiss, this time a few inches lower on her neck. Oh. So that’s how this game is played. 

“So you do know me. Those are easy ones though.” They weren’t and Lexa knows it, but she wants to see where this game goes, so instead she challenges back, “Then give me a hard one.” 

“Where did I go for college?”

“Emerson,” Lexa says confidently, and Clarke plants an open-mouthed kiss on her collarbone. Lexa hums and arches her back, urging Clarke to continue to kiss lower. Clarke looks back up with a smirk to ask more questions. Her childhood pet. Best friend’s name. Favorite food. Most embarrassing story. And every time, Lexa gets it right and Clarke kisses between breasts, down her ribcage, over a soft belly, to a hip bone. Lexa struggles to stay still, practically writhing beneath Clarke with each press of lips to new skin. 

“Clarke?” 

“Hmm?” Clarke responds, barely looking up from where she is planting soft kisses over a sharp hip bone.

“What happens if I get one wrong?”

“Don’t get them wrong, and you won’t have to find out,” Clarke grins and winks before firing off another question, “What’s my favorite color.”

It’s an easy lob of a question. But Lexa has always been curious, so rather than saying the correct answer, green, she confidently states, “Blue,” just to get her own question answered. 

Clarke looks up in faux offense, and in lieu of a kiss, sinks her teeth into Lexa’s inner thigh. 

Lexa jumps a bit, “Fuck, that’s not a very good incentive to keep getting these right.” 

Clarke licks a stripe from the bite mark to just shy of where Lexa wants her most, and quirks an eyebrow, “No?” she asks, barely containing a giggle.

Lexa is practically whining at this point, but Clarke doesn’t budge, instead waiting for something. So Lexa just starts listing as many facts about Clarke as she can think of hoping one of them will earn Clarke’s mouth where she really needs it, “You have blue eyes. Your boss’s name is Indra. You love the dumplings at Noodles on 28th. You have this one navy blue bra that I still think about. Your mom is a doctor. Your favorite museum in the city is the Guggenheim.”  

Clarke bursts out laughing at the random information pouring out of Lexa’s mouth, and for a moment Lexa forgets about her own desperation, content to just listen to the sound of Clarke’s laugh, until Clarke finally lowers her mouth with an open-mouthed kiss, and Lexa’s stream of consciousness ends in a moan. 

----------

A loud grumble of Clarke’s stomach forces them to venture to the kitchen for breakfast. 

Lexa has never had a morning-after like this. They’re usually tinged with awkwardness and studded with apologies and confused glances. This is new. Clarke looks happy to see her, not disoriented or angry or regretful like their other mornings. They can’t seem to stop themselves from touching. A hand resting around a hip while waiting for toast to pop. Heads leaning on shoulders as they read the paper. Ankles hooked together at the kitchen table as they eat their eggs in contented silence.  

Lexa is happy to just watch Clarke in the morning. This is the kind of  lazy weekend morning she never thought she’d have. She would be happy to just sit and watch Clarke doodle on a sticky note all day if that’s what Clarke wanted. Lexa doesn’t think much of it. She’s watched Clarke draw so many times. She loves watching the furrow between her brow form, her tongue peek out from her lips, the concentration written on her face. But then she remembers, “Clarke, you're drawing?”

Clarke looks confused for a moment. Of course she’s drawing, why would that be weird, but then she remembers, “I… I’m drawing.” 

“I thought?” but Lexa is too afraid to jinx anything by finishing the sentence. She picks up the sticky note Clarke had been drawing on to see a little sketch of her, gazing adoringly at her. “It’s me,” Lexa says dumbly. 

 “Can you draw everything?”

Clarke shrugs, just as confused as Lexa. Lexa grabs a nearby magazine, “Here, try to draw someone else.” 

Clarke grabs the pen, and watches in semi-horror as the pen refuses to cooperate. The lines she’s making on the paper are random and messy. She has the same look of concentration she did when drawing Lexa, but she ends up with a stick figure with unidentifiable features. 

“Try something else,” Lexa suggests, and they watch as Clarke struggles to draw a building, ending up with what looks like a kindergartener’s doodle of a house. 

Clarke picks up the original sticky notes with Lexa on it. That one looks just like her. It’s simple, but it’s certainly Lexa. She asks Lexa to pose for her and picks up a pen again. This time, it’s flawless. She captures Lexa’s sharp jawline, the wild mane of sex-mussed hair. Lexa moves to stand over her shoulder, “What exactly were the terms of your deal?” 

“I asked for you. In every capacity.” 

“You can draw me.” 

“I can draw you,” Clarke says,excitement rising in her voice, “I can draw you!” She says, leaping from the chair and bouncing into Lexa’s arms. She grabs Lexa’s cheeks and plants a firm kiss on her lips, “I can work with that.”

#lexa #clexa #clarke griffin #the invisible life of addie larue #clexa au #happy thanksgiving #stay tuned for the epilogue

[hprarepairfest]

Rare Pair Fest IV Works - Day 11

Another day of INCREDIBLE ships!! 😍

Title: Bad Medicine Author: @phantomgrimalkin Ship: Remus/Draco Prompt: 303 Rating: E Word Count: 8,093 Warnings: None Summary: 

Draco comes up with a plan to spend more time with a man he's had a small crush on for 15 years.

He's just trying to get laid, he doesn't expect it to change the course of his career.

💞🍐💞

Title: Quidditch Meets Couture Author: Charingfae Ship: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley Prompt: #217 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7,112 Warnings: n/a Summary:

Ginny Weasley only cares about one thing: leading the Holyhead Harpies to a championship. So she's none too pleased when her coach hires an image consultant to improve their brand. And she's especially displeased when that image consultant turns out to be Pansy Parkinson.

Tensions fly as the two strong-willed professionals fight their way through uniform fittings, media frenzies, and deliberate sabotage.

Through it all, Ginny still only cares about one thing. But this time, it's beating Pansy Parkinson.

💞🍐💞

Title: Hard to be Humble Author: @incywincymoocow Ship: Draco Malfoy/Percy Weasley Prompt: #6 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 14 854 Warnings: None Summary:

Percy Weasley is working hard at the Ministry, going nowhere, when Draco Malfoy turns up and starts taking all the credit. Percy is not going to take this lying down! Or is he…?

💞🍐💞

Title: Follow the Butterflies Author: RainstormRadish Ship: Aragog/Flying Ford Anglia Prompt: #25 (from nanneramma) Rating: T Word Count: 1454 Warnings: None Summary:

There is a visitor. A new beast in the Forest. It has four legs, like the centaurs, but it’s unlike anything Aragog has ever sensed. Cold, metallic, clanging. Few dare to venture deep enough into the Forest to reach Aragog’s lair, and those who do creep and hide, avoiding the Acromantula. The visitor makes no effort to be stealthy. It tramples through the undergrowth, loud and unapologetic. Foolhardy. Reckless. Intriguing.

💞🍐💞

Title: The monster you feed Author: GhostMagic Ship: Regulus Black/Remus Lupin Prompt: #401 Rating: Mature Word Count: 11,259 Warnings: Major Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, Homophobia, Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Drug Use. Summary:

Remus also didn’t know when he had started to ditch his friends with the excuse of studying in the library just to watch Regulus from afar, memorizing every habit and small quirk: how he wrinkled his nose at the sign of damaged books or the way he gave an almost imperceptible nod every time he found the information he was looking for; how he ran his fingers through his hair when he didn't understand something, a small crease between his eyebrows and just a hint of a pout on his lips; how he worried at his cuticles when he thought no one was watching just to put his hand back down when he realized what he was doing; how he wrote each letter as if it was a piece of art…

~

See all of the revealed works so far, HERE!

#hp rare pair fest #hp rare pairs #hp fanfic #fanfiction #hp fest #harry potter #hp rare pair #draco malfoy #remus lupin x draco malfoy #remus lupin #pansy parkinson #ginny weasley #ginsy #percy weasley #aragog #flying ford anglia #regulus black

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hey, ive been reading your poppy playtime stuff and its really good!! It kinda gave me an idea and i was wondering if you could write something with bunzo learning that its readers birthday (maybe mommy has a file from when reader worked there and read it out loud? or something?) and he stops the game to make a small celebration for them?

"Ah! You remember this game don't you~?"

Seeing Mommy behind the safety of the observation window had you scowling at her. But you noticed an employee file in her hands, which she opened and stared at for a few seconds.

“Oooooh, here’s a fun fact: You were a proctor for this! And your birthday is....oh! That’s today!” She giggled. “What a funny coincidence. Well, don’t you wanna celebrate with Bunzo?”

‘I’d rather not..’ You huffed, jumping a bit as the aforementioned yellow rabbit twitched above you, crashing his cymbals a few times.

“Oop! That’s the dinner bell! Good luck, and..happy birthday~” 

As you turned your attention to one of the screens, awaiting the pattern, it started with a single color. Oddly enough it was your favorite one, but you passed it with ease.

Then the next few patterns in the round included other colors you liked.

“Weird..” You muttered to yourself as you finished the sequence, watching as confetti rained down on you. “That’s gotta be a coincidence-”

“Nope~!”

Surprised, you looked up at Bunzo and saw his sharp-toothed grin. It did creep you out at first but..now he actually seemed kinda cute. “Look, I appreciate this..but it’s not any less reassuring.” You brushed some confetti off your grabpack. “So what else you got?”

“...you’re not smiling??”

“Uh..no? I’m..very much stressed out, to be honest.”

“Well that’s no good!” Bunzo pouted, not moving from his close position above you. “I gotta have my birthday buddy smile on their birthday! So let’s take a break and celebrate!!!”

You blinked in confusion. “Huh?”

Suddenly the screen was lit up to display a cute cartoon animation of the yellow rabbit dancing, clashing his cymbals as “happy birthday” jingle played on the speakers.

You weren’t sure if this was a pattern you had to memorize, but it seemed fairly innocent. It made you crack a small smile as Bunzo giggled from above, glad that you were happy.

On the other hand, Mommy was glaring down at both of you, annoyed that he paused the game. The way you smiled reminded her of how the children used to smile whenever they played with her and all the other toys.

It sickened her.

Maybe she shouldn’t have told the bunny who was so obsessed with birthdays that yours was today.

But she wasn’t gonna spoil what little fun he was having, so she allowed him to host this little celebration for you.

Just this once.

#clanask #anonymous #poppy playtime x reader #bunzo bunny #platonic

[milfzatannaz]

the increasing likelihood that season two of sandman isnt gonna do game of you anywhere near what it deserves is the main reason ive lost interest in watching the new season. like i was so hyped for the show, i managed to luck out and get into the early online viewing thing and i loved it, but the fandom got wayyy to obsessed with hob and i massively soured on the wider fandom [yall and other sandman comic readers not included<3] and given how they seem to be approaching game of you... yea i might give it a watch at some point if i have the time but im not gonna rush myself.

also your art is amazing and i am in awe of your drawings, from the klimt to the art neuvo ones you make banger after banger and i love how you draws death and zatanna but i have a soft sopt for how you draw johnstantine when you do johnzee<3

ugh, I totally agree. I think the tv show cannot capture why I’m drawn to the comics, and the tv show really exists in this sort of comic book adaptation industrial complex. the fandom is tiring. the racism is surprising and demoralizing and so is the misogyny……sigh. I love death but it feels so empty now that they’re not adapting my lesbians. a game of you getting excluded is just fucking awful bc it’s like they don’t even care enough to update the outdated parts and keep what made it so memorable.

(and ty sweetheart I rlly appreciate this message <3)

#answered #drawing John is v hard for me I’m glad u like it bc usually I hate it

[palladiumfragments]

midnights (inspired by taylor swift's midnights)

i. after dark

like a long lost home my entire life comes crowding itself into its deep indigo ribs until a crescendo of thoughts threatens to split open my skull. tossing, turning, pacing, trembling— at war with the quiescence ensconced on the walls. a thousand ships fades into view, each begging for a name in my secret sky before sailing away into oblivion. i write their elegies in invisible ink on my wrists and let the stars kiss them good night. 

ii. pause 

drops of neptune dapple the sheets, a candle burns meekly on the corner illuminating a row of black-spined books. smoke wings unfurled, gone are the phantoms that nip my ankles everywhere i go. one april night tucked away from the languishing world, i slipped through the back door and floated in space. 

iii. haunted 

the moon's marmoreal gaze, flickers of a familiar face, and long mental corridors that only lead to burning rooms. they said escape is for those who know what they're running from but you're a fool to think naming your beast could tame them. i've been in the labyrinth long enough for it to build itself under my skin.  

iv. a wisp of smoke 

the summer when it dawned on me that i’m no longer thinking of you, i was sitting on the balcony of a hotel watching the wind ruffle the surface of the charcoal sea. it felt strange, almost like committing a cardinal sin to find no traces of you in me. i remember the grief, the solace that came shortly after, but most of all the guilt— because where do i lay to rest the habit of using every lovely thing i see like gentle waves breaking softly towards the shore as a metaphor for you? 

v. the curse of icarus 

i had my eyes on the sky ever since i can remember, children born in cages do. the first time i stood on the parapet with wings of songs and foxing pages i was a young god, not even a shower of flaming arrows can strike me down. i casted one last look at the lighthouse that witnessed all the shipwrecks that marked me, took a leap, and soared. but the sun did not kiss me that day. i lived past the end of the myth. too many seasons have come and gone and lately i find myself replaying the memory over and over. a new sun calls at 22 and i don't know if i'll make it again this time. the curse of icarus still thrums in my veins. 

vi. abandoned bridges 

i think about the friends that simply drifted too far, a love forever trapped in scents and photographs. there's a romantic kind of melancholy in the way my hands run over the shapes of their names. it reminds me of the city i grew up in but don't live in anymore— the streets, the landmarks, the houses that all look the same but no longer feel the same (because these things are as continually altered by time as we are). i miss them sometimes but the feeling doesn't endure as much as i think i want it to. it was over the day we promised to see each other again.

vii. december night

the anticipation, the holding back, the knowing smile. you followed me to the stairs and there we agreed to try again. 

tunnel vision, flushed cheeks, drunk on your whiskey eyes. there in the dim space i memorized the details of your face.

the first kiss, the ecstasy, bloodshot eyes. you were unconsciously tracing the veins on my wrist when i told you i'd be spending Christmas in the country. 

paling sky, in the balcony, black coffee. a sacred beginning was writing itself in the morning mist. 

#midnights #taylor swift #poetry #poetic prose #poems #spilled ink #spilled words #spilled thoughts #writerscreed #smittenbypoetry #poeticstories #musings #writeblrcafe #bitsofstarglow #original writing #dark academia #new poets society #excerpt from a book i'll never write

[liberonoya]

hello hello, steffi here ⸜(*˙꒳˙*)⸝  a while ago this blog reached 1k followers, and i wanted to take it as a chance to memorize this special journey. anime has always been part of my life since childhood, but i didn’t regard myself as an anime fan, until i created this blog, and started to watch anime regularly. the comfort & happiness this culture gave me are far beyond my expectations. the excitement of waiting for the new episode airing on weekends is unreal, i truly feel like my life has another thing to look forward to. not to mention all the amazingly talented content creators i met on here, you guys are definitely a big part that made this journey much more special than just watch anime alone, so here’s a special mention to the amazing people ive followed :

@giyyu @nicholasdwolf @todorokistoya @hakkikun @theforgers @itadorii-yuuji @fangrui @tanchirou @smol-ackerman @tomiokasensei @gojosattoru @yuujies @redbluenight @hayakaws @okkottsus @kimdokjas @tameshrimp @seishirousnagi @incepstla @suknas @hokusu @katsukes @kilruas @aslaanjade @mcki @queenrojpag @roronoua @gizaoyas @yooasobi @bluelokk @nanakorobiyaokii @itoshisae @silversoulsociety @nagumo-chan @chifuya @tatakaeeren

mutuals or not, every time i saw your icons on my dash, i know that we are enjoying the same thing in our own ways and that kind of feelings really makes me delighted.

last but not least, since my work is costing a lot of my time but i also do not want to miss the works that people spend a lot of time on, so i started to use the tracking tag #usersteffi feel free to tag it in your posts so that i can reblog them when im back on here. dont worry if it is a series i havent watched, as a gifmaker myself i know how important it is to reblog people’s works, hence i’d love to do it as much as possible! "٩(ｰ̀ꇴｰ́) i truly hope my anime journey will be long enough, and that we can continue enjoying what we love, regardless of the age 🤍

#sorry if ive missed anyone #you guys are the inspiration to me. thank u and love u all ♡

[1-800-c0sm1c]

꒰groovy !꒱

the phantom thieves inviting you to club velvet as their date !

character x gn!reader

includes joker , ryuji , ann + akechi !

warnings : spoilers for persona 5 and dancing in starlight !

a/n : started this months ago when i platinumed p5d lmaoo whoops , got stuck on some of the other phantom thieves so ill be making a part 2 !! hope you enjoy ^^

JOKER // REN AMAMIYA 

this smooth motherfucker. he told everyone ahead of time to practice in their rooms while he was spending time with you, as to not ruin the moment. 

he knocks on your door, inviting you out for a nice evening. (even though time hasnt been moving since you had all woken up here.) a small gift box in his right hand and a bouquet of flowers in the left. he really went all out and showed up every other phantom thief on this list. he doesnt have rank 5 charm for nothing!

you open the door, pleasantly surprised on how your boyfriend always manages to come up with spectacular date ideas in such little time. "would you care to dance, malady?" he says, trying his best to come across as charismatic as possible. the way you laugh at his request sweetly is enough to make his cheeks turn pink, but he refuses to drop the act now. "why yes actually, i would quite like that." you respond, taking the gift box and opening it. 

inside is a calling card, addressed to you. ren cant help but laugh at your reaction. he makes a joke along the lines of how hes "stealing your heart", and how it sounded a lot funnier in his head. you roll your eyes lovingly, before grabbing his hand and making your way to club velvet. 

"ive got a few ideas for new dance choreographies, would you mind accompanying me?" you nod, attempting to follow his lead as best as you can. when you inevitably trip over your own feet, hes right there to catch you in his arms before you hit the ground. he takes this as the perfect opportunity to lean down and place a soft kiss on your lips. knowing the phantom thief leader, its most likely you falling was all just part of the plan, you cant help but admire how much thought he truly puts into ever minute he spends with you.

SKULL // RYUJI SAKAMOTO 

when it comes to ryuji, youre 99% sure he only invites you to show off. morgana has been on his ass since the very begining and of course he loves you, but he loves proving that talking cat wrong just a little bit more. 

however, ryuji wants this to be memorable, no matter what the twins say. so what if youll forget everything when you wake up? his stubborn self would still try to make you remember, and he promises that. (like he'll even be able to remember anything himself,,,) 

barging through the front door of your room, he ignores the slightly annoyed questions coming from your lips. "ahh come on, its just me! hey, get this, ive got a surprise for you! dont give me that look- lets go, its in club velvet!" 

walking through the front entrance has you certainly surprised. your favorite song blaring through the speakers and the flashing lights presenting your favorite colors. its certainly impressive, especially for someone like ryuji, where most dates in the past have consisted of playing video games and watching tv. 

when you turn around to greet your boyfriend, the smug smirk on his face is almost enough to shift your whole perspective and slap him across the face. almost. instead, you pull him into a tight hug, swaying gently to the tune of the music playing in the club. you can feel morganas annoyed eyes on you, maybe ryuji wasnt as totally clueless as he thought.

PANTHER // ANN TAKAMAKI 

anns a little surprised at her own genius plan to have you try on the new outfits shes designed for your next performance together. it was the perfect excuse to get to spend some time alone together. she wants you two to be the best dressed couple club velvet has ever seen. 

you notice the way her hands tend to linger on different spots of your body while shes simply just "adjusting the outfit". by the time shes finally decided on something your face is flushed a bright red. "hey now, dont try and pretend like youve caught a cold to get out of this! were going to blow everyone away tonight!" she exclaims, stars in her eyes as she lays out the brightly colored garments. 

the cheers from the audience seem to prove anns theory right, they love the chemistry between you! when you finish shes already planning out costumes for your next dance routine, determined to make it even better. 

she treats you to a large sum of strawberry crepes as a reward for how well the performance went as she shows off her concept sketches. she loves the way you listen to her with such an attentive look on your face, it reassures her shes not boring you with her rambling. 

youre barely able to catch a break before she drags you backstage for another costume change. she promises youll get free time to spend together at the club afterwards, right now its showtime!

CROW // GORO AKECHI 

akechi literally just wouldnt even invite you, because he wasnt really invited himself. hes not entirely sure how he ended up here, and everyone around is less than willing to explain the confusing situation theyve found themselves in.

very uncharacteristically, he tends to cling to your side the whole time. to save his own ego, hell claim its because you cant trust the others after what happened back in november, but it doesnt take a rocket scientist to realize he feels like he doesnt belong here. 

if you want to dance, he wont refuse your request, but its painfully obvious hes nervous about putting himself out there again. everyone already knows his true identity, so why bother pretending like everything is okay? even if its just for one night in paradise is it really alright for him to indulge in himself? youll have to reassure him a lot, even if he dismisses your concern you dont miss the small smile on his face whenever you attempt to comfort him. 

once hes not so nervous, the charming detective prince persona is right back on again. he manages to wow the audience, no surprise there. after youre done performing hell smile and wink, stating "that was spectacular, shall we go again?" 

hes rough around the edges and a bit hot headed, but if youve managed to stay on his good side for this long (let alone be in a relationship) you know that akechi only has your best interests at heart. even if it means embarrassing himself infront of his rival.

not sure how tumblr formats its works so i hope this looks ok lmaoo fingers crossed !

#✧;;↬ my work.❞┊🍓 #persona 5 #persona 5 x reader #persona 5 royal #shin megami tensai persona #persona 5 x you #joker x reader #Ren Amamiya x Reader #ann takamaki x reader #ryuji sakamoto x reader #goro akechi x reader

[study-with-aura]

Thursday, October 26, 2023

I will not apologize for not updating the past couple of weeks because I have nothing to apologize for. I state that because I want to say that I am sorry for not updating! But that is silly! I took time off from doing school work these past two weeks because I felt overwhelmed and needed a break. My parents said it was okay to do so, and instead, I have been spending time journaling, practicing yoga, and going outside and walking in the wooded area of the park behind our house.

In the mornings, there are many older people who go out there to bird watch. I have gotten to know several of them, and they have shown me different birds and how they can recognize them. I will also walk with them sometimes. I think I have made new friends!

Keep in mind that taking study breaks is okay, and it should be normalized! Taking breaks when we need it is important for our overall wellbeing and can allow us to study even better once we have been refreshed. Spend some time out in nature, practice a hobby, do something you love, go to a museum for inspiration, and socialize!

In other updates for the past couple of weeks, we had another Girl Scout meeting and worked on a badge activity. We have two new members in our troop this year, which is very lovely! They are friendly, and I think we all fit together well. My dad is going on some sort of retreat tonight with the men at our church. He'll be gone until Sunday. I think it will be good for him to also have a break. He works hard. He's a law professor but he also works with a firm as a consultant and sometimes practices still, so he is constantly researching.

And this week at ballet, we get to dress up! I have a different "costume" for everyday. This week is always fun! We also have our showcase on Saturday, and I cannot wait! I wish Dad could be here for it, but he asked what I wanted, and I told him that I wanted him to have fun with his friends too and that he could come to our next performance. I meant that also. He is always at my events, so if he misses a few to do things for himself, that is okay. I want him to be happy also. Mom will be there, and that will be good enough.

Tasks Completed:

Practice - Practiced assigned pieces for 30 minutes and worked on memorization

Khan Academy - Mastery Challenge (Geometry)

Duolingo - Completed three lessons in Spanish

Activities of the Day:

Life Skills at the library

Ballet

Pointe

Journal/Mindfulness

-

What I’m Grateful for Today:

I am grateful that I have the ability to take breaks when I need it due to the fact that I am homeschooled and keep my own study schedule.

Quote of the Day:

When your inner child is not nurtured and nourished, our minds gradually close to new ideas, unprofitable commitments and the surprises of the spirit.

-Brennan Manning

🎧Tales of the Magic Tree: IV. Spider Knows His Craft - Alexander Litvinovsky

#study community #study blog #study inspiration #study motivation #studyblr #studyblr community #study-with-aura