LIKE A DRY GIN'S TWIST OF LIME!

requests open!

[discotechque]

EXTEND TO ME YOUR HAND, I'LL NIBBLE ON YOUR FINGERS!

JULIAN. SHE/THEY, TWENTY-TWO, RULES, MASTERLIST. AO3 ACCOUNT.

RECENT WORK .... I MIGHT JUST ADD YOU TO MY PORTFOLIO ( STEPFORD )

ASK STATUS, OPEN.

REQUEST STATUS, OPEN.

FOLLOWS FROM @/SKONKANIA

[discotechque]

fallout … guys does anyone one this blog gaf if i start fallout posting

[discotechque]

WELL, HERE'S YOUR LUCKY DAY

summary: you've wanted a lot of things in your life. a phd, a set of scrubs, hundreds of graph paper notebooks, a magnetic level. despite your poorly kept obsession over it, fixing the mecha man suit was not one of them. pairing: robert robertson/engineer! reader word count: 2.2k content: angst, mentions of death, geeky and neurotic mc, mc is a mech engineer, mc is obsessive over the mecha man suit but not mecha man himself, gender neutral pronouns, not proofread. note: erm want to say that the mc's obsession is not romantic in anyway and is more so like a fixation of what the suit means to them. also sorry if this is like ooc, trying to figure out how to write robert still and i made up some mecha man lore like whatever.

It still doesn’t feel real. There are weathered schematics strewn about the work bench, scribblings of critiques in the former design written within the margins. An unfinished prototype for a slimmer torso that likely wouldn’t withstand any critical damage. An old textbook tucked away in your bag, chock full of fantastical mech suits bookmarking Mohr’s circle. You could draw each generation of Mecha Man on memory alone and the suit in front of you would still be illusory.

You’ve been too scared to touch it before. Afraid that the feeling would taint your memory. You still are.

Only doing so now because Royd had encouraged it, demanded it even. It sounded so unnatural coming from him. Adding please after every statement that included should and keeping a hand on your shoulder as he forced you in front of the towering hunk of metal. He patted it roughly, the thing creaking before slightly folding in on itself. Dust rising from it before dispersing across the lab. Royd sheepishly coughed and smiled, gesturing for you to do the same before clocking out.

It’s been an hour since then, your feet ache. You are trying to grapple with the fact that you are trying to fix what had only existed in your dreams. A hand hesitantly reaches out, finding purchase against the chest panel.

The suit is cold against the pads of your fingers. It’s not sleek, not advanced, not anything like the photos. Something had convinced you that this was crafted by a team of aerospace engineers who were at the threshold of working for NASA. The stone blue paint has been scraped to reveal jagged sheet metal, skimming the edge of a corroded hole within the shell. A slight divot makes itself known once the bottom of your palm dips near the shoulder. The Mecha Man suit has been sculpted to be automaton perfection and all you can think about is how this piece of shit lasted for so long.

A low voice cuts through your inspection, “Didn’t know fondling my suit was needed for repairs.”

You freeze and spin towards the voice. Arms locked and hands continuously clutching at nothing, “Fuuu—ah! Robert, nice to see you down here.”

A slim man leans a shoulder against the frame to the workshop. The rim of a coffee cup resting on his bottom lip, steam curling along his face. His eyes crinkle for a second, too amused at what he’s seen. He takes a long sip before pushing himself off the wall, strolling towards the workbench. The speckled cup finds a home on a lone corner.

Talking to Robert feels like divine punishment. Obsessing over the suit for so long that you nearly forgot the man within it. A pang of jealousy settles in your stomach when he claims ownership over it with innocently posed questions about the nature of the repairs. He once returned a notebook of yours and asked if you were a fan of Gundam but scurried off without a reply, tucking a myriad of mock-ups against your chest. You wonder if he can glean the reverence within the crease of every pursed smile you return him with. If he knows that you had a poster of Mecha Man Blue in your bedroom for years and that it now sits somewhere in your closet.

If he does, he gives you the dignity to never mention it.

His face relaxes into that same stoic judgement, letting you off easy like all the other times. Never teases or presses further because he’s seemingly satiated by the initial embarrassment. It unsettles you, the idea that he could be hungry for more. Even as he nods his head towards the suit, the thought lingers.

“Blazer was telling me you and Royd were looking for somebody else to come on and help. How come two physicists can’t figure out how to use duct tape?”

He grasps the edge of the table, fingertips rubbing at the surface in an uneven rhythm. He’s tense, you can feel it engulf the room—a wire that’s been wound too tight and is awaiting relief. You know the question he wants to ask but never does. Robert’s never been brave enough to ask the important questions.

You divert, “Not a physicist.”

He knows that and a corner of his mouth lifts upward. You don’t brag about your degree but Blazer does. She thought in some part that it would assuage Robert, give him some peace that at least one other person knew what they were doing. He still stops by everyday, checking every sketch like he could compete with your expertise. It’s another way that he can keep his peace and so you let him.

He tries to shrug off the uncertainty, “Care to tell me the difference?” It doesn’t look good on his lithe frame. The awkward movement makes it seem he’s trying to relieve some soreness. Maybe it’s both.

“I think a physicist would have the hindsight to know you inherited a broken pile of shit.”

Your lips purse and he stills. Then nods, a crooked smile follows after a barely there chuckle. Rarely is there a moment where you’ve caught someone off guard and if so, it has you basking in the surprise as well. You haven’t ever expressed your displeasure at seeing the machine so worn and unkempt. Scoffing into frayed wires and observing inadequate welding be smoothed out as you stood by Royd’s side. It doesn’t look like the pictures. You think you need more than just feeling the suit to release that thought.

Robert looks behind him, his pinky toying with the edge of a blueprint. One with so much gibberish scrawled on it that it’s practically worthless. Both of you know that’s not true. “The Astral Pulse too?”

You pause, but relent with a soft nod. “Without any schematics for it? Yeah, that too.”

He hisses through his teeth, eyes trained on the floor. You can tell he wants to look for the design. Certain that if he could, he would scour every inch of this Earth to find any trace of what the small canister contained. Instead, he goes to take a sip of his coffee again. The bitter brown liquid catches on the corner of his mouth as he speaks into his cup. “Sorry the old man couldn’t be of any help.”

You can visualize the outline of Mecha Man Astral. Cobalt blue spandex suit with white metal plating, his emblem emblazoned along the plateau of his chest plate. Everything else is an estimate–brown eyes, a mustache, large build. The pieces are there but you cannot force them together to gather a clearer picture. It’s been ages since anyone has mentioned the previous generation and guilt sears itself within your chest. What has always been a concept to you was someone real to Robert.

“Y’know, I saw him once. He gave a seminar at my uni and talked for like forever.” You don’t know why you say it. You can’t tell if you are trying to comfort Robert or yourself for thoughts you have never expressed openly. For wanting this opportunity so badly that it created the decline of his family’s legacy. The concept sounds absurd but Robert perks up slightly. “Wanted to be a doctor when I was a freshman but he said something that stuck with me.”

The memory of being pre-med, shuffling into early biology classes, dissecting a variety of creatures makes you nauseous now. Everything back then fell into a linear process. You would go to college, get into med school, go through residency and end up as some version of a doctor. Becoming one only because it was suggested to you as a career of the wealthy and you valued that more than anything you considered yourself to be passionate about.

You didn’t even want to see Mecha Man talk, but your roommate had been such a fanboy and feared he would faint if he didn’t have someone to ground himself. Even then you were only convinced when it was revealed to you that they would have pizza at the event. You sat in a cramped lecture hall, slumped in the wooden backrest of the desk and waiting for the man of honor to stop chirping at the faculty.

He’s moved closer now, standing to your left with his hands stuffed within his pocket. You don’t even remember seeing him drift your way, just overhearing the scuff of shoes against the linoleum floor. “What was it?”

“You’ll think it’s dumb.” You’re surprised to find that he’s already looking at you. Brows furrowed, lips slightly parted like he already has a reply before you even do. Your eyes flicker back towards the suit, skin growing warm, “Everyone tells me it’s dumb.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Your fingers trail along the shoulder of the suit, soothing yourself with the simple motion. It’s been so long since you said it aloud that maybe you’re starting to think it’s dumb too. “The suit meant nothing if there wasn’t someone willing to die with it.”

There’s a silence that roots itself within the sterile white walls. You know that the guilt that’s been stewing should be flaring against your skin and that a series of apologies would follow in the feeling. Yet, all that floods your senses is relief. It’s been so long that someone hasn’t heard that and immediately responded with some deadpan quip or a resigned expression. The dip in the conversation holds you within its grasp, offers you comfort over all the other times you’ve been doubted.

For all the times it feels like Robert is overly opinionated, this moment is free of that.

“Still think you would’ve done some good in scrubs.”

“Yeah, but I get significantly less blood on me so…”

He laughs at that, not anything full-bodied. It’s one where he looks away as he huffs, a smile that is struggling to grow wider because he shouldn’t have found that as witty as he does right now. You didn’t think Robert was the type to be so easily impressed but maybe he didn’t expect for you to relax. There’s an ease that passes between the two of you, a subtle breeze that assures you that even if he did know about you–he’s grown less weary.

“It’s ridiculous, coming from me. But sometimes you gotta ask yourself, if you’re not willing to die with it then what does it mean to you?”

It’s stupid, it’s ridiculous, it’s dumb. Any pejorative against your intelligence would be apt at describing the statement you delivered like a sage. You would never die through the line of work you’re in but the ceiling could cave down at any minute and you have some odd inkling that you could leave this Earth satisfied. There’s not many who would say the same.

Robert hums and it’s a sound that trips over itself a bit, caught in his throat. Trying to vocalize his thinking, allow some space for what you’re saying. It’s something he’s still working on. “Hm, you thinking about becoming a life coach?”

You swivel your head towards him, narrowing your eyes. “I’m trying to be sincere here.”

He’s not focused on you anymore. His hand outstretched, a finger trailing up from the waist to the shoulder. Maybe he wants to desperately feel the same zeal that thrummed through your body only a few minutes ago. A long sigh leaves through his nose and his shoulders slump, adjusting to the absence. Despite this small moment of understanding, you are both still strangers to one another. A little too willing to keep secrets to yourself.

“You think I should’ve died being that?”

As Mecha Man? As a hero? As something that he inherited from birth?

When you’re gone, you will be remembered in smaller ways. Through schematics, an engraved level you keep near your bedside, scientific papers you’ve peer reviewed. Things more meaningful for you than they would be for anyone else. You forget it’s not the same for Robert. He will be mourned twice and one persona will always be more important.

You shrug and it feels stiff. A quick rise of your shoulders that quickly plummets. “It wouldn’t have changed anything if you did.”

“You’re contradicting yourself.”

“Maybe but I don’t know. I’m not a hero but it’s like comforting to think about someone so willing to put their life on the line for something.”

For as much as you thought he was obsessed with pivoting a conversation, Robert absorbs what you’ve said. Rocks back onto his heels and stuffs his hands into his front pockets again. There’s no sarcastic remark, no exasperation, no playful glare.

It is just you and him, basking in the hypocrisy.

He looks down at you from the bridge of his nose, weary coffee irises paired with sunken bags. “Would you do the same to fix this?” He’s not asking what he really means.

To fix him. In some way, Robert and suit are one in the same. He hinges his pride and strength on the state of it. If he cannot make the decision to become Mecha Man then he is resigned to a normality he’s struggled with. If you cannot repair the one thing he is so desperate for then what do you have left to your name? The thing you have foolishly dedicated your life to is mere inches away and you are trying to grapple with the fact that you are trying to fix something that is slowly becoming human to you.

You take the hand of the mech suit, slowly rotating it to test the joints. “A thousand percent.”

Robert nods once again. It feels like you’ve promised something greater than you can deliver.

[carbon-dating-everything]

date-tober l a date everything october prompt list!

summary: hello hello!! (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

october tends to be pretty prolific for fic writers (see: kinktober, flufftober, etc) and i wanted to try it out too :)) i made a prompt list for myself based on fall and halloween activities, and will be trying to post something for one or more dateables every day of october! figured i'd post it in case others also wanted to join

this is just the prompts list! anyone is free to use this (i do not own the concept of fall lol). these prompts are also sfw, although you can take them in any direction you'd like!

though you do not have to credit me if you use it, i would love to be tagged so i can read your work!!

prompts below! happy writing ༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･

a dark and stormy night

autumnal colors

a walk in the woods

escape room

scary movies

costumes

ghost hunting

autumnal flavors

face paint

superstitions

masks

blood, or “blood”

brews

house decorating

pumpkin patch

fireplace

paredolia (seeing faces or objects in random things)

black cat

haunted house

warm layers

pumpkin carving / decorating

candies (regular, or rare)

photo albums

transformation

found footage

candlelit

reflections

feast

familiarity

the monster mash

trick or treat!

[carbon-dating-everything]

Hello!!! Could I request headcanons for how Stepford shows and reacts to romantic affection? (gn! reader) he’s such a sweetie pie and I wish we got to see more romance from him after his route 😢❤️❤️ thank you!!

YES I AGREE!! he's currently one of my favorites, i need more of him waughhh… really hope you like these!! ✧｡٩(˃ᗜ˂)و✧*｡

first place, always (goes both ways)

pairing: stepford x gender neutral reader

content / warnings: fluffy, romantic

word count: 1.1 k

The ways in which Stepford expresses his affection towards you often lean towards praise as well as affection — “you’re looking gorgeous today, babe” or “how are you, sunshine” being two frequent phrases he utters without hesitation whenever you pass by the gym room.

He’s also very physically affectionate— he’ll drape himself over you or kiss you any chance he gets! PDA is basically a given with the house and he takes full advantage of that. He just likes having someone next to him and holding them, or being held. Is that a crime?

Likes teasing you a little bit, especially if he sees that you’re getting flustered by his comments or nicknames — just a little bit, mind you, he’s not mean, but you’re simply too adorable when your eyes go wide and you blush like that.

In the spirit of competition, he also really loves to show his love through athletic displays or trivia spouting, both of which he gets really into once he wins — he shows off to you as a way of thanking you for making his dreams come true. On the trivia front especially, I think he’d learn a lot about your special interests to engage in conversation on the things you most love!

Very indulgent of you! Absolutely hates to see your feelings hurt, so unless it’s something that’s self-destructive he can and will spoil you to the fullest extent he can. You’re his prize, after all. You deserve prizes.

In short, the kind of love he gives is freely and unendingly given; you never have to win it from him.

How he reacts to the love he receives, however, is equally as interesting to explore (and you can tell by how much I wrote compared to the first bit, lol).

So much of an object’s sense of who they are has to do with the purpose they’re meant to fulfill. Stepford is a trophy, made to make the winner look good and feel good about themselves — displayed on a shelf as a token of others’ best efforts.

And that’s, you know, fine. He likes being a trophy, and he knows he looks good doing it.

So what if he sometimes gets jealous — wishes that he received the same praises and accolades as these? He knows it’ll probably never happen. So he concentrates on looking good and gilded.

And then you come into the picture, and everything changes for him.

Through hard work and preparation, he becomes a true victor. He’s comforted by the knowledge that no, other dateables don’t hate him. And he gets to be in a great relationship with you! Wins all around!

But it’s surprising all the same when, long after the Triviathletics competition is over and he’s just back to regular old gorgeous Stepford, you’re still hanging around him — giving him the same amount of love as before, even though you’ve already earned the ending you came for.

Obviously, he does love it when you flirt with him and call him attractive — he is a hunk, isn’t he? But I honestly think he’s not sure exactly how to respond once he notices that you’re also affectionate towards him outside of his status as a trophy — it’s not like there’s a winning strategy for dealing with praise.

He fishes for compliments a lot, which can be taken as egotism, but it betrays an eagerness to actually be appreciated, instead of just people drooling over him, and it surprises him when you do so. The first time you compliment him on his personal discipline and workout routine, he’s buoyed for the rest of the day on that remark alone.

It doesn’t take him long to get used to casual physical affection with you, but the first couple occasions he’s reminded that he doesn’t just have to be there, he can actually be there:

‘…So, should I do anything in particular? Pose, or…’ ‘What?’ You snort, looking at him amusedly and gesturing to the vacant spot on the couch next to you. ‘No, Stepford, you don’t just have to stand there! I was inviting you to chill on the couch with me a bit. We can just cuddle and watch some trashy reality TV together.’ You pause, noting his expression: it's positively taken aback. ‘If you’re okay with that?' ‘Oh! More than okay,’ he sputters, scrambling over to join you. ‘I just… it’s new, that’s all.’

For all the shameless flirting, it’s easy to forget that Stepford can be pretty shy, as well as emotionally sensitive.

Any gift you give him will be incredibly meaningful, and any new pet name will be treasured. Your favorite pet names currently are "golden boy", “sunbeam”, and “babe” for him, although any name under the sun will have him trot it around like a badge of honor.

(Once, you bake him a cake with gold luster and little ribbons decorating the sides and he gets choked up before even having a slice because it’s, sniff, just such a sweet gesture! You have to remind him to eat it as well).

With physical affection, he’d really love it if you're clingy back, when you curl your arms around his torso or idly tangle your hands in his hair; the feel of your real, warm hands on his skin sends warmth to the core of his being and makes him feel like your affection isn’t only skin-deep.

The casual intimacy is especially good on days when he’s feeling low — when his luster is lackluster and his tan is just that. If he’s feeling despondent or having a mid-life crisis (or pre-life crisis, I suppose?), it means a lot to him that you’re there to make him feel seen and not displayed.

In the end, you are each other’s first place, always and forever — a love that's worth its weight in gold, silver, or any kind of tin-based alloy you can name.

It’s raining outside; the sky is gray and clouded, the soft, unyielding patter of drops on the ground making him shiver. These are terrible conditions for one glow in the light, and he looks dull, the pewter beneath seeming to seep through despite all his efforts to tan today. And yet, when he approaches you in your room, already preparing a hasty apology for his appearance, you’re sprawled on the bed so casually and humming to yourself, the rain the furthest thing away on your mind. Hearing his hesitant footsteps behind you, you turn your face to him and break into a smile, joyous and sunlit and so, so radiant. You say, nonchalant as anything, like you don’t even notice — or, he realizes, because you see all of him as radiant yourself: ‘Hey there, golden boy. Want to cuddle a bit?’ And at ease, relieved, and utterly in love, he cannot keep himself from smiling back.

a/n: i was hooked on him the minute i first heard his voice, i just. eeeeee (⸝⸝⸝>﹏<⸝⸝⸝) you know?? i'm a sucker for voices like that

[tanzaniiite]

WASH DAY • JOHNNY SPLASH

requests: open

warnings: nudity, kind of suggestive (?)

word count: 2.1k

a/n: finally finished good god, it shouldn’t have taking this long, sorry! while i love eddie and volt, i got five other objects on rotation, we need to diversify. johnny was my first love ending and he’s just so cute and pathetic (positive), i can listen to him talk all day, i’m a slut for any accent. anywho, this is very self-indulgent, catered towards a black!reader but ofc anyone can read!

*cross posted on ao3

You walk into your downstairs bathroom with one clear task in mind; wash day.

As nice as the maintenance and self-care was, you dreaded it immensely. It was an all day affair and you could kiss any other plans goodbye. You figured if you start in the morning and not procrastinate until the afternoon, like you normally do, you would finish early. But you’re not holding your breath.

“Morning darlin’. You’re up mighty early today.”

Instantly, your mood is lifted as your favorite shower (your only shower) greets you. Setting all your products and other hair tools on the ledge of the sink, you look at Johnny with a smile on your face. “Hi Johnny-baby.” You reply, moving close to give him a peck on the cheek. The way his face flushed, a blush spreading across his cheeks and creeping to the tips of his ears made you smile more. But you choose not to comment on it, lest he turn into a tomato all together. You know he’s a sucker for nicknames, both giving and receiving them, so you never miss the opportunity. Clearing his throat once, as if that will dispel the heat on his face, Johnny nods to the heap on the sink. “Wash day?” He hums, chuckling as you groan. Being your shower and all, Johnny is more than familiar with the ordeal that is your wash day. But this time is different, you can see and hear him now. All the times he’s wanted to help but simply couldn’t, now was his chance. If only he could muster up the courage.

“What's going on in that head of yours?”

Johnny tensed at the sound of your voice, you always seemed to know when he was thinking too hard. You tilted your head slightly, encouraging him to spill, silently reveling in the confused expression on his face. The shower seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he wore his heart on his sleeve, taking your basic perspective skills as some sort of magical gift. “Well, I… I was wonderin’ if I could possibly– and feel free to say no sugar, I won’t take no offense–” Johnny starts, his eyes focused on the bathroom tile, deliberately looking away from you. You take hold of his wrist, looking him in the eyes. “Baby, just spit it out. You’re going in circles.” You interrupt gently, as much as you love to hear him talk, he’ll skip around the point for eternity if you let him.

He lets out a dry chuckle at your words, he knows you’re right but god, was he nervous as all get-out. “Would you be kind enough to let me help out? With wash day that is?” Johnny breathes, vaguely gesturing to the products. Before you can even respond, he’s speaking again. “It’s just I know how hard the washin’ can be. And I reckon you’d like some help. But, of course, you’re free to decline– like I said darlin’ you won’t hurt me.” He rambled, his forehead pressed against the shower head, his gaze once again deviating from you. Letting out a giggle, you cup his cheek in your hand, gently guiding his face to you. “Johnny. I would love your help. Thank you for offering, you’re so sweet.” You hum, kissing the tip of his nose before moving back. You couldn’t help but laugh some more as he subconsciously leaned closer as you pulled away.

Deciding that you’ve procrastinated long enough, though talking to Johnny is worth it, it’s time to hop to. You grab the bottom of your pajama shirt and lift it over your head. Johnny, being the gentleshower he is, turns away as you undress. It’s funny really, he’s definitely seen you naked more times than you can count given that he’s a shower. Though, you wonder if he turns away everytime. Soon enough, your clothes are in a heap in the corner and you step into the shower. The space is small, as most showers are. Your body is damn near pressed against Johnny’s, with little wiggle room. You’ve never actually showered with Johnny when he’s awakened but oddly enough; you’re not nervous. You can’t say the same for him though.

His body is rigid, his eyes darting everywhere but at you, and it’s almost like he’s afraid to breathe in your general direction. You figured given what he is, this would be no different than usual but clearly you were wrong. “Listen Johnny, we don’t have to do this. I understand if you’re not ready to see me.. like this. Don’t sacrifice your comfort for my sake.” You state, feeling slightly self-conscious, though you know you have no reason to be. Your comment instantaneously grabs Johnny’s attention. It almost gives you whiplash, the way his blue-green eyes stare at you, like he wasn’t avoiding your gaze moments ago. “Now you wait just a goshdarn minute sugar. I’ll admit; my heart’s racin’ like a coon dog in heat–” You snicker, making him smile, “but that ain’t got nothing to do with you darlin’. Why it’s about me being too doggone nervous around someone as ravishing as yourself. ‘Specially in such an intimate setting.” Johnny explains, his cheeks flushing slightly, as if he just remembered the situation at hand.

“Are you sure?”

“Hon, I'm sure as the day is long.”

Now it was your turn to be flustered. This tone shift from nervous to confident was unexpected but not unwelcome. You turn on the water and adjust the temperature, water cascading down both you and Johnny. Before you put any product in your hair, you always wash first, otherwise the product makes your skin dry afterwards. As if reading your thoughts, though you’re sure he just memorized your routine, Johnny plucks the pink loofah off his chest without a second thought. “You can take stuff off?” You ask, mildly bewildered. Johnny lets out a hearty laugh, “Well, I’m a shower ain’t I?” He replies rhetorically, grinning boyishly as you look away. “Aw baby doll, don’t go gettin’ shy on me now. You ain’t got nothin’ to be embarrassed about, it was an honest question.” He reassures, getting the soap and lathering the loofah thoroughly. Deciding to not embarrass yourself further you reach for the loofah but Johnny holds it just out of your reach. “Now hold on sweet thing, I know I said I’d help with your hair washin’ but do you mind granting me the honor of washin’... all of you?” He asks, his southern drawl becoming more pronounced.

For a moment you just open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. Where was the guy that was just too nervous to look at you? Where did he store this sudden confidence? As you pondered on how fast Johnny can switch tunes, he was overthinking. “Shoot, that was too far, wasn’t it? I swear, I always end up puttin’ my foot in my mouth.” He mutters to himself, completely oblivious to your flustered but willing state. “No no no, Johnny. I-I’d like that, a lot actually. You just…caught me off guard.” You explain quickly. He looks at you through the wet ringlet curls that cling to his face, “You ain’t just sayin’ that to make me feel better? ‘Cause I won’t do anythin’ you don’t want me to do.” He declares, his voice stern. You shake your head, wordlessly taking his hand that held the loofah and pressing it to your chest.

“I want you to.”

“...you sure?”

“As the day is long, right?”

You could’ve sworn that you saw hearts form in his eyes at your words. Johnny, smiling like he just won the lottery, takes the loofah and starts rubbing it against your collarbone. The soap lathers as he does so and you smile at his concentrated expression. His touches are soft and careful, being mindful of intimate areas by constantly asking if he was good to continue. He hummed a tune from some song you didn’t recognize as he worked, the consistency of it almost like a lullaby. It wasn’t until he leaned down to your ear to tell you to turn around did you snap out of your trance. “Don’t go gettin’ sleepy on me now, we still gotta wash that hair of yours.” He chuckled, his hands gently taking hold of your hips and turning you around. Your back was facing his front, as he resumed washing you. The loofah gliding back and forth, from your shoulders and slowly making its way down.

Johnny’s touches were innocent, you know that much, but you couldn’t help but feel warm all over. The whole ordeal was tender and soft, but you would be lying if you said your mind didn’t wander elsewhere. “Darlin’…” Johnny starts, one hand on your hip as he moves the loofah in circular motions on your lower back, “I’ve called you ravishing, and that you are, but you’re a real sight for sore eyes, y’know that?” He hums, leaning down to press a soft and chaste kiss behind your ear. You say nothing as you resist the urge to shudder at his words. He places the loofah back on the rack– himself, before reaching out the shower to grab your shampoo. As the cool air from the bathroom mixes with the steam from the shower, you remember the whole point of you being here. Wash day.

You’re surprised by how little you have to direct Johnny on what to do. He parts your hair, albeit clumsily, with your pick-tooth comb into four somewhat even sections. The shower is gentle in how he detangles with the brush, shampoos and conditions each section of hair thoroughly. Continuing to use the wide tooth comb to comb from the tips of your hair to the roots. He repeats the shampooing and conditioning twice, as he’s seen you do many times before. Once done with each section, he wraps them up by doing two twists each section. Leaving you with eight, clumsy but good enough twists. You sigh, content, as Johnny takes his shower head and presses it real close to your scalp, just to make sure all the product is thoroughly rinsed out of your hair. All while shielding your face from the product with his palm over your eyes.

“All done, sugar.”

You briefly glance through the foggy glass and catch your reflection in the mirror. Sure, the parts were messy and the twists.. were something! But in reality Johnny had saved you a lot of time doing the whole wash, detangling, and twisting process on his own. Time you would’ve undoubtedly used to crash out on how long this process can be without said help. “Johnny baby, this looks great. I can’t thank you enough.” You exclaim, reveling in the way his face flushes at your praise. Before either of you can really process it, you're hugging him, arms wrapped around his neck, chest against chest, and head against his shoulder. Immediately, Johnny is stiff and you remember that you’re naked.

Apologies are muttered as you pull away hastily, bumping into the shower wall, now flustered yourself. Johnny manages to squeak out, “It’s fine!” as he composes his own self. That self-conscious feeling from earlier creeps back in and you’re acutely aware of how long you’ve been nude in Johnny’s presence. You give the shower and wobbly smile as you get out of the shower and quickly grab a towel to wrap around yourself. You have a half a mind to just snatch your dateviators off and leave it at that, but you hate rushed goodbyes. Sterling yourself, you turn to Johnny, who’s still very much rigid and as red as a tomato.

“Thank you Johnny, seriously.”

“O-Of course, darlin’. I’m just happy to help.”

There’s a brief pause, before you cross the bathroom again and give Johnny a chaste kiss on the lips. It’s slow but tender, your lips locking together perfectly as if they were made for one another. Johnny hands rest on the small of your back and your hip as he deepens the kiss slightly and you just barely catch yourself from moaning into his mouth. It physically pains you to pull away but making out in a towel, with shampoo and conditioner infused water rushing down your face isn’t necessarily your idea of a good time. So you pat his shoulder and break the kiss, thoroughly enjoying as his lips pout and how his body leans forward in hopes for more.

“Helping me out the way you did? That means more than you know.”

Johnny’s slight pout turns into a smile as he kisses your forehead.

“Well, what kind of shower would I be if I ain’t help my sugar out? My mama raised me better than that. Besides, I enjoyed it and I wouldn’t mind doing it again.. just say the word darlin’ and I’m yours.”

tanzaniiite © 2025 — all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, or copy. do not plagiarize. thank you.

[discotechque]

I AM UTTERLY ENAMORED W/ YOUR STEPFORD HEADCANONS……I love how you wrote more of his silly side 🥹🥹 could I request for more general, romantic headcanons abt him? (gender neutral reader)

I MIGHT JUST ADD YOU TO MY PORTFOLIO

summary: more romantic musings about stepford. pairing: stepford/reader word count: 1.1k content: headcanons + drabble style, serious domestic fluff + romance TO ME, erm scandalbra and lux mention but like literally such an insignificant mention, gender neutral pronouns, not proofread. note: THANK YOU!!! i could honestly go on and on about him cause he is just so silly and absurd to me. i wanna hang him on a keychain and let him dangle on my keys. i really thought that my headcannons for him weren't the best so i appreciate being able to expand more and that you loved them so much!!! also title is from romeo by pinkpantheress which i deem a stepford song now.

There are moments where he cannot help himself from pressing a peck on your lips. It’s a quick thing—one that breaks through your thoughts and makes you forget what was even being said. All you can feel is the trace of his lips and a warm tingling whenever you are reminded of it. You watch the way he grows smug in the aftermath of affection, like he always wants you wide-eyed and enamored with his small bouts of spontaneity. You lean forward again as does he, connecting and smiling against one another.

Worries at times that he is not good enough for you. He should be by nature, it is written in his core that he should be the one who effortlessly slots into your life like he could replicate the beat of your heart if you gave him the chance. There’s times where he struggles after a conflict where discomfort brews within his chest or purposefully adjusting his routine around yours even when it does not suit him. He is supposed to be your last love, the one who is woven with you as the sun sinks low and you don’t thank him but he can feel your appreciation humming from your skin. It doesn’t happen and one night on the couch, you whisper about give and take—scratching your nails across his skin and becoming more attuned with the belief that you want satisfaction and not sacrifice.

Searches for you first within a crowd, it first happened unintentionally during the Trivialetics competition. He saw you planted firm against all the others and gazed at him as if you had always known that the two of you would’ve locked eyes even if it would’ve taken hours. You anchor him, the slight crease of your eyes and your resistance to the sway of other bodies make him feel steady. Makes him feel like there is less pressure for something to be won if he knows that you will still seek him out when it is all over.

The feeling of your nails dragging along his skin always soothes him. At times you two will still be up in the early hours, tossing and turning sheets so that they grow along your limbs like vines. His back will be turned to you, a peek of tanned skin gifted to you from his shirt rising along his torso. A finger runs along the low ridges of his spine until your hand sneaks under the cloth and he shudders. Your nails, nearly ghosts but he can feel his shirt contort along your hand, skim across the expanse of skin. Up and down, he counts the loops until he can't anymore and you both lay limp with your hand near the small of his back.

He slips in mentions of you during his frequent gossip sessions. Lux and Scandalabra loathe him for it and are currently conspiring a way to make a ban of mentioning you a concrete statute of these meetings. It just comes very natural to him, your name slipping from his tongue whenever some piece of gossip sparks a reminder of you. He thinks about how you would love to hear about Dirk and Harper’s newest split or how Beverly seems to get oddly close to Jean Loo whenever she’s slightly drunk. He imagines your lips trapping amusement within the corners of a smirk and indulges himself with inserting you in a conversation every now and then.

Asks for you to watch either two things: reality shows or sports games. Both things are inherently competitive, there are small tiffs to be won and championships that hang from belts like small trinkets. Dating shows, Wimbledon, surviving on an island for as long as possible, Cricket World Cup, drunken people spitting out vitriol on a hot sticky street that is lit by neon lights. You are splayed out on your couch, lit by the grainy screen of your television, and he is curled up beside you. Head resting on your thigh as you weave a hand through his hair and sometimes catches glimpses of you shaded in technicolor, intent on understanding him even through something so abstract.

The ball rises into a high arc before an arm slings forward and slams it across the court. It goes back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Until the tiny neon sphere is caught against the net and bounces along the boundary. Someone comes to collect the ball and the players reset, sharp and narrow focus on what rhythm is yet to come. He can feel the plush of his cheek meld with the fabric that covers your thigh, a hand toying with the small hairs at the back of his neck and twirling whatever has grown around their fingers. Your head doesn’t move but, in his periphery, he can see your pupils darting across the screen and knows that you too have become enraptured in this rhythm.

He is tactless when he shifts within your lap. Writhes within the tight space so that he is able to lay flat on his back, his eyes trailing towards the expanse of your collar. The tension held within the skin when a serve is deemed out. The clench of your jaw when a backhand is an inch short. How a smile is etched inch by inch through each return in a rally. He reaches out a hand to trace a finger against the curve of your chin. He wants to do this for a long time to come.

You flick his forehead, “You’re really not paying attention for someone who begged me to watch with you.” 

He knows you were off doing some task with some other object. Middling in the relationship of Harper and Dirk or attempting to solve some tangled mystery with Maggie—it didn’t matter then and it doesn’t matter now. You agreed to sprawling along the couch and letting him do the same to you in kind, intertwined limbs and letting the glow of the television replaced the bleeding horizon.

He runs the pads of his fingers along your side, watching how you marginally squirm from the sensation. “C’mon, snookums, you know begging isn’t my sort of thing.” He watches your face sour, lips pursed into a flat line and eyes nearly shut. Yet, they never leave the screen. You are intent on doing what he has asked of you.

“You pouted and basically dragged me here.”

“Well,” He stretches the syllables and his tongue lightly sticks out, resting against his teeth. “aren’t you happy I did it?”

“Yeah, I’m happy.” You lean down and press a kiss to his temple. It lingers for a moment as if savoring a moment that will happen as long as you have him. Then murmur against his brow, “Sinner won the set by the way.”

[cartethyia-fleurdelys]

Coral Island (2023) dev. Stairway Games

[aleyrie]

don’t talk to strangers or you might fall in love

[helpmemiku]

All by yourself, sitting alone

Not allowed fits her so well. To me

[discotechque]

AAAA I LOVE YOUR LATEST POST, THEY’RE ALL SO SWEET

THANK YOU !!!!! i am such a hopeless romantic so writing those had me giggling and cheesing <3 i love those de characters DOWN

[carbon-dating-everything]

hiiii! Can I request anything Kopi? I literally don’t see a lot about her and I would love to see something in her POV of gaining a crush on the homeowner and her attempts to asking them out? I would appreciate something about her :) thank you!

hello you absolutely can request kopi!!!! elated to write for her again, hope you like this :DD although she ends up telling you her feelings outright in the game, i also think she'd be the type to try and send you subtle messages before finally giving up and asking you!

lattes in lieu of billet-doux

pairing: kopi x gender neutral reader

content warnings: none

word count: 2.5 k

The first time Kopi tries asking you out, she prepares your regular order before you even come in.

It’s subconscious, really. She knows your coffee habits day in, day out, whether you are shaking the sleepiness from your eyes, or in the mood for an afternoon refresher, or even wanting coffee at night for some reason. And ever since Roofbucks has been under her own command, she’s been… well… more than a little happy to engage with you in conversation.

So she’s decided that a subtle way of asking you out — subtle, because she thinks she'd faint if she were to ask you directly — would be to act perfectly normal. She’s nervous about approaching it, though, which is why she must have launched into making the brew you like most without even thinking.

The door bell jingles right on schedule, and she’s already putting the finishing touches on your drink as you stroll over, setting it down on the counter before you even open your mouth.

‘It’s my favorite customer! Here you go.’

You blink, nonplussed, at the coffee already steaming at the ready. ‘Oh! Thanks, Kopi.’

‘Of course!’ She beams, watching you lift the cup to your lips and hoping you’ll enjoy it, as she always does — though she’s been a little more desperate for your approval as of late.

You take a long, slow sip, and sigh once the flavor hits your tongue. ‘Mmm. You’re the best, you know that?’

‘Oh! Well, I — I really appreciate it. Thank you.’

You smile at her kindly, and it lights up the room, and Kopi feels her face flush. She turns back to the machinery, facing away from you, to work on more orders — you’re not the only customer here this morning, after all — but she especially busies herself with grinding and pouring so you don’t see her bursting into flames.

She can hear you from behind her by the subtle clink! of your spoon against the porcelain as you chat with the others; she notices the way you laugh as one of them muses about the various shenanigans going on right underneath your nose. Your voice is like music to her ears, and it’s all she can focus on, the chatter of the café and the bossa nova she has playing on speaker distant in the background.

This could be a moment to suggest something to you, casually — now that you know she's aware of your preferences, maybe she can ask if you could go somewhere together, like that tea shop Maggie always likes. Somewhere where romance is implied but not stated. But she gets as far as wondering how to actually phrase ‘Can I ask you out on a date’ without cringing at the way it leaves her mouth, then decides against it — there’s got to be a better way of bringing it up, surely.

By the time she works up the nerve to broach the subject even slightly, she hears you call out: ‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll talk to you soon!’ and you’re halfway out the door before she gets a chance to even open her mouth, leaving nothing but your empty cup in your wake Still, your compliment is enough to send her reeling for the rest of the day, and thinking about she could something else out for next time. Something slightly more direct, without needing to actually say it to your face. —— The second time Kopi tries asking you out, she names a signature drink after you.

She’s been naming a lot of things “Homeowner” and “Human” lately, but this time she gives it your actual name (just your first name; she has the feeling your full one would be a bit, well, stalker-y).

It’s something slightly more overt, this time. Something to catch your eye. And catch your eye it does; you quirk an eyebrow at her as you read the new option she’s added to the menu.

‘What's this?'

‘It’s, ah…’ She flounders under your quizzical gaze. ‘It’s our signature Brew Of The Day!’

‘Why's it got my name on it?’

Because that way you can ask about it, then ask her if she feels the same way you do her (if you do), and then she can ask you out on a proper date, she thinks, but of course she doesn’t say that. ‘Because… you’re special?’

It's a flimsy excuse, but you don’t even question it further. ‘Oh! Well, that’s awfully nice of you to name one after me. I’ll have that then, please!’

And just like that, her opener for hinting at anything is gone, and Kopi serves you a cup of still-excellent coffee without getting to where she actually wanted in the first place.

‘I think you’ve got to be more unsubtle with it,’ Wyndolyn supplies helpfully from where she perches on the countertop.

Kopi glares at her; it’s not particularly effective, because she just looks adorable when she's angry. ‘Thank you, Wyndolyn, I’ll keep that in mind next time.’ —— The third time Kopi tries asking you out, she draws your face in latte art.

You seem tired, today — maybe you're ill. There are bags underneath your bloodshot eyes that she can see even from behind your glasses, you’re still in your pajamas, and you’re yawning up a storm and drifting over to her like she’s your light in the tunnel (and from the way you slump at your usual table, she might as well be).

‘One latte, please,’ you mutter, muffled, into the wooden surface.

Kopi chuckles sympathetically, and whips it up as usual, only stopping her breakneck pace once she begins making the design. Latte art is by no means her best skill, but she’s been practicing, and while she usually just does rosettas, she goes an extra mile for you, pouring the foamed milk until a shape forms that she can work with a stir stick.

As you peel yourself off of the table, she sets it down in front of you, watching for your reaction. Admittedly, she didn’t get your nose quite right. But it’s still a reasonable likeness of you, in any case. And — just for indulgency’s sake — she added little hearts and sparkles around it, feeling almost like she has to fan her face at the very sight. There’s no way you’d be able to miss this, right?

Well, you do, but not out of derision. You lift the cup to your lips as usual, but you look straight up at her and not the cup as you drink it down to the last dregs in one go — it’s got to be at least a little hot, but you don’t even flinch as you blink one eye sleepily after the other like a lizard, giving her a wan smile and a shaky thumbs up. ‘It’s great. Thanks, Kopi.’

All Kopi can see is conflicting signs that you might simultaneously be into her and not into her at all; but as much as disappointment wells in her, she still finds that your smile warms her heart. ‘Anytime.’

She watches you as you trudge off to who knows where, sighing as she clears away your cup from the table. Is it her who’s not making the signs clear enough? Or are you just so oblivious that you can’t see what’s right in front of you?

Maybe it’s a little bit of both. —— The fourth time Kopi tries asking you out she gets Holly to help because she’s about to lose her gosh darned mind.

Unusually, she’s later to work than usual — she must have been kept up by how best to impress you and missed her alarm. It’s a good thing that Roofbucks now lets her control her own hours, so she messages Holly and tells her she’s on her way, and to start setting up without her.

When she finally gets to the café, the first thing she sees is that Holly’s hung a huge “KOPI IS INTERESTED IN YOU” banner over the wall, covering the menu. Holly herself is hanging a string of paper coffee-colored hearts right underneath it. All around the room, the coffee tables and walls have been adorned with your favorite flowers, your favorite colors, and not-inconspiciously pointed arrows towards the table you normally sit at.

‘Holly, what is this?!’

‘Oh! Hey, Kopi.’ Holly grins, taping the end of the string to the wall and leaning back to observe her handiwork. ‘You told me to start setting up something, so I dug up my old Valdivalentine’s decorations and made them coffee-specific! Do you like them?’

‘I asked you to help me with a subtle way to ask them out. This is not subtle!’

Holly dismisses her concerns with a wave of her hand. ‘I think you need to actually be direct with them here. You’ve tried to clue them in, what, three times already? It’s time to give up on subtlety and bean them in the head with a banner.’

And she’s probably right, but it makes Kopi too anxious to even consider this. She rushes behind the counter and starts prying off the tape pieces one by one as Holly frowns.

‘Come on, I think you should at least give this a shot. This way, it shows that you’re the menu! Isn’t that super cute?’

‘No, it isn’t, and help me take this down before I —‘

Ding. The bell tinkles as the door swings open, and Kopi feels dread pool in her stomach. It can’t be.

But it is you — of course it is! You stop and stare at the large banner draped over the wall, your eyes scanning it from side to side like the text isn’t visible from all the way in the living room, and then take in the sight of Kopi in the middle of frantically detatching the hearts and Holly with the most devilish look on her face.

‘Uh. Is this a bad time?’

‘No!’ Kopi’s voice comes out an octave higher than normal, and she forces herself to calm down before continuing, although it sounds strained. ‘No, er. What can I get for you today?’

Your concern no less assuaged, you knit your brow but decide not to press it for the moment. ‘Could I just have a latte, please?’

Holly coughs loudly and theatrically into her hand — it sounds a lot like ‘DoitaskthemorI’lldoitforyou’ — and Kopi glares at her, motioning for her to sit down in the far end of the café, which she does grudgingly. ‘Certainly! I’ll get that for you right away.’

Slightly perplexed, you sit down at your regular table, which Kopi can see has been decorated with considerably more flair than the rest (Holly’s doing, of course) and has been turned so that the chair directly faces her counter, meaning you can see all of the arrows aimed at you like Cupid himself has opened fire; you pay them no mind, however, and simply watch her as she makes you the latte. She tries to ignore the fact that her hands are considerably less steady than they usually are today.

‘So…’ you start, ‘…what’s with Holly and that banner?’

‘Oh, never you mind,’ Kopi says nervously, injecting far more cream than needed into the latte and tracing a somewhat clumsy (by her standards, anyway) rosetta onto the surface. ‘It’s just a thing I asked her to help me with that isn’t working out.’

‘Well, it’s definitely eye-catching. Who’s this meant to be for?’

You lean forward suddenly, as if coming to a realization, and Kopi halts — this is it! This is the chance she’s been waiting for!

But as always, you remain oblivious. ‘Are you trying to date someone?’

And your face is kind, so kind, but you still don’t get it. Even when it’s literally spelled out in front of you, you don’t get it. She suddenly feels as if she take this any longer; the pressure inside her’s building up like a pot about to explode, and nerves be darned, she decides to just bite the bullet and come out with it.

‘Yes! It’s you!’

Silence washes over Roofbucks like a pitcher of creamer knocked over, and you still, the hand stirring your coffee stopping mid-swirl.

Kopi’s heart begins banging in her chest frantically — danger, danger, danger! — but she presses on. ‘What I mean to say is, I — I like you. Like, more than a friend way. I have for a while now.’

For what seems like an eternity, you process as her true intentions dawn on you, and she braces herself for rejection.

Finally, an elated smile breaks over your face. ‘Oh! Well, why didn’t you just say so before?’

She sputters. ‘I have! I’ve tried giving you lots of signs without being too open about it. Didn’t you notice any of them?’

‘Are you kidding? I’m dense as a rock, anyone can tell you that — I can’t pick up on signals unless they’re directly beamed into my brain.’ (Holly nods in the background affirmatively.) ‘But why do you think I keep coming back?’

‘Well — for coffee.’

You giggle. ‘I mean, yeah, for coffee, but I can do that with and without the Dateviators on.’ Your voice softens once you notice her hands, normally so steady when mixing and pouring, are shaking and sweaty as she twists them back and forth. ‘I come here every day because I get to see you. Did you not notice that either?’

And, she realizes, she hadn’t, too wrapped up in her own anxiety tangents to see the way you’d come in every day without fault, sometimes even without ordering anything at all, and the smiles you always give her on the way out like she’d made your day when all she’d made you was an espresso. ‘I…’

‘Speaking of, I wanted to apologize. When I was tired the other day,’ you continue, 'I was just thinking of you the entire time, and how nice you are. I didn’t even manage to compliment you on the lovely latte art you made —‘

‘Oh, you don’t have to —‘

‘No, I’m going to! It was amazing and I should have appreciated it more.’ You press on hurriedly, wanting to make up for lost time. ‘You’re so humble, and hardworking, and so, so pretty. And each time you did something for me — every gesture you made, every cup of coffee you poured — I may not have noticed the special romantic overtones, but that’s because everything you do is romantic to me.’

You look her directly in the eyes, and unlike when you were sick, they’re unclouded and focused, fixed entirely on her. She can hardly believe what she hears next.

‘I like you too, Kopi.’

A warmth blooms in Kopi’s chest and across her face, quelling any anxieties she might have had. She smiles at you back, overjoyed. ‘I’m — gosh, I'm so happy to hear that. Thank you.’

‘Woohoo!!’ Holly yells ecstatically from behind you, and you both startle — you’d forgotten she was even there. ‘Job well done!’

‘Um, Holly,’ you say. ‘A moment alone, please?’

‘Oh! Sure, gotcha.’ She salutes, shoots a wink to Kopi, and zips out of the café as fast as lightning.

You turn back to her and smile again, the look of love on your face only second to the way your eyes sparkle teasingly.

‘So. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way… is there anything you’d like to ask me?’

—— (The fifth time Kopi tries asking you out — openly this time, and without any of the pressures of not knowing whether you’d say yes or not — it works.)

a/n: i think she's so sweet eee ^v^

[discotechque]

Hii! I’d love to see your take on general relationship HCs (GN!Reader dw) with Zoey, Stepford, River, or Cabrizzio but also free to add whoever else you want! I love your River x Reader fic sm 💖💧

SAVE YOUR SWOONS, I'M SPOKEN FOR

summary: musings about relationships with different dateables. pairing: zoey, stepford, cabrizzio, river/reader word count: 3k content: mentions of zoey's abusive past, the appear of corny nicknames, reverso translated italian, headcanons + drabble style, idk gross domesticity i crave, gender neutral pronouns, not proofread. note: THANK YOU FOR ASKING ABOUT MY SILLIES !!! love these three down and recently started loving zoey too <3 another river lover too like my day got so much brighter seeing you ask about her. also my first request for de like i will love you forever and ever. also tbh think i suck at writing headcanons but i do like this style sooooo much.

— ZOEY

When Zoey realizes that her feelings have run deeper than some flighty crush, it utterly consumes her—it is something simmering just under skin and makes her ripe. She blurts it out, it has been burrowing and festering within her chest for so long she practically shouts it at you. An immense relief overtakes her before growing flustered, avoiding your eyes as she chews on the inside of her cheek. She’s not sure that the feeling goes away, just melds with her so that this elation ebbs and flows.

She thinks that if she commits you to memory, she will have you on a level that supersedes the physical. The width of your nose bridge, every crooked tooth, that signature scent that seeps from you like sweat pearling against your skin. But it’s useless, she thinks she’s got you’ve all figured out until a new birthmark appears or your skin shines differently when the dim light catches it. She frets over it, the possibility that forgetting even a silver of these things will mean that she will not have you as hers fully. Something washes over her one late afternoon, you are coated in the pink haze of a sunset and turn to smile at her. It was silly from the start, she can never forget your face.

Tells you of things that remind you of her even if she’s not sure how the connection was formed. There is children’s laughter that runs along the street, seeping through the cracks of the house’s foundation. An ice cream truck that belts out the most annoying jingle for five minutes straight as people line up for soft serve. A storm that comes in suddenly and small balls of hail patter against the window pane. She wants to let you know that all the joy in the world has been divulged to her by your doing.

She loves learning how to love you, it delves deep into her and emotions bloom a heavy haze against her misty frame. You fight, you laugh, you kiss her and grasp at where you think the curve of her jaw is. At times, your hand scrapes past the thin boundary and tickles her. Sometimes she convinces herself that she is not cautious enough, that she is letting someone become so entangled with her, that one day it may all shift and turn sour. She tells you of these fears and you hold them close to your chest, taking them as your own. Everything feels a bit lighter and she falls a little more in love.

It’s a Tuesday. It’s a Tuesday and it’s raining outside so you’ve cracked a window open a bit. It makes the attic hot and sticky and smell like warm asphalt mixed with mildew. Still, it’s a Tuesday and it’s raining and you have decided to spend the afternoon with her. There’s a glass of juice cradled within your hands, golden in color and smells like wind blowing through an orchard. She couldn’t put the rim to her bottom lip but you raised it to her nose, let her inhale and sigh. You take a sip like she has been infused with the liquid by that simple action.

You’ve been doing this for the past few days. Bringing her new things so that she doesn’t just remember the small things but actually experiences them. On a Sunday, it rained and she stared out the foggy glass to observe how the rain splattered against the pavement in thick droplets. She felt your eyes trace over the outline of her before taking a seat beside her. Now, you opened the latch and lifted it from the sill to hear the drumming of a humid storm and the rush of a stream that deposits onto a street drain. A few weeks ago, she said she missed the crunch of a gala apple trapped between her teeth and she saw you come home with a jug of juice that was nearly two liters only days before.

“Does it smell as good as you remember?” There’s a trace of liquid covering the corners of your mouth. Tongue peeking out and wiping away the excess, the tender muscle being taken by your teeth afterwards.

No, not at all. She is missing about three sensations from the experience altogether, it is a muted replacement but she lets the sentiment flicker at the edge of her spirit. She pauses, “It’s definitely a smell.”

Your nose wrinkles, peering at the glass and bringing it up. Taking a quick sniff before looking up in thought, “Huh, that’s definitely feedback. Should I get a different brand?”

“No!” She cries and your face flattens out in surprise. Some part of her can’t help but compare you to a past you were never aligned with. Zoey worries she will upset you if she cannot meet expectations you have not expressed, that no matter how many times you assuage her—she is always searching for some piece of him within you. She never finds it. “It’s not what I meant, just something I need to get familiar with.”

You nod, a movement bordering imperceptible, and place the glass on the sill. A free hand reaches past the gap of the window, palm up and letting beads of rain coalesce within the center. You don’t seem to mind that your hand is soaked as it retracts, “Whatever you need.”

She watches as you offer your hand to her, slick with rain water and fingers limp. You are not expecting her to hold your hand, instead offering the feeling of how the water clings to your skin. Her hazy hand grazes past your skin and you shiver.

— STEPFORD

It’s surprisingly casual when you get together with him, as if you two had been like this from the beginning. There’s no fanfare or grand declaration, it is just the two of you orbiting around each other and deciding that you don’t need to make a spectacle over what this needs to be called. He takes your hand once as the sun sinks low and lightly squeezes it, you think it all started somewhere around there.

Really takes to calling you corny nicknames like babe or beautiful. Doesn’t matter if you keel over and pretend to gag at them, he takes your reaction in stride. Making sure to sneak one worse than the last just to see your face contort as the conversation continues. He decides his current favorite within his awful rotation is “snookums”.

Not that I think he wouldn’t love a compliment directed towards his appearance but he absolutely beams when it’s about something non-superficial. You notice his effort in trying to understand things you’re interested in, his passionate disposition in everything, his innate desire to make everything a game he can play. You appreciate him, let him know that he is yours and that love is not a competition. Despite that, he still thinks he’s won.

Makes you promise to show up to any sort of event he’s participating in, even if it’s not inherently competitive. Open mic at the Breaker Box, game nights around the house, working out with the others in the gym. If there isn’t a first place trophy, they better start making one by the time he shows. He always manages to find you in any room and you feel like if he could, he would be saying that everything is dedicated to you. You’re glad he doesn’t because sometimes he flops horribly.

Takes evenings to be his downtime so when he’s not tanning for an absurd amount of time, he centers his attention on you. Learning your nightly routine, creating a shape in your bed, entangling himself within duvets and limbs. Sometimes he even wears your clothes, yearning to be enveloped by things that contain some essence of you.

Thick cloth wraps around his bare skin, moonlight glimmers against him and all he can feel is a weighted warmth that blankets him. His eyes drift open slightly, narrowed lids focusing their attention on you. Your head pressed into his chest, shoulders hunched, curled into yourself but his arms drape themselves over your body. This desire is different, melts the feeling into a pool where he is floating with only his head above the water. Treads everyday and has to remember to breathe when he has caught himself within tender displays.

“Your feet are cold,” the words are muffled, trapped within the gap where your head meets the pillow. He feels the frigid flesh against his skin, and keeps it there.

You huff instead of laugh. The sudden amused exhale fanning across a worn t-shirt he’s borrowed from you. It’s from a band you like but his frame fills the fabric better than yours does. “Is that why they’re being held hostage by your thighs?”

“Thought you really liked my gorgeous toned thighs?”

“Lots of adjectives,” He knows you’ve seen him thumbing through a thesaurus. Picking out five dollar words that he could string together to bring attention to his good looks. In the moment, you chose to compliment him on improving his vocabulary. “but yeah, I like ‘em.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head , inhaling and a smile wriggles itself upon his visage. “Is there anything else my sweet darling babe wants to say about my awesome bod?”

You sigh, “Goodnight,”

The night settles on your bodies, another memory woven into your dreams.

— CABRIZZIO

When he decides that he wants something more serious with you, Cabrizzio has some ideal outline for how everything will go. He will walk up to you, snake his arm around the small of your back, kiss you deeply while dipping you, and whisper his adoration. Instead, he finds it happens on a morning where you look a little messy and bleary eyed. Hugs you from behind and sways, breathes a small confession within the crook of your neck. Everything has been leading to this exact moment, he knows this as you turn and kiss him.

Enjoys always having some part of him touching you. His shoulder glued to your own, his pinky linked with yours, tips of shoes bumping together. He finds it romantic, a magnetic pull that will always ground him back to you. Doesn’t even think kissing you is his favorite thing anymore, just nudges you with his knee and watches as you acknowledge him with a nudge in kind.

Loves sitting with you in the kitchen on slow mornings. The sunlight filters in through an open window and bathes the both of you in a glowing daze. Steam rises in long wisps from espresso that Kopi made, the mist swirling around your features. He grabs your hand and presses a kiss to each knuckle, some sickly saccharine phrase leaving his lips after each one.

Movie nights where he refuses to watch anything other than romance movies but will make an exception if it’s in Italian. You don’t have the heart to mention that he’s not actually from Italy and was only crafted there and shipped to your home. More so focusing on how you slot so well into his body, an arm slung around you and your legs layered on top of his own. The subtitles blur together but he picks up the slack, murmuring translations within the shell of your ear.

The espresso sits daintily in a small dish that was purchased with Daisuke’s consultation. He remembers you agonizing over it, insisting that this small piece was integral to your mornings togethers. How it would set the mood for all mornings to come where you would sit and idly stroll through different topics while taking sips from the small rim of the cup. He thinks you’re wrong but keeps it tucked within his chest, letting it stay within the corners of his smile as he gazes at you.

He believes that you are the thing that all mornings gravitate around. Your presence tethered to every object, every movement, every thought. You could’ve chosen the most gaudy furniture and the wrong mug but he’s assured that this moment would’ve been the same in any other place. He knows that he would’ve been sitting across from you, blanketed within the late morning and store-bought baked goods you swear taste better than the real thing.

“You’re staring. What’s up?” There’s flakes of pastry that you wipe with the back of your hand. The butter leaves a trail that glistens underneath the canary colored light.

“The steam caressing your beauty,” He answers concisely. If you would let him—he would speak about the bend of your knee as you perch a foot on a secondhand chair, your lashes clinging together as they keep traces of sleep, your fingers leaving indents within soggy bread. Cabrizzio restrains himself and decides there will be mornings to come where you are just as beautiful as you are now. “I’m almost jealous, cara mia, I would think I’m not doing enough to take care of you.”

Your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth, “Dropping the ball, man. Not even sure I’m being loved any more or whatever.”

It’s not serious, he knows this. You love to tease but he adores buying into it, being hooked on bait that is glinting within the waves. He fixes himself to stare at how your chest expands, rising and falling a little quicker than before. He hooks your fingers underneath his palm and kisses the back of your hand. “Tu sei il centro di tutti i miei desideri.” He parts his lips, teeths at the skin but his lips skim as he speaks. “Ho visioni di ogni mattina come questa in cui mi guardi e mi ritieni degno di amore.

Your lips purse but he can see how you strain, letting the giddy feeling bubble over your skin. He can feel it too.

— RIVER

It hits River all of a sudden, not some crazy collapse but something that just unravels in her chest all at once. She’s not sure how she should say it, what perfect combination of words that will evoke the same feeling from you. She asks for advice from those she thinks know romance like they know freckles on their skin or the way hair tickles their neck. It’s useless and there’s a moment where she’s tear ridden and hiccupping before you and admits between your concern. I like you and I don’t know what to do with it. You wrap your arms around her waist and embrace her, telling her that you’ll figure it out together.

Nervous to introduce you to her interests, she’s become used to downplaying their importance to her as protection against the possible opinions of others. She’s a surprisingly crafty and artistic person—watercolor painting, small ice sculptures she can conjure within her palm, studying pages of a flower arrangement book that Lyric exhibits to her. These are fragments of her, ones she pretends that don’t matter until your curiosity grows with every question she answers. She stammers and flushes under the attention but you wait and ask her another.

Loves being around you, not even in a possessive way but just likes knowing you’re near. You could be doing anything else and she will sit nearby, admiring you, and even appreciates it in the reverse. She used to think that being watched would be a detriment to her work, the burn of someone’s stare flaring over her skin, but became accustomed to the thought that you view her in the same vein she does you.

She to be jealous of how you came into your own, feeling a little more comfortable inch by inch after you had received the glasses. Moving through the home like you’ve known your place within it since birth. She covets that sort of composure, would’ve envied it at any other point in time, but you always look back at her. Nodding your head, beckoning her forward, letting the anxiety eat her alive. She finds it’s not so bad learning her place beside you.

River’s skin skims over your arm as she holds your hand, directs the brush to skim over the canvas to let cerulean bleed behind it. You wanted her to teach you how to paint and had settled on something cliche—a wave breaking against the sand. She didn’t mind it, her eyes focused on how your body buzzed with excitement over the idea and let something solitary become full of things that stop your bodies from becoming one. Dust, air, her skin plush against your warm flesh, it’s all she can think about at this moment and it makes her dizzy.

She knows you can hold the brush on your own but you insisted. She knows that you could’ve sketched the simple spirals and jagged edges but you requested to see what she thought it would look like. She knows that you would’ve hummed anyway but can’t resist indulging in how the sound sticks to her skin, ripples within her body. She can only think about how she is collecting these things, that all of them will create her greatest work as of yet. This simple painting and how everything she feels is bottled between the gap where her fingers swathe yours.

You suddenly pull your hand back from the canvas, “We went over the line,”

“Huh?” She tenses, her hand removing itself from your own. Her chest twists and wrings her ribs so tight that she finds she is unable to breathe. River stutters, “Thought you wanted this?”

Your brow furrows at her words. Pointing at where the brush was mere moments ago, “No, I mean we accidentally painted into the rocks.”

“Oh.”

There’s a small bit of deep blue that crosses the edge of a rock she sketched out. It’s something like a blot, one that must be smaller than the tip of her finger. She would’ve obsessed over it even when it was finished and stored in some dusty corner, coated with cobwebs and damp with damage. It would’ve sat in the back of her mind and weighed heavy until she pulled out a new canvas to replicate it from memory. It would never be the same and she would carry that. She looks to you and it suddenly feels like she’s unafraid of plunging into the deep end.

She wraps a hand around your shoulder and nods, “We can paint over it,”

You beam and it gives her the courage to breathe again.

[carbon-dating-everything]

is this a safe space to share my de oc...

[nephilimbrute]

buncha recent requests

[discotechque]

— RULES.

tbh i love writing anything! i'm still getting back into writing and doing school so sorry if your request doesn't get fulfilled like super quickly either.

requests are currently open!

— FANDOMS.

mortal kombat, date everything, resident evil + more to come :)

— WON'T WRITE.

GENERAL: yandere, omegaverse / abo, pregnancy or parent fics, bigotry, nsfw but suggestive is fine.

MORTAL KOMBAT: Nitara, Geras, Baraka, Cassie, Cetrion, Kano.

DATE EVERYTHING: Timothy Timepiece, Ben-Hwa, Connie, Kristof, Nightmare, Rebel.

RESIDENT EVIL: Ashley Graham, Mother Miranda.

btw, some of these aren't cause i find the characters like morally bad—some of them are just fugly, i don't fuck with them, or i feel like i don't get their character.

[discotechque]

AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT WE SAY WE ARE DOING

summary: river wants to achieve romantic perfection and has somehow convinced you to become the other half that participates in simulated dates. even through boring small talk and the worst dinners of your life, you find that the best part of it all is pretending it doesn't mean anything.

pairing: river/reader wordcount: 1.7k content: awkward first dates (?), river being insecure and jealous, erm love as patience and waiting, gender neutral pronouns, not proofread. note: RIVER I LOVE YOU OH MY GOD BRAH her and keyes are like my top dateables and i thought this would be fun. anyways love how river is someone who reads as insecure and guarded PLUS her in winnifred's route like baby polyamory is probably not for you right now and that's okay.

What you and River do is practice, it’s the small lie you assure yourselves with before every meeting. Drumming the pads of your fingertips against the dining table and playing pretend for another night. Sitting opposite of another with tight lipped smiles and dressed too fancy for the mundane decor that dulls your kitchen. She always changes her look—hair up and tight dress this time—but you barely mention it. The compliment, swollen and resting within your throat, struggles to free itself.

It almost never does.

She asked for your help, wanted to rehearse all the lines she would say until it felt natural. It felt odd at first, being the one to be chosen amongst all the others but you found no use in unraveling its meaning. Convenience, fate, karma, whatever you wanted to call it—you were there and that was reason enough.

Still, the question festers. You’ve never considered yourself to be particularly charismatic. There’s malaise tinging every interaction you have. Wondering if you move your limbs at a normal pace, if your face contorts into an expression where every feature feels isolated, if you are projecting your neuroticism. A thin, knit tablecover blankets the worn tawny table and the excess spills over the edge into your lab. You take the edge within your thumb and pointer finger, picking at the fabric and believing it will still be intact once this is done. Whether River takes notice of it, she does not comment on it.

She slips into the arched oak chair, spine stiff against the structure. Tugging down the edge of her dress to combat it riding up the length of her thigh. The legs of the chair screech as it scrapes along beaten hardwood floors. She winces but both of you are inclined to let the moment pass. It’s a habit you’ve fallen back on too many times to count and you rely on her to do the same.

River treats every date like it’s your first. Two strangers destined to meet at your dining room table, veiled in flickering candlelight that casts your towering shadows on quilted curtains. Some pasta dish is plated to an unusual degree of class and set on a secondhand place mat that disrupts an amorous nature she is desperately attempting to bottle within this corner of your home. She doesn’t care that Cabrizzio may have undercooked the food or that she cannot feel anything from the multiple sips of wine she forced Beverly to serve—this is idyllic. A fantasy she’s seen come to fruition a thousand times over and yet, you feel that hasn’t come any closer to bridging the gap that makes whatever you’re doing tangible.

Her chin is perched upon her fist. Some stray strand of hair falls along the corner of her eye, she blows at it only for it to barely nudge. The physics surrounding her are enigmatic. “So, honey, you come here often?”

The words are a crutch, something she once picked up from someone she admired so greatly that it almost consumed her. She usually keeps it tucked away but you can tell something else is infecting her thoughts. “Thought we agreed you would give up on that line.”

She murmurs something, lets her fingers unfurl and splay across her cheek. Caressing her worn expression and some vacant huff signalling her surrender. This dinner is already begging to be put out of its misery, drenched in some tomato basil sauce and looking stale even in the dim candlelight. God, Cabrizzio really can’t cook.

“Also, this is my house.” It also didn’t make any sense the first time she said it.

“Easy opener,” She says as if she believes even a fraction of it. A brittle smirk tugging at her but she refuses to see it become full. Her finger circles the rim of her wine glass, “feels weird when I know you already.”

You know each other as well as you do your own ceiling, blank and unassuming. Projecting whatever persona the two of you want to take on for the night because this is a performance above all else. Dialogue is cut and revised until you have both become something near perfect—the inability to harness this skill naturally makes you both inferior by default. The thing you find funny is that River doesn’t expect much from you. She wants for you to just sit across from her, picking at the edge of a tablecover and engaging in pointless conversations that take the most leisurely path possible to reach their conclusion.

You roll your shoulders, masking it as a shrug rather than a way to relieve the tension pinched tight between the blades. “Just need to get better at acting then.”

This is when it starts. Hesitantly grasping at your forks and scraping the bottom of your plate with it. Neither of you take a bite, content with this meeting not leaving stains on the corners of your mouth. Gulping rather than swilling the wine within your mouth, letting the bitter taste find a home in the back of your throat. Avoiding River’s prodding to start a conversation by angling your neck, searching for something within the shadows of your home.

River lets her fork clatter against the plate, targeting her line of sight on you. “What do they say?” 

Oftentimes, you find her to be reliant on others. Reflecting back what they want to see rather than what they are. You’re not even sure that if River saw herself in a mirror she would find clarity, only a muddle distorted thing that flickers a thousand versions of herself. Each piece taken from somebody else and struggling to grasp at what is truly hers.

“What does who say?”

“You know,” She twists her hand, fingers drawn tight and extended to you in offering. The gesture is hollow. If she could, River would start off every conversation like a tender interrogation that unravels before her. “Ugh, I’m not stupid. I saw you with Winnie and Shelley earlier.”

You’re not quick to deny her claim. In fact, you don’t say anything at first. Choosing instead to spear one of the pasta shells on your fork and bringing it to your lips, a crunch echoing within your skull.

“I’m not out on a date with them, am I?”

She shakes her head, “A pretend date.”

It’s pure semantics. The thin line that makes this real has become a bare thread, threatening to snap under the weight of what remains unsaid. The both of you being particularly good at treading around meaning and making a game of it. Taking bits and pieces of sentences and extracting new phrases from them. Mashing into syllables and swallowing sounds until you can chew on anything except for what you actually want to say.

“You’re not stupid but you’re acting dense then.” Your hand briefly leaves the table cover and a half smile appears. One strung up through pure exasperation. Pointer and middle fingers extending to form a loose peace sign, “Two for one.”

River pouts and turns away. Tugs at the top of her strapless dress that falls a few inches lower than she would like for it to rest. It’s not something she would usually pick. The shimmer of candlelight refracts off her frame, one of her hands teases the skin of her collarbone, a finger toying with the stone of a necklace. There is a certain precision that shrouds all her actions, every move planned before materializing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “Look, you said that we should see other objects in the house.”

“I did,” She whispers. It’s the most honest thing she’s ever said amidst quiet nights blanketed by contrived unfamiliarity. Once she’s running, River doesn’t have the courage to stop. “I thought I would be okay with seeing you and somebody else. That I could just laugh it off, we would see each other later, and I could last in the feeling that this is somehow real.”

River doesn’t want a love she deems as fragmented. What she covets, she keeps whole. You realize that as she watches you. More strands shedding from her once intricate bun. Heavy breath expelling clouds of steam past her lips. Have they always looked so plump? There’s a brief moment where you tear your gaze from her pouting but it’s useless. You return to her.

Her mouth opens then shuts a few times, looking upward and trying to find the right thing to say. Something that would make this near perfect. “Things just got … leaky?”

It’s cheesy. Some goofy thing she would’ve groaned over a few nights ago. Yet now, she’s gaping, splitting open the cavern between her ribs to present her want to you. Hammering within her chest and rattling to her no end. She levels you with the stare of a wide-eyed deer. You’ve dreamed of her like this a thousand times and the reality of it consumes you.

“So what do you want?”

River allows a tight frown to overtake her features, leans back with arms raised in defeat. “Didn’t exactly think of a plan. Actually, never thought I would even get here.”

It would’ve always ended this way though. You can feel it, know that you and River would be sitting close enough to take each other in but never touch. It could’ve been this table, the laundry room, or even the bathroom and one of you would’ve decided to tear through a boundary that was already whittling down to be the width of a single hair.

You let your hand leave your lap, sliding it across the expanse of the table. It’s not enough to reach her but it’s a start. River looks at it for a few seconds but then decides to do the same. Her fingers catch on the holes of the cloth as she snakes her hand along the surface. There is still a gap, a few centimeters between your fingertips.

“Whatever it is, I’m here.”

She splutters, looking off to the side again. Her hand remains still, so close to yours and it excites you. “I’m not asking you to wait.”

“I know.” You nod but it’s solid, sure of itself. As if you’ve known this since before it spiraled into something too tender to be named. “I’ll still be here, waiting.”

Rivers flushes and you want to cradle the image within your palms so as to never forget it.