Haiii!!! so happy too see more dustin love #needthat anyways could you write a Dustin x fem! reader who's punk/alternative and meets dustin because she works at the arcade? Because of the way she dresses and her politics there's kinda rumours going around about her being this scary violent person but she's actually really polite and sweet and likes the same cartoons as dustin. completely fine if not! have a nice day <333
thank you for asking!
MEAN & SCARY?
with dustin henderson .ᐟ
⋆˚꩜｡ pairing ; dustin henderson x alternative fem!reader
⋆˚꩜｡ tags ; TEETH-DECAYING-DIABETES-GIVING-FLUFF, dustin being a flustered mess, slight flirty reader, no timeline specified, dustin's mom makes a special appearance, stealing technically?
⋆˚꩜｡ author’s note ; anon i #needthat too, also as an alt girl i love you for this 🙏 i feel like this is kinda corny but i tried my best!! enjoy 😭(yes the title is a eddie munson reference i HAD to) also thank you so much for 25 followers already!! that’s insane!!
⋆˚꩜｡ word count ; 1.305
back to my masterlist? — follow my spam @dustins-wife2 !
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It was Tuesday night, which meant you had the closing shift at the arcade tonight.
You leaned against the counter, it wasn’t busy thankfully, since it was a school night (also because everyone was afraid to come to the arcade because of your reputation). You soaked up the quietness of the arcade, only the light radio station could be heard in the background.
That’s before a group of teens, maybe around your age, walked in. They were laughing with each other and looking around, they’ve been here before, you could tell by the way they flung themselves to an arcade game, like they knew the floor plan of this place like the palm of their hand.
Time passed as you stayed behind the counter, minding your business, messing around with the radio stations or rearranging the gifts in the gift section as the teens played around for a bit.
Suddenly, you could hear whispers along the lines of:
“No you go!”
“She’s scary”
“I’m not going either”
“Fine! I’ll go then.”
before a brown curly haired boy approached you with a handful of tickets in his hand. He wore a cap and probably had the sweetest eyes ever.
“Hey.” He said, with a slight smile.
“Can I help you?” You leaned on the counter.
“You..yeah..i…” He stuttered a bit, his gaze falling to your styled hair, dark makeup, down to your uniform, you were basically a punk goddess in his eyes, his eyes quickly scurried at the tickets in his hand. “I-I wanna redeem these!” He lent out his hand to give you the tickets
“Sure.” You grab them and start redeeming them. You looked up at him from time to time, admiring how his fingers tapped on the counter while he was waiting, how his eyes looked around the gift shelves, already eyeing something.
“Got your eye on something?” You smile, hidden by your hair as you look down on the tickets.
“Yeah. I don’t know if i have enough points for it though.”
“What is it?” You look up.
“The Panthro action figure.”
A smile meets your face “You know Thundercats?”
His eyes widened like if you had just assumed something blasphemous of him “I know Thundercats?! I love Thundercats!” An even bigger smile met his lips.
“Really?” You look straight at him, the tickets forgotten on the counter. “That action figure has been on the shelves since I started working here a couple months ago, no one ever got it. I was considering taking it home with me.” You joke around
“People would leave behind a gem like that?!” The curly head said in disbelief.
“I know!” You finished counting his tickets, a melancholic look met your face “Ah..looks like you’re 50 points short for the action figure..”
The boy looks disappointed but accepts his fate “Ah bummer. Well, it’s okay, means you can take it home with you”
You look at him, then back at the figure. You could tell he really wanted that action figure.
“..i can make a little change of price for you.” You smile, grabbing the Panthro action figure from the shelf and give it to him.
“Really?!” He looks like he’s a kid in a candy store, his eyes glow and he smiles again.
“Yeah, it’s yours.” You nod, he looks so pretty when he’s happy
“You’re the best, I love you!” He blurts out, realizing what he had just said, a slight redness crawls up his face and neck from the embarrassment. “I’m sorry, that—that was weird— I mean, I appreciate it.”
“It’s fine..” You trail off, asking for his name.
“Dustin, Dustin Henderson.”
“Nice to meet you Dustin.” You tell him your name
“That’s real pretty, it fits you.” He leans his chin on the top of the toy box, looking at you.
You could feel your ears and cheeks heating up before one of his friends called his name.
Dustin’s head snapped up and looked at his group of friends that was waiting for him at the door of the arcade “Ah, I gotta go, it was nice meeting you though.”
“Nice meeting you too.” You told the cute boy,
After that night, Dustin was hanging out with you every chance he could; before and after your shifts, during your break. You snuck him gifts from the gift shop and he snuck you little patches he’d find around or make himself you could add to your jean jacket.
One day, he finally mustered up enough courage to invite you to his house on a weekend. You played card games, messed around with the radio, he explained to you the rules of DnD, and obviously, you watched Thundercats and other cartoons you liked together.
“Hey you have that displayed!” You look up at the Panthro action figure that sat on his shelf.
“Of course I do.” He said shutting off his TV. “Y’know you’re not what I thought you’d be..”
“Mean and scary?” You smirk, leaning back on his soft bed. Dustin reluctantly nodded, almost afraid of offending you.
“People like to say that about people they don’t understand.” You explain.
“I get that.” He sat on the floor, in front of you. “There are some rumors going around Hawkins about you being..violent, rude.”
You nod, looking at the ceiling “I’ve heard ‘em.” A moment passes “Am I?”
“Huh?”
“Am I violent and rude?” You look at Dustin
He called you by your name “You’re.. the nicest person I know. You literally pet every stray you see on the street and people say you eat them!” That joke pulled a laugh out of you, he looked at you adoringly, but you just didn’t notice
“They should really give you a chance, you’re a great person.” Dustin praised once you stopped laughing
“Well some fools enjoy living in ignorance, and just go off based on ideas, judging a book from its cover.”
“I was afraid of you at first” Dustin admitted reluctantly
“Yeah well, I could tell by the look in your eyes. I’m kinda used to it.” You sat up on the bed. “Thank you for…giving me a chance.” You smile at him
“Thank you for giving me the Panthro action figure, which, by the way, is my most prized possession.” You giggle at his silliness.
Another moment passes “I love the Ghostbusters patch you gave me.”
“I made it, the paint work is a little cheap—“
You interrupt him “It’s perfect because it’s made by you.”
Dustin looked at you, his face turning a hot shade of red. “Ah..” He looked to the side “I mean— aah..god..”
He stumbled over his words, making you giggle. You loved flustering him up like this.
You slide down from the bed and onto the floor in front of him “Dustin..” You say with a big smile you couldn’t help but display.
He kept on muttering nonsense and looking away, his face crimson red.
You grab his face and turn it towards you, holding his burning cheeks. “I can’t hear you, could you speak up?”
“Kiss me.” He mumbles after a long string of inaudible words, just loud enough for you to hear him.
You tilt your head with a laugh of disbelief “Kiss you?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I-I want you to kiss me, if you want of course...” He nods.
“I want to” You lean closer to his face, before slowly, but definitely, closing the distance between your faces.
The kiss was messy but pure, a fire lit up inside you and you felt like your souls connected in that moment, your hearts beating one rhythm.
For a minute or two, you both just sit there, kissing like two thirteen year olds in their first relationship, holding eachother in your arms and smiling against one another’s lips.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ synopsis: the victory tour is over, and the next album refuses to come no matter how hard michael tries. what arrives instead, on a thursday afternoon, is the attention to a self-retained corner shop three blocks from the family house on hayvenhurst — it's unnamed and unlike anything else on the street, ran by a young woman unapologetically herself. he finds himself to become a regular there, for reasons he tells himself are purely educational, but they both know that's not true!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc: 7.9k 😭 someone teach me how to shorten my shit good god
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ content: no mention of y/n, no mention of race, basically reader's appearance is mostly left open other than outfit descriptions, fem reader, reader owns and runs a diy punk/art shop, reader is a punk artist and musician, michael knows nothing about punk and is learning in real time (twin), slow burn and fluff with zeeero rushing cuz u guys know me haha... the romance is almost entirely in body language and awkwardness, michael is nervous and soft, pov kinda switches near the end???
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ a/n: in honour of michael passing 17 years ago today i wanted to post a cutesie tooth-rotting slowburn fluff fic... this was requested by a lovely comment (thank you for the idea @golddustwomxn) and i had the absolute pleasure of writing it YAYYYY!!! somehow longer than my goth one which is crazy cuz i know more about goth subculture than punk as a whole... but anywho ENJOY TO MY ALT MICHAEL LOVERS i hope i was accurate with the punk culture
— reqs are open btw for full oneshots or mini drabbles! ˆ𐃷ˆ dont be shy!
— comment on this post or here if you'd like to be a part of a future tag list ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶
encino, california. 1985.
the first thing michael noticed about the small shop around the block from his large, chaotic family house on hayvenhurst was that it had no noticeable name.
every other storefront on the block loudly announced itself—dry cleaners, a deli, a place that sold picture frames and seemed so inexplicably busy for something so randomly specific. but, that corner shop sat in quiet, unsigned defiance, its window display doing all the talking instead of a large, overstimulatingly bright sign.
and that window display had plenty to say for itself.
he’d first clocked it from the backseat of the car bill was skillfully driving sometime in october, on one of the afternoons when the noise of everything had gotten too loud inside his own head and he’d needed to be moving without any particular destination. the victory tour had wrapped not long before, fifty-five dates across north america, and the silence that followed a tour was always its own particular kind of loud.
especially one he had no choice of participating in.
he’d been staring out the window the way he did in that silence, watching encino blur past in its palm tree and pavement regularity, and the crazed shop window had caught something in him the way captain hook’s hook caught on things—it was sudden and not entirely comfortable to pull free from.
it had been displaying, during that cold, foggy week, a small forest of hand-lettered signs crowding the glass from the inside; white paint dragged across black cards in thick, uneven strokes; black ink scratched into brown paper in letters that were small and urgent, but purposeful in an artistic way. they were arranged at varying heights as though they’d grown there organically; some were propped, some taped, some were leaning against one another like dominos. some had words on them—full sentences or maybe even motivational slogans—but the car was moving too fast for him to catch more than the shape of the statements.
he caught that others were just images: a fist proudly raised to the sky, fingers tight and deliberate; the kind that meant something specific to whoever had drawn it. another of a bird mid-flight, rendered in a few economical strokes; the wings caught at precise angles that resembled effort and surrender. a clock face with no hands, the numbers still faithfully ringing the dial as if waiting for something to tell them what time it was—or instead it finally decided that it didn’t matter anymore.
tucked among the signs were stacks of what looked like homemade zines, the stapled photocopied kind that looked like they’d been assembled on someone’s dining room table at two in the morning on a random surge of energy—edges not quite aligned, covers slightly askew, the whole thing held together by determined staples through the spine.
nearing the edge of the window, record sleeves that had been painted over in broad strokes of muted reds and yellows—the kind of colours that looked like they’d been mixed from memory rather than intention. the original images beneath were still faintly visible, like a ghost under the paint that had been said but then thought better of; not quite erased, just covered over with something the artist had decided mattered more.
despite these intense observations, the car had moved on regardless, swallowed by the copy-and-paste sameness of the rest of the block. michael watched the grey stores blur past with the disinterest of someone who had already seen the only thing worth seeing.
he didn’t tell bill to turn around. not yet.
that had been october. it was now february, 1985, and the world had not gotten any quieter.
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the tour had done something strange to him.
fifty-five shows of the same fifteen songs with the same staging; a version of himself performed at a such a high scale for months, and somewhere in the middle of it he had started to feel the gap between who he was on that stage and who he was in the hours before and after it. thriller had sold more copies than he knew what to do with emotionally, and the tour had confirmed, every single night, just how enormous that number actually was.
he was twenty-six. the next thing—whatever it was going to be—had to come from somewhere, and he couldn’t find that somewhere quick enough.
he’d sit at the piano for hours, sometimes until the room went dark around him without him noticing, waiting for anything to arrive that felt true. things surely did come—melodies, chord progressions, lines of lyrics that assembled themselves with the practiced ease of someone who had been doing this before he could even properly reach the keys—but they arrived as things that sounded too much like michael jackson, and that was exactly the problem. he’d write lines and hear his name in every syllable, recognize the cadence the way you’d recognize your own handwriting, and he’d set the pen down in sheer frustration.
that wasn’t it.
that wasn’t the thing.
he didn’t want to sound like a version of himself he’d already been—he wanted to find the next one.
the harder one.
the one that was still somewhere underneath everything that had already been made and celebrated and sold and swept across a grammy stage, waiting to be pulled out into the light.
as a newfound way of taking breaks from his silent creative turmoil, he started driving himself places whenever he could convince bill that he wanted to take his own car for once. he had gotten his license around four years ago, but before then he told interviewers and even his own mother, katherine, with complete sincerity that he’d simply hire chauffeurs forever; that driving was something regular people did and how he wasn’t granted that normalcy. katherine gave him a specific look only a mother could give, and three weeks later he found himself in a parking lot in encino with an old man for an instructor, some particular freedom waiting at the end of it that he hadn’t anticipated needing.
they were short drives, purposeless, the kind that let him be in his own head without anyone else in the passenger seat needing anything from him. he drove past the uniquely cluttered shop on hayvenhurst three more times before he finally, on a thursday evening with no particular agenda and a growing need to do something that wasn’t sanctioned by a repetitive schedule, pulled over on the curb.
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the bell above the door was the old-fashioned kind, a physical bell tied onto a string which hung loosely from dangling pendant lights offering minimal light, suspended by a continuous, rusting chain. it made a sound that was less a welcoming, light-footed ding! and more of a flat, unapologetic clang, the kind of sound that seemed to be offering whoever had just walked in one last opportunity to reconsider taking another step, as if the shop itself was making clear from the outset that it wasn’t going to meet anyone halfway politely.
michael found that he liked that detail immediately, despite being a little intimidated.
the shop was small. not cramped, but instead densely inhabited, like from a person filling every available surface with things they had actually cared about rather than things that happen to sell. the shelves along the left held records unknown to michael, filed with the spines out, handwritten labels on the shelf edge indicating the sections in impatient handwriting that was small and slightly slanted. the right wall was given over almost entirely to a corkboard of enormous proportions, pinned so heavily with varying sizes of papers, photographs, flyers, and torn-out images that the cork itself had become theoretical, buried somewhere beneath the accumulated evidence of someone’s obsessive attention to the world.
the middle of the shop was a loose arrangement of low tables and wooden crates, displaying the hand-stapled magazines he’d seen from the car months ago. he further observed, noticing the scattered small prints, patches, stickers, and objects that defied easy categorisation. a handful of painted rocks, multiple painted mirrors with some having text scratched into the reflective surface, a small stack of cassette tapes with handwritten labels…
it smelled like paper and something faintly chemical hidden underneath—herbal, maybe, like dried plants. nonetheless, a room that had been lived in with intention.
michael stood just in front of the door and absorbed it all.
“you can come further in,” said a feminine voice from somewhere to his left. “the things around here don’t bite.”
he turned.
she was behind a low counter he hadn’t noticed yet, half-obscured by a display of postcards. she was leaning over something—a sheet of paper, or a sketchbook—honestly he couldn’t really tell from where he was standing—with the focused inward attention of someone who had been interrupted mid-thought and was deciding whether to resent it. she had paint on her left hand. hair pulled back with what appeared to be a pencil doing structural work. she was wearing an oversized shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, black, with something stencilled across the front that he couldn’t read from his angle.
she glanced up at him fully then, a quick, assessing look, the kind that was measuring but wasn’t unkind.
and then she looked back down at whatever she’d been working on.
no double-take. no flicker of recognition across her face, or if there was one, she’d processed it and moved on so fast it was functionally invisible.
michael didn’t know what to do with that.
“take your time,” she said, attention still on the sheet sprawled in front of her. “i’m not going anywhere.”
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he spent twenty minutes in the shop before he spoke to her again.
he moved through it like it was a space he wasn’t sure of yet—very slowly, attentively, touching things carefully and only when her silence seemed to permit it, which, somehow, it always did. he flipped through the record section and found it organized in a way that made sense to him as a musician: not alphabetically, not by genre, but by something more atmospheric: there was a section labelled teeth, which contained the clash, the buzzcocks, and a wire album. there was another section labelled static, which had television, richard hell and the voidoids, and a single by the dead kennedys that looked like it had been handled frequently with love. there was another section simply labelled necessary that held marvin gaye and stevie wonder and, unexpectedly, a patti smith record he knew he recognized by couldn’t immediately place to his disappointment.
he pulled the patti smith record out and looked at it.
“horses,” she said from behind the counter, catching him off guard. she’d moved, was reorganizing something on the cluttered shelf beside her. “1975. if you haven’t heard it, that’s something you should remedy.”
“i’ve heard of her,” michael said. “i don’t know if i’ve actually—”
“there’s a difference between knowing the existence of someone and genuinely knowing their work,” she interrupted, in a tone that was not quite correcting him and not quite agreeing with him. it occupied a third space that he found unexpectedly comfortable—the space of being spoken to plainly, without anyone checking his expression first. she reached over without looking and produced a small hand-lettered card from a box on the counter—he could see there were many such cards, organized in some system he couldn’t immediately decipher. she held it out.
he crossed the shop swiftly and took it gently.
it read, in that same, small slanted handwriting: patti smith, horses (1975), the official grandmother of punk.
for: people who think they know what punk is. start here.
side two, track one.
“you make these for all the records?” he asked, turning it around. surprisingly blank on the other side.
“the ones that need context,” she answers. “some records explain themselves. some need a door opened first, though.”
he looks up at her, pointing at the card in his hand with his other. “which is this one?”
“that one’s a door,” she glanced at him then, a look that was brief and precise, and he had the sense of being considered by someone who was good at it. “you interested in buying it, or just reading about it?” she slightly lifts one eyebrow.
“buying it,” he says, surprising him as the words slip out before he decided on them. he hadn’t come in here to buy anything, just to indulge in his 4 month long curiosity of what this place could be. “both, maybe.”
something shifted at the corner of her mouth. not a smile, an acknowledgement.
“seven dollars then,” she said, and went back to whatever she was doing.
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he came back the following thursday.
he told himself it was because he’d listened to horses twice in the interim—once through the speakers in his studio sitting in the dark, and once on headphones while lying on the floor, which was how he listened to things when he wanted to get inside properly—and he had questions that the record itself couldn’t answer.
this was inherently true, but it was also not the complete picture.
she was at the back of the shop when he came in, standing on a short stepladder and hanging something on the wall. she was wearing black leggings tucked into a pair of heavy, buckled boots that looked like they had walked a considerable distance and intended to walk considerably more. over that, a loose, paint-streaked dress that fell to mid-thigh, the kind of thing that had probably started its life as one garment and had been worn into something else entirely. a black leather jacket hung off her frame, lazily slipping from her shoulders subconsciously in the warmth of the store—the surface interrupted here and there by small pins and patches that caught the light when she moved. a long, thinly knitted scarf in reds purples and oranges was still looped around her neck despite the indoor temperature, as though she had just come in from outside and simply not bothered unwrapping it. her hair was pinned up, somewhat chaotic, and there was a smudge of what looked like charcoal along her jawline that she appeared entirely unaware of, and paint on her hands that she had long since made peace with.
"door’s open!” she said, without turning around. she must have heard the bell.
“i listened to it,” michael announced.
she turned then, looking down at him from the stepladder with a slightly assessing expression. “and?”
“gloria,” he said. “the opening.”
she came down the ladder. “yeah.”
“i didn’t know a song could sound like that,” he said. it came out more earnest than he’d intended. raw around the edges. he was aware of it immediately and waited for some response to the rawness, which was what usually happened—people got a certain look when he said something unguarded, a look that meant they were recalibrating, reassessing, storing it for later.
she just looked at him steadily and asked, “like what?”
he thought about it. he was standing in the middle of her shop with his hands in the pockets of his jacket and she was standing at the foot of her stepladder, waiting, with no apparent urgency for an answer.
“most songs tell you what something feels like,” he said finally, working it out as he said it. “they describe it and put words to it, point at it from the outside….” he paused. “but that—gloria—it didn't particularly feel like a description of anything. it felt like someone had taken the feeling itself and just… pressed it directly into the music. like there was no distance between the two.” he shook his head slightly. “i didn’t know you could do that. i didn’t know a song could just be the thing instead of being about it.”
she was quiet for a moment, soaking in his words.
“that’s exactly what it is,” she said. and then: “you want to hear something that does the same thing differently?”
he did.
she put a record on the small turntable behind the counter without ceremony—he couldn’t see the sleeve from where he was standing—and the opening bars of something filled the shop. guitar, raw and close, like it had been recorded in the same room he was currently standing in, and then a voice that arrived like it had been waiting impatiently in the wings—urgent and unruly and completely unconcerned with whether you were ready for it.
he stood in the middle of the shop and listened.
she went back to the stepladder and continued what she’d been doing before he had waltzed in, which turned out to be hanging a large piece of her own work—a screenprint, he could see now, black ink on white paper, a figure in motion that he couldn’t entirely resolve into specifics but which was unmistakably alive. she worked with the music, her hands steady and considered, and didn’t perform any awareness of him, and he found, after a moment, that this was the most comfortable he’d felt in a room in some time.
“what is this?” he asked, when the track ended.
“x-ray spex,” she said, stepping back to look at the print. “1978. poly styrene. different kind of door.”
“what’s behind this one?”
“the idea that you’re allowed to sound like nothing that came before you,” she said. she tilted her head at the print, adjusting it a fraction. “poly styrene was twenty when she recorded that,” she said, still looking at the print rather than him. “no formal training and no particular concern for whether what she was doing was correct by anyone else’s measure. she just had something that needed to come out and she found the most direct route between herself and whoever was listening…” she paused, “and took it.” she stepped back from the wall, head tilting back and forth, waging the quiet internal battle of someone deciding whether the print needed another fraction of adjustment or whether she was simply looking for a reason to keep staring at it. michael had gone quietly still without meaning to, and it was only in that stillness that he noticed it.
the way she’d talked about poly styrene was the same way he’d talked about patti smith’s gloria. the same reaching for the right words and the same quality of caring about the thing being described as though getting it wrong would be a small, but genuine injustice. he didn’t name what he noticed. he just stood there and let it settle within him quietly, the way things did when you weren’t expecting them.
he was staring at her when she looked back, level and unhurried. he blinked out of his thoughts.
“do you make music?” he asked.
“i did,” she shrugged. “now i make everything else.” she gestured at the shop with one hand, encompassing it all—the prints, the zines, the organized records, the enormous corkboard, and the small painted objects on the low tables. her hand dropped to the side of her leg. “same impulse, just different material.”
“what was the band?”
“small,” she said. “it was loud. gone though,” the way she said it was matter-of-factly, not sad. “we played for three years. made one record in someone’s garage, and it sounds just like that.”
“but?”
she pulled the pencil from her hair and turned it between her fingers. “but, i fear, it’s the most honest thing i’ve ever made,” she said. “i know what’s in every second of it. every choice, like the tempo, the words, the way a particular line was delivered in that same garage. i know exactly why it’s there and whether it did what we needed it to do.” she paused, tapping the pencil once against the back of her hand. “there’s nothing in it that exists because someone in a room somewhere decided it should. no one told us the chorus needed to be bigger or the lyrics needed to be more accessible or that we should think about what was going to play well on the radio.” a small, dry, almost-smile crosses her lips as she reminisces. “nobody was particularly interested in telling us anything, honestly. which turned out to be the best thing that could have happened.” she looked at the pencil in her hand. “when there’s no one to answer to, you find out very quickly what you actually believe.”
she wasn’t looking at him while she said those words. but michael had the distinct feeling she knew exactly what she was saying and to whom.
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he came back the week after that, and the week after that…
he didn’t always buy something, though more often than not he left with something tucked under his arm. he bought a zine that turned out to be an essay about diy recording techniques written by someone in a london squat in 1977. he bought a cassette tape of a band she recommended with the specific instruction: don’t read about them first, just listen. he bought a small screenprint she’d made—her own work, which she priced without any self-consciousness and wrapped in brown paper without ceremony, as if selling her own art was a transaction like any other.
each visit had its own shape. sometimes they talked for an hour, and sometimes he came in and she was deep in the middle of something—printing, cutting, assembling—and they just existed in the same place with an easy, minimal conversation that didn’t feel like silence so much as a shared working quiet. he found he could think in here, which was not something he could say about most places. there was something about the density of things with purpose—things made and chosen by hand—that quieted the other noise.
he was thinking about the album constantly by this point. not in the productive way, nope, not yet, but in the pressing, circling way of something that needed to be resolved and couldn’t be forced. he’d told quincy in january that he wanted the next thing to be harder and more confrontational. quincy had looked at him with the careful attention of a man who had been in rooms with a lot of people over a long career and could tell real instinct from performance, and said: then you’d better find what you’re actually confronting.
michael had not had an answer for that at the time.
but now, he was starting to think he might be finding one.
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it was now a thursday afternoon in march, a little over a month since the first visit, and she was silk-screening at the back of the shop when he came in. he could smell it before he saw her—the sharp aliveness of the dark ink, the faint solvent edge underneath.
she had the shop’s back room door propped open and was working at a large flat table, pulling a squeegee across a screen in long deliberate strokes. she was wearing wide-leg black trousers and a sheer black camisole with a lace hem that she’d clearly had for years, both of them partially obscured by an apron so heavily paint-and-ink-stained it had long since become its own abstract work. safety goggles were pushed up onto her forehead, leaving a faint, red mark across her brow that she was unaware of. her wrists were stacked with silver and black bangles that clinked softly whenever she shifted in her seat, a cluster of chains and pendants hanging from her throat to accompany the jewelry. music was coming from a small speaker on the shelf—something that pounded like a building falling down in an interesting, catchy way.
she didn’t stop what she was doing when he came through from the front. by now she knew his particular pattern of footsteps moving through the space—unhurried, attentive, picking things up every now and then to look at them, then tentatively placing it back down. she’d told him once that most people treated the shop like a waiting room for wherever they’re heading to next. he didn’t, which she seemed to find satisfactory in a lowkey way that he’d decided to take as a flattering compliment.
“what are you making?” he asked, coming to the doorway.
“run of twenty-five,” you sighed, her arms starting to get weary. “commission. band posters.” she lifted the screen to reveal the print beneath—a figure, stark and angular, caught mid-movement against a solid black background. the image had an urgency to it that was almost uncomfortable, which was what made her work so interesting.
he looked at it for a long time.
“how do you decide what’s worth twenty-five copies?”
she set the screen down. “i don’t, really. the client decides that.” she glanced at the print. “but i decide whether i want to make it. i turned down three jobs this year already.”
“because they weren’t—”
“because they didn’t have anything in them,” she said simply. “you can tell, usually. someone shows you a brief and you look at it and there’s just. nothing there. no friction, no question it’s trying to ask the viewer.” she pulled the goggles off her forehead and set them on the table. “that’s a waste of good ink.” she dusts her hands.
michael chuckled at the last remark before thinking about what she had said.
“i’ve been writing,” he said. it came out deliberate and careful—their conversations had mostly been about her work, the records, the things he was learning in here—and he’d been fine with that. he was less fine now that he’d started the sentence and had to finish it.
she looked at him. waiting, the way she did, without filling the space between them.
“i’ve been trying to write my next album,” he said. “for about six months. and everything i make sounds like—” he stopped.
“like you,” she finished it for him.
it was so precise that he almost laughed. “yeah.”
“that’s the problem when you’re that recognizable,” she said. it wasn’t unkind, it was just an assessment of him and his life. “the shape of you precedes you. everything you make has to push against the last thing.”
“that’s it exactly!” he agrees, the relief in his own voice becoming evident. “i want to make something harder. something that’s got some–some grit to it. some friction!”
she was watching him with the same quality of attention he’d started to recognize as her version of genuine interest. she wasn’t someone who performed engagement. when she was listening, really listening, there was a stillness to her that had a particular edge—different from boredom, but not necessarily politeness.
“is that what you’ve been doing here?” she said. “looking for that friction?”
he met her eyes and held them. “i think so.”
there was a beat. the record in the shop was still spinning; some distant, angular guitar; and she leaned back against the work table, crossing her arms in a settling manner to think about what she was gonna say next.
“can i tell you something about this kind of music?” she said, nodding toward the speaker. “it won’t be a lesson like all the other times you’ve come in here. its just something i think is relevant to mention.”
“please,” he encouraged.
“it didn’t come from wanting to be confrontational for the sake of it,” she said. “i think people see punk—look at all the clothes and listen to the loud noises of it all—and they think it started with attitude. but… it really didn’t. it started with people who felt like the music they were hearing didn’t tell the truth about what it actually felt like to be alive—and who couldn’t find room for themselves in what existed.” she paused. “the confrontation was just what happened when they tried to make room.”
michael was quiet.
“the reason it sounds the way it sounds,” she continued, “is because they weren’t trying to be palatable. they were trying to be true. that’s the thing that’s scary about it. it wasn’t ever the volume.” she looked at him directly now. “the volume was a byproduct.”
he kept silent for a little while.
the building-falling-down music was swelling to a close from the small speaker on the shelf. the silence heightened his senses—somewhere outside, a car loudly passed as it sped up to pass through the light that had just turned yellow. the smell of ink hung faintly in the room to her, but to him it was sharp and real.
“i worry about being liked,” he admitted, quietly, without emphasis. it was true and felt like it cost thousands of dollars to say.
she didn’t look surprised, and she didn’t look pitying. most importantly, she didn’t look like she was about to say something reassuring. she just looked at him with the level of attention that was, he had come to understand, her way of taking him seriously.
“i know,” she said. “it’s all over your music. not as a flaw—” she added, before he could react. “it’s part of what makes it work. you’re making music for everyone, and you do it without being condescending to anyone, which truly is difficult and most people who try it fail in one direction or the other.” she paused. “you don’t do either of those things. that’s real.”
“but,” he said quietly, expecting something raw to be added to her somewhat soothing words.
“but,” she continued, “the next thing might need to come from somewhere that isn’t thinking about any of that. not trying to be liked, not trying to be unliked either—that’s just the other side of the same problem, people making things difficult just to prove that they can. i’m talking about something that simply doesn’t ask the question at all.” she tilted her head slightly, choosing her next words with the care of someone who meant them. “the music you’ve made so far has always got one ear on the room. listening for how its landing. and that instinct has served you—its why people feel held by it, why it reaches everyone it reaches. but i think the next thing needs to be made with the door closed. no room, no audience. just whatever feels true for you right now, followed all the way to the end without checking whether anyone is still with you.” she looked at him then, directly. “you’ve got something in you that’s harder than what you’ve put on record so far. i can hear it when you talk.”
he looked at her, and the afternoon did what it had been doing for the past twenty minutes while he wasn’t paying attention, arranging its soft, orange glow around her in a way that made everything else peripheral. the light came through the small, high window of the back room at a low, unhurried angle and it had found the side of her face, deciding to stay there—catching the line of her jaw, the curve of her shoulder, the ink on her forearm that she’d been too absorbed to wipe away. she had the ghost of a charcoal smudge along her jaw that had become, over the past month, a detail he’d started to look for without admitting that he was looking. she was watching him without the weight most people brought to it. no performance behind her expression, no agenda underneath it—just her eyes on his face, steady and asking nothing. somehow that, more than anything, was what made him want to give her everything. it was, he thought, one of the more quietly devastating feelings he had ever felt inside of him before.
he’d been trying for months to find the center of what the next thing was supposed to sound like.
he wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking it might have something to do with the girl standing right in front of him.
the thought sat there for a moment, unexamined, before something smaller and more immediate surfaced through it.
“you’ve heard my music?” he asked.
“yes, i live on a planet called earth,” she said dryly, with a slight roll of her eyes but a tiny smile dusted on her face to remind him that she’s just teasing. she turns away to move the print she had been working on somewhere safely leaning against a wall, “and before you ask—yes, it’s good. some of it is even extraordinary. off the wall is a near perfect record and you know it. i don’t even think i need to speak for thriller,” she said this the way she’d priced her own creations, without performance, just with simple accuracy. “but i think you’ve been making music for an audience. i think the next one needs to be made for yourself. or for something you’re genuinely angry about.” she paused, turning back to him when a question swiftly came to her mind.
“are you angry about anything?”
he thought, for a fraction of a second, about the last two years. hell, the last 20 years of his life. the magnitude of what has happened in his short lifespan so far was intense, with a strange specific loneliness produced alongside it. the way that the larger he got, the more the world decided it knew what he was, and not his own body, not his own soul. that gap between who he was in a room like this and what was printed on a thousand magazine covers. the weight of being an expectation rather than a real, living person.
“yeah,” he said, quietly. “actually. yeah.” confidence replaces restraint.
she looked at him for a moment longer than usual.
“then write from there,” she said. “that’s where the friction is.”
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he didn’t go back the following thursday. he was in the studio for three days without much interruption, which hadn’t happened in months, and which quincy responded to with the specific kind of pleased patience of someone who’d been waiting for this exact thing and had learned not to hover.
the week after, he went back.
she was at the counter this time, doing something with an exacto knife and a large sheet of paper, cutting with the precise, leisured focus of someone who had made this kind of thing too many times to count on your fingers and toes. she’d changed out of the usual apron—wearing high-waisted grey jeans, straight-legged and faded at the knees and ankles. low-heeled leather boots had a particular worn-in quality of something bought second-hand and broken in the rest of the way on her own time. a black and white striped fitted top, and over it another leather article of clothing covered densely in pins that the original surface of it had become beside the point—small hand-drawn images, either made from her or bought at a second-hand store, band names, slogans—they all accumulated evidence of ten years of opinion displayed without hesitation across her shoulders. her hair was down this time, falling across her face at the angle it always did when she was looking at something closely, covering the entirety of her face except the tip of her nose from the angle he sees. she didn’t look up when he came in, though he knew from the past month that she moment she hears that bell, she clocks him in the way she distinguishes everything—without making any production of it, without giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d been noticed until she was ready to acknowledge it in her own time.
what michael didn’t know was that she’d been waiting for him to come in since his very noticeable absence the week before. she hadn’t named it to herself—hadn’t let herself—but the bell above the door had snagged her attention every time it changed for seven days running, and every time it hadn’t been him she’d gone back to whatever she was doing with the focused composure of someone determined not to have been waiting in the first place. when it finally made its familiar sound with his particular weight behind it, her heart gave one, involuntary thump against her ribs, immediately sending a nauseous whirlwind of butterflies to erupt in her stomach for an instant. she kept her eyes on the exacto knife. kept her breathing even. adamant on giving nothing away.
then he put something on the counter.
she looked at it first—a cassette tape, handwritten label in a handwriting she just realized she’d never seen before. it was rounded and careful, somehow exactly what she would have guessed his handwriting looked like. demo. february–march. she read it twice, slowly, then looked up at him.
they were closer than either of them had planned for, the counter between them doing very little to account for the actual distance, which was not much. she was aware of it immediately, and so was he—she could tell by the way he didn’t move, the way his eyes stayed on hers a half-second past the point where most people would have found somewhere else to look. the shop was very quiet around them. the needle had reached the end of the record on the turntable and was cycling softly through the run-out groove, a faint, rhythmic crackle that neither of them seemed to hear in the moment.
she didn’t budge. not even an inch.
he didn’t either.
it lasted only a few seconds, but it was the kind of ‘few seconds’ that had a heaviness to them than ordinary time. then michael glanced down at the cassette tape on the counter, cleared his throat quietly, pushing it closer toward her. the moment folded itself away and flew out the window into the cold breeze like it had never quite happened.
“i don’t need you to like it,” he said, before she could say something first. “i just thought you might want to hear what i was talking about. with the grit and the friction—all that jazz.” he said the last part with a small, self-conscious gesture of his hand, like he wasn’t entirely sure the phrase had landed the way he’d intended.
she picked the cassette up and looked at it. turned it over in both hands. she looked at the blank b-side label for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, causing michael nervously shift on his feet a bit.
“how many people have heard this?” she asked.
“quincy,” he said. “and me.”
she set it down on the counter beside the exacto knife and the sheet of paper, looking at it for another moment with the particular quality of attention she gave to things she was deciding about. then she looked up at him, and the look went on long enough to feel different from her usual assessments—something in it that he couldn't quite name, except that it wasn’t impersonal. not even slightly.
“okay,” she said.
“okay?”
“i’ll listen to it.” she picked it up carefully, two-handed once again, and slid it into the pocket of her jeans with the same deliberateness with which he’d noticed she handled things she intended to take seriously. “give me a week.” she picked the exacto knife up then, heading back to work.
he nodded, and the grin that crossed his face was wide and immediate and entirely unguarded, the kind that arrived before he could think to moderate it. he was halfway to the door, still wearing it, until she spoke again.
“michael?”
he turned.
she had set the exacto knife down without seeming to notice she’d done it. she was looking at him with an expression that was doing its best to be neutral and not entirely succeeding, and for the first time since he’d been coming in here, she seemed to be choosing her words with something other than deliberate confidence.
the moment came flying back through the window, the wind helping it unfold itself.
“i’ve, um—” she stopped, closing her mouth. then she started up again. “i’ve been making a new print run. something different for me. a lot bigger than anything else i’ve done.” she was trying to hold eye contact and mostly managed it well, though he caught the few moments her gaze drifted sideways, just briefly, just enough to tell him that this was costing her something she didn’t usually spend. she seemed to clock her own restlessness and reached for the exacto knife once more. making one slow, precise cut along the paper’s edge—steadying herself with the familiar motion of it. “i’m doing a small show at a space in silver lake in about three weeks.” another clean cut sliced through the paper. “it’s a really small thing. probably twenty people, maybe even less. but if you wanted to come and see—” she let the sentence end there, which was its own kind of answer about how much she wanted him to fill it in.
he stood in the doorway and looked at her—really looked, like the way he’d learned to observe the things in here; slowly and without any program. the afternoon was behind him now, coming through the open door at his back, haloing him in the same beautiful manner it did to you the last time he was here, with that low, amber falling across her face that turned everything it looked toward into something worth keeping. he wondered, briefly and without quite meaning to, whether she was noticing it.
she was.
she hadn’t meant to—had been focused, very purposefully, on the paper in front of her—but the light coming through the door behind him had caught the sharp line of his jaw and the soft edges of his curls. in it, she noticed for the first time that his hair wasn’t quite the black she’d come to be familiar with. in that particular angle of the afternoon amber, it was something warmer. a very dark, secret brown that only an artist like her could catch, the kind of brown you’d only see if the light hit it just right. she’d noticed before she could stop herself. she made another cut along the paper, and brought her eyes back down.
“i’d like that,” he affirmed, his voice quieter than usual.
she nodded once, not looking up, the pencil turning slowly between her fingers after grabbing it from the table once she was done slicing up the paper.
“good,” she said, and the flatness of it was undone entirely by the very small, very private thing that happened at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but it wasn’t not one either—and by the particular quality of her stillness in the moment after, which he had spent the past month learning to decipher, and which meant, he was fairly sure, that she was pleased in a way she had absolutely no intention of saying out loud.
he pushed the door open and stepped back out into the late-march afternoon, the bell clanging its usual unapologetic goodbye behind him, and the encino air hit him cooler than he remembered it being on the way in.
he sat in the car for a moment without starting it.
through the shop window he could see her, already back at the counter with the exacto knife in hand, bent over a different sheet of paper at that same focused angle he first saw her in in february. as if he’d never been in there. ad if the last ten minutes had been entirely unremarkable.
he started the car.
he went home and sat at the piano.
the first two hours produced nothing he wanted to keep—things that were technically accomplished and emotionally inert, melodies that resolved themselves too quickly and too cleanly, like arguments that hadn’t been allowed to get loud enough to mean anything. he got up twice. made tea that he didn’t touch, going cold even whilst full. stood at the window looking at the dark, encino suburbia for a few minutes each time before sitting back down.
the song that came out of hour three was different.
it arrived the way important things always arrived—suddenly, like a door being kicked open and you have to catch it before it swings shut due to the bolts being too loose. it was hard and direct, carrying something underneath it that felt like genuine anger. a propulsive bass line he’d never tried before anchored it, something insistent and physical, and the melody didn’t soften at the edges the way his usually did. hell, he even started forming a short film about it in his head.
he played it back in the dark with his hands in his lap and thought: there it is. there it finally is. the beginning of something.
on the notepad beside the piano, where he kept the words that arrived before the music or after it or both, he wrote a single line at the top of a clean page—something that had been sitting at the back of his throat for months without finding its way out until now. he wasn’t sure yet whether it would end up in a song or whether it would just stay there on the page, a marker of the night things shifted. he drew a box around it the way he always did with the ones that felt like they were the centre of something, the ones everything else would eventually have to answer to.
he thought about a small shop in encino with no name on the door. the way it smelled like paper and dried plants and something sharp and chemical underneath. a beautifully unique woman who handled things she intended to keep with both hands, like they were worth the extra care. he thought about the way the afternoon light had found the side of her face and decided to stay there that one particular day, and the very small, very private thing that had occurred at the corner of her mouth that she hadn’t managed to hide quick enough.
he thought about what it felt like to make something from the same material as the feeling rather than just pointing at the feeling from a safe distance.
he left the light on and kept writing until the street outside had gone completely quiet. by the time he finally stopped, there were three pages of notes spread across the piano bench in his own careful handwriting, edges soft from being handled.
he flipped back slowly through them until he found the page with the box drawn around it. looked at it for a moment — time after time, i gave you all of my money / no excuses to make / ain't no mountain that i can't climb / all is goin' my way — he tore the page of 26 words out along the edge as cleanly as he could manage, folded it once, twice, and pressed it into his pocket with the flat of his palm—the same way she’d pressed his cassette tape into her jeans earlier that afternoon, he noticed, without really meaning to.
he sat there in the quiet of the room for a long moment after that. the kind of quiet that only arrived when something had genuinely been resolved rather than postponed.
then the exhaustion came—the rare, specific kind that belonged only to nights like this one, when you’d finally stopped searching and started finding. it moved through him slowly, acting more like a relief than tiredness, and he was grateful for it in a way he couldn’t entirely articulate.
he turned the light off and went to bed, finally ending the cycle of lying awake thinking about what came next because he already knew.
cr to @suupersonic and @corbingraphics for the dividers ♡︎
Kenma loves his Jirai Kei!Girlfriend. You two are very different; you’re fun, love going out and drinking, while Kenma prefers to stay in and have a quiet game night. To make your relationship work, you need to make lots of compromises (although you two go out more than stay in, ending in Kenma sitting in a corner, pretending to be busy on his phone.) He adores how you dress yourself and since he’s rich, he’ll buy you all the Kuromi merch you want! Whether you’re a Fashion Jirai or someone who can relate to the heavy topics that come with the lifestyle, you can be sure than Kenma loves you either way. You’re so loved and appreciated!
Hinata adores his Decora!girlfriend. He loves your colorful looks, since he himself is a ray of sunshine. He likes to look at how you style yourself in the morning, watching you put cute stickers on your face, style your wig and (of course) decorating yourself. He enjoys it when you two go out and strangers stare or talk to you about your style. Hinata really is your personal hype man! In his eyes, you can do no wrong and cannot look bad ever!
Iwaizumi fell immediately for his Yume-Kawaii!girlfriend. He loves how cute and sweet you look, secretly feeling a bit of protectiveness for you. You make him feel strong and ‘masculine’, by being so absolutely adorable! You make such a good couple and get lots of compliments from everyone. Iwaizumi loves the way you experiment with different looks, sometimes a little more creepy, sometimes incredibly cute. But one thing always stays the same; you look exactly like his dream girl!
Atsumu worships his McBling!girlfriend. Atsumu and you just make sense. You’re both cool and very fashion oriented, without loosing personality. Atsumu adores everything about you and has from the very beginning. He loves your sexy outfits and, unlike other men, he absolutely loves it when men look at you or compliment you; it just means his girl his hot af, which makes him hot too—his logic, not mine. Atsumu is also rich, so he’ll buy you every Juicy Couture Item, Miss Me Jeans and vintage designer bags, you need. That man is on his knees for you (as he should)!
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Part 1 here
a/n: English isn’t my first language, criticism is welcomed but please be nice. Likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! Do not steal or copy my work.
Omg hiii!!! I’m loving what Saja boys hcs and I loved the pop mart hc u wrote!! (*^▽^*)
What would the saja babes be with an alt/goth gn!s/o? Their demon performance literally sparked this request (0///0)
Oh stop, you are too kind. Thank you so much! And thank you for sending in this request! I hope that you enjoy<3 Had to listen to Your Idol on repeat and don’t regret it. They can have my soul. I’m sure if I wore the goth reader all that well but I hope it's still good!
Jinu:
Jinu is a sucker for your gothic style. Considering he is a demon, black and deep purple are his colors.
Seeing you wear those very same colors made both his human side and demon side preen with happiness
Jinu had appeared as his demon one night in your shared apartment and you saw him, in the middle of putting your make-up on.
You both had a seriously long talk that night
You didn’t understand why he would hide his demon side from you but the fear that filled him when he told you that he believed you would leave him made your heart break.
You took his hand in yours and pressed it to your chest, just over your heart.
“You are the only one that makes my heart race like I’m wearing pastel colors and flowers in my hair. Just like when you performed Soda Pop.” You giggled as the tips of his ears turned red.
When you and Jinu went on dates, he wore the pastel colors, you wore the black, a 180 to his demon persona.
You designed your nails after his actual claws and Jinu could feel his heart racing like he had been running a marathon.
Scratch his head when the both of you are lazing around. Specifically in his demon form because he will purr.
His demon will practically beg for back scratches when the two of you are lounging in the dorm room watching tv.
His demon form will clasp your hands together and hold them tightly when he feels overwhelmed.
You show off all your black clothing and make-up on different nights when he is feeling down, hoping that will cheer him up. (It does. He’s a sucker for you.)
Abby Saja:
He is all about the bright colors. He is constantly wearing the bright blues and greens and pinks while you wear only black. You did occasionally wear a dark red whether it be contacts or a belt to hold your pants up.
You fell for Abby Saja at a concert and when he saw you, he fell harder. Literally, he fell off the stage and landed at your feet, dust slowly settling as he rubbed his head and took your offered hand, worry in your eyes.
From that moment, he knew he needed you by his side. He asked the security to take you back to their waiting room so he could talk to you and possibly get your name.
Dating a demon for 3 years is still pretty new to you but you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Abby Saja always asks for head rubs when he comes back from a rather long concert or a long tour that has finally ended.
Even in his demon form, he is gentle when he holds you. He refuses to hurt the person that actually likes his demon and will ask him to show his demon randomly.
The moment he stepped into the apartment, he saw you sitting on the couch in one of his black t-shirts and black basketball shorts. His demon appeared and he dramatically fell onto your lap.
He wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in your stomach as he closed his eyes and breathed in your scent.
“Long day?” You asked, immediately removing the black hat and running your fingers through his hair, occasionally screeching at his scalp.
He shivered but nodded his head. “The longest day I have ever had. Please don’t make me go back and do it again.” He would whisper but you knew he loved it more than anything.
Mystery Saja:
He loves your goth style. He even asked you if you would be willing to dress him up the same way, his demon getting excited to try it out.
Mystery had been getting ready for a concert when he saw you putting the make-up on, your eyes trained on the lines you were making on your eyes.
He stopped, jaw dropped as he watched you.
“You should apply as our makeup artist. You are talented with that.” He said, walking into the bathroom and stood behind you, his hands on your shoulders as he watched you.
You giggled and finished the last of the make up before turning around and wrapping your arms around his waist and laying the side of your face against his stomach.
“Gotta make myself look good for my boyfriend's concert. Where would the fun be if I didn’t show up in the colors that matched your demon side?” You asked, watching as his human form slipped away and his demon form appeared.
You left an hour after he had left, knowing that was when you would be let into the stadium.
You watched him and his group with a soft smile, your heart pounding as he danced his heart out.
When he caught sight of you, you smiled and waved watching as his whole face lit up.
The second the concert was over, you made your way to their dressing room but before you could even open the door, Mystery opened the door and pulled you into his chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. “You were amazing, my love.” You whispered.
Romance Saja:
Even in his demon form, he refused to take your soul. The way you looked dressed in all black, chains falling around your hip and the black makeup around your eyes made him feel fuzzy.
Romance will flirt with you non stop when you are getting your clothes on and makeup on.
When they were on stage in their demon forms, Romance refused to use his voice to control you. He watched you from the stage as you jumped up and down, ignoring the other fans around you.
His chest swelled with pride as you danced along to the song.
When the two of you are out shopping for new clothes to add to your closest, he does his best to learn the gothic style and does his best when it comes to choosing something you want.
At one point, Romance asked if you would be willing to put the same eye makeup on him and you, in a giddy excitement, immediately sat him on the chair in the bathroom as you got to work.
When you two were getting ready for a date, Romance dressed in more lighter reds and pinks, pulling his hair back into a half bun to keep it out of his face while you pulled on a oversized black t-shirt, slipped into black cargo pants, clipping a few chains on the right side, and pulled on socks and combat boots.
Romance wrapped his arms around your neck as you applied the last of your makeup, his eyes shining when you turned to face him.
He will also sit and paint your nails black while he talks to you about his demon side, giving you all the details and such about it before pink smoke surrounds him and his demon is sitting in front of you.
You can only stare at him mesmerized as he finishes painting your nails. Yes you have seen the demon before but from a distance. Having him in his demon form in front of you makes your heart thud against your chest like it has never done before.
You are also taller than Romance, and built a little more than him so Romance has a thing for you standing behind him when fans are talking to him.
Romance, when he is tired and you don’t have your full outfit on, will lay on your chest and sleep.
Romance will actively show you off in his instagram posts, holding your hand or pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.
Baby Saja:
Baby Saja will walk around you, studding the clothing that you decided to wear on your date.
His hands would graze the chain that sat on your hip, trace over the chain around your neck before taking you hand in his, looking up at you and smiling softly.
He will never admit it but the way you dress in all dark clothes makes him happy. His demon likes the darker colors. It's easier on his eyes.
When he performed Your Idol, he could see you copying all his moves, mouthing all his words all while staring directly at him.
You are slightly stronger than him when in human form so he will ask you for piggyback rides, mainly so he can nuzzle into your neck better.
When he comes home after having to act like a popstar, he just collapses into your chest, while you are laying on the couch, scrolling through your phone.
His demon appears as he rests his chin against your chest, silently begging for your attention.
When you finally look at him, he blushes and buries his face in your chest, making you chuckle and wrap your arms around him.
He will insist on doing your makeup when you don’t feel like doing it yourself, carefully do your hair in a half bun leaving half your shoulder length hair down so he can play with it.
Because of your gothic style, he will beg the rest of the group to let you be their manager, knowing that you have seen their demons and don’t care one bit.
Your black nails are just long enough that he will ask you to scratch at his head when he is extremely tired and will actually fall asleep against your chest when you do so.
Autistic Reader and their overstimulating bright ass room that they LOVE.
All done by themselves, btw. They took hours to perfectly paint the room, watched through tutorials to properly tape the outlets into safety. Its a soft, calming pink on its own, but the posters covering it after are diabolical.
Printed papers, self-bought pictures, all taped nicely onto the walls before shelves are pushed in front of them and filled with plushies and figurines. There's a desk littered with an expensive set-up and trinkets, as well.
The LEDS are fucking blinding btw if you even care.
The first time the boys come over, they find your entire house decorated up with shiny furniture, organized furry rugs, etc.
Simon looks overstimulated immediately, awkwardly sitting on the couch until you told him there's a blank room specifically for overstimulation and guide him. He seems happy to watch TV there, at least.
Kyle and Johnny have a blast, poking at everything and asking you how much your figurines were. When you tell them, they nearly choke and die.
"This is what you spend your money on?" Price questions, but without any bite. He settles easily in the decked out home, looking obscenely out of place yet also at home. Likely for being surrounded by his teammates and feeling trusted enough to be in one of their homes. He looks like a father more than a captain.
You later dress him up in your clip ons and headbands while he sits there gruffly, not even bating an eye to his sergeants taking photos. He's extremely happy to be your Captain.
brief summary: armin finally decides its time to introduce you to his friends, and the perfect occasion is the party eren invited him to. the party is the perfect occasion for other, far more important, matters.
what to expect: alt and very nerdy reader, equally nerdy armin, mutual pinning, physical touch, lots of tension, touching kissing, things escalating but not to THAT point
your sword's note: my princesses, it is now time 🙏🏻. all past and future parts of this au series available in my mistresslist, also sorry for the delay, life has been bizarre
As some kind of miracle, both you and Armin’s friends, independently of course, finally convinced him to introduce you to each other. He agreed to attend a party (shocker) and accepted passing on the invitation to you as his friends had always requested (bigger shocker).
“I don’t know what to wear!” You cried out going back and forth in your dorm, “They will think I am weird!!”
“I promise they won’t…”He said knowing that his friends would almost instantly love you. He was starting to regret the whole thing because he had a feeling that someone would tell you every detail about his feelings; he was biting down on his lip piercing like every time he was nervous now, he used to bite the skin off his lips but after getting his lip pierced he had acquired the new habit. “Anything you choose will be a good option, they are still impressed by insects so that is not a problem.”
You nodded and selected some pieces of clothing to then try them on, while Armin stood outside of course. When you were done, he walked back in and you applied some makeup and put some jewelry on, the makeup that you would practice, goth, vkei or straight up clown makeup was too much, so you decided to go for a simple look.
Finally you both walked out of your dorm, the contrast between you and Armin was impacting, though he already had gotten another pair of earlobe piercings and his vertical labret shined in his lips, he dressed the same as always, gray dress pants and a navy sweater over a white button up on comparison to your vintage bondage pants and corset jacket set.
“Are you sure I don’t look like an abomination? You look like Mr. Peabody if he was human and I am this...bizarre entity.”
“I don’t know if I should be honored or disgraced by that comparison.” He chuckled walking besides you to the house of the party. “It doesn’t really matter, the fashion student here is you, and apart of Mikasa, the rest of them dress relatively average.”
If there was something Armin loved about you, was your style and fashion sense, it was otherworldly for him, everything, your confidence and bravery to wear stuff that people normally don’t and that they judge, your ability to make any outfit work, that kin eye you had to elevate any look… he was a little envious of that ability since he started hanging out with you and diving into more alternative music and culture in general; he was still trying to build courage to ask you for help with renovating his closet.
“Your hand looks sad, let me just…” Taking of some of your rings off you mentioned before placing them in his fingers. He wore the silver ring you had given him on the day you two first hung out every single day, but apart from that he didn't wear any sort of necklaces or bracelets.
“I wish I had gotten the armor ring.” He joked knowing that it didn't fit him.
Walking into the party was a little awkward as Armin had insisted to arrive early, technically before it even started, so there was only a few people. When you two walked in everyone stayed silent and turned around almost breaking their necks to take a glance at the millenary event: Armin with a girl.
“Umm, hi.” You introduced yourself briefly and everyone waved.
“Well Hello!” Soon a tall guy jumped to greet both of you. “My name is Jean I am practically Armin’s twin, nice to finally meet you.”
“This… this is beautiful!” Connie said about the whole scene.
Soon faces started matching names, Armin gave a seriously scary look to everyone and he sat down quietly by Mikasa’s side so you sat besides him. You knew Mikasa was Mikasa because she matched the description Armin gave of her perfectly and you were soon complimenting her v-shaped bangs and she smiled and complimented you back; knowing that Mikasa wouldn’t say any unnecessary comments, Armin felt instantly calmer.
"The alc is here!” Eren celebrated walking into the house, showing two bottles, one in each hand as trophy’s.
“What if we actually got drunk?” You asked Armin knowing that neither of you had ever been genuinely drunk and he seemed hesitant for a second but ended up agreeing.
“I just hope I don’t do anything embarrassing.”
“He will for sure do sum embarrassing shit!” Eren laughed launching at the sofa. "Did you not invite Tiffany?"
"No she is busy studying..." You said turning to take a glance at Armin whose eyes were wide open.
Inevitably people started walking in and the real party started. Loud music and the so called alc that Eren and Sasha brought being passed around in clichey red cups.
“What is this again?” Armin asked yelling, pointing at his cup for a second.
“Malibu rum.” Eren answered.
You took a sip of the tasty liquor and stayed seating, there were some people dancing already but you and Armin just looked at each other laughing.
“How was your piercing been?” You asked seeing that he kept biting on it.
“It’s almost healed but I can’t stop playing with it.” He admitted defeated. “So what are we supposed to do here?”
“I would like to know… We are so smart and still can’t figure it out!” You exclaimed throwing your arm over his shoulder and pulling him a little closer to hug him sideways.
“I think I wanna dye my hair… I’ve been too corrupted. If me from a year ago saw me now, he’d have a heart attack.”
“For sure, from how cute you are.” You smiled and he looked away embarrassed. Since you both didn’t know what else to do, you started sipping slowly from the cup and since Eren made sure to fill it up every time he noticed, you two were already somewhat tipsy. “I will dye your hair, but not all of it.”
“Can I have a…uhm, vkei cut?” He asked and you nodded, “And some dye.”
“Do you think we are becoming stupid?” You asked out of nowhere and seeing him nodding lit your lips in laughter. Then, absorbed by the influence of the alcohol, you decided to stand up and extend your hand to ask him up too. He took a good while denying but eventually stood up lightly holding on to your hand, asking why you were making him stand up. “Let’s take a breath outside.”
You held his hand across the people jumping around and reached the door, there were some people smoking and chatting but you stood away from them and simply leaned on the wall.
“Have you read a fanfic about a party and wished you were there but now that we are in a party it’s kinda dumb?”
“What makes you think I read fan fiction?” Armin asked back to your question laughing; he was organizing his hair and his concentrated face made him look really attractive. “I really don’t mind it here if I can just be with you.”
“Oh really?” You tried to ask after the liquid in your mouth escaped to your throat making you cough for air, he nodded in a very serious manner.
“Let’s stay for a little and then leave… we can read… or watch a movie or have our own party.”
“You’re so unhinged when you’re drunk.” You laughed and he immediately argued that he wasn’t drunk.
Eventually you went back to the house, and after seating in the same spot and talking with Armin while Eren kept refilling your cups for a good while, you both agreed to leave and spend your time in a place you two felt more comfortable in.
“Mikasa said she left my jacket upstairs, I’ll go get it.” You said after coming back from talking with her, Armin said he’d go with you and you agreed. You immediately grabbed his hand to not get lost from each other and went upstairs. Mikasa had said she left the jacket in the last room of the corridor. People were doing a line to go to the bathroom and trying to get in a room, so when one of the doors opened someone ran to go in and pushed you. Luckily Armin was still holding your hand and prevented you from falling.
“Oh God I could’ve fallen…” You stayed still for a moment and in your intoxicated state decided that it was best to thank Armin by hugging him. “Thanks ‘Min.”
He was oddly not so shy to receive the hug and corresponded by hugging you back. He was so drunk and he felt oddly decided about life so all timidity had vanished from his nervous system.
“You don’t need to thank me, how am I going to let you fall right in front of me?” He mentioned still clinging to his cup in one hand while with the other one he held onto the entirety of your waist, whispering in your ear just to make sure that you could listen regardless of how loud the music was.
“Armin shut up…” You moved away shyly.
“So when I do hug you back you don’t like it?” He held somewhat firmly to you. “Do you not like me back?”
“What…?” Your heart dropped when hearing his words. “What do you mean?”
“Answer my question first.” He demanded, in a serious manner. His hair was sticking to his forehead and his cologne impregnating onto your clothes too, his eyebrows were furrowed over his eyes and his mouth still had the bittersweet taste of the rum. He was gone. “Why don’t you like me back?”
“Armin…” you felt slightly suffocated by his arm holding you, but his words reverberated in your brain. Since the moment you saw him in class you liked him, since he was shy to talk, since he met you in the library, since the beginning you had liked him. “I do like you.”
His eyes slowly opened when the realization hit, almost enough to sober him up for a whole second.
“What…?” It was him now asking, his heart about to kill him.
“I don’t know where you got that idea of me not liking you, but I do, I like you.”
He stayed silent for a good time, the grip of his arm on your waist softening up and his eyes locked in yours because if he looked away once he wouldn’t be able to look back at you.
“I’m sorry… I already ruined it.” He finally averted his gaze to look at the floor.
“Armin it’s okay, you didn’t ruin anything.” Though you tried to make him look back at you, he refused to, so you lifted your hands from his neck to his face to make him look at you. “I won’t stop liking you just because you get silly.”
He kept silent so you decided to give up everything and approach him softly to kiss him. A soft and quick peck.
“I’ve been liking you since I saw you.” You confessed, his lips remained slightly opened and his intense eyes went back to yours, “I’ve been about to kiss you many times before but I just wasn’t brave enough... but I really, really, like you."
The door of the room in the back suddenly opened and since you saw some girl walking to get in, you grabbed Armin's hand and ran towards the room. Once inside you closed the door and looked at him. “So like you back, you said?”
His overall mood seemed enhanced, but he was as embarrassed as he could be.
“I like you a lot… but thought I had no chance.”
“Sometimes you forget to charge your brain.” You close the distance by walking to him, he closes his eyes as to avoid looking at you so you hung your hands on his neck. “I had a feeling you liked me but didn’t know how to act with this situation… I should have confessed…”
“Do you really like me?” He asked opening his eyes and you softly squeezed his cheek.
“Really!? How could I not? You are the smartest person I know, you have a wonderful personality, you are insanely attractive and cute…” You held his face now and forced him to look at you. You let your fingers caress his soft skin, his eyes were focused on your face, all over, analyzing every feature of yours like he had done a million times before, memorizing the exact shape of your lips because he couldn’t look away from them… how had he felt them, how dare he, he had been blessed… but he already started to forget the feeling.
“You are just drunk.”
“I am drunk but that is unrelated.” You said serious. “Ask me tomorrow. Ask me any day. I don’t know why you’re doubting me.”
“I’m not doubting you… I just don’t get it.” Armin kept talking bout you were quick to shush him.
“I don’t wanna hear it.” You said firmly and he nodded almost obediently. “This is what will happen. I take my jacket and sit in the bed for a minute to catch my breath, if you want to continue denying that I like you, you can leave. If you accept that I like you without questioning my reasons, you can sit besides me and give me a kiss back.”
After hearing the options, it seemed clear that he had made his choice, yet it took him some long seconds of finding his balance standing up and then sitting besides you.
"There." He softly kissed your cheek, clearly too embarrassed to give you a real kiss and you cursed not having specified that the kiss should have been on the lips. "I can't yet bring myself to dare kiss you, I hope that suffices."
"You little mischievous leprechaun." You scolded him and he couldn't help but laugh at the odd wording of your insult. "It does not really suffice."
He looked at you clearly thinking of what to do but you were quick to grab his hand and kiss him again.
You had never talked about romantic stuff, both of you too embarrassed to ever bring it up, but from kissing him you noticed his relative lack of experience: he didn't move his lips much and simply held your hand.
"Am I hurting your lip baby?" You asked carefully brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear and he denied, shockwaves making him shiver at the way you called him; he sighed strongly as to calm down his nerves. He gently passed his tongue across his piercing as to move it back to the place he liked it. You went back to kissing him and now it seemed he had picked up what you had done before, his lips were gently sucking on your bottom lip and his free hand was placed gently on your cheek while the other one still held onto yours. Both of you seemed eager to finally kiss after months of suffering and hiding your feelings, the warm alcohol running through your veins turned you bold.
"You picked that up already?" You asked pulling away after finally noticing that he had learned from the short kiss you had given him before. He nodded.
"You kissed me like that and it felt good, so I replicated it."
"I should be scared of you." You laughed nervously.
"I may be inexperienced but I am not dumb." His statement sent shivers down your spine. You stopped for a moment to look at his eyes that were consumed in determination like you had never seen them.
"You can't possibly win..." You muttered and he laughed saying that it was not about winning but you gently pushed his back towards the mattress, his expression changing fast at the sudden movement. He blinked once and when he opened his eyes you had shifted from his side to his lap. He gave a simple look at his lap, your knees to each side of his hips and your weight resting on him. He looked up and saw your gaze, on him like a predator, his pupils expanded. He quite did not know you were this type of lover, it looked like it was not just because you were drunk.
"You are much of a fast learner," You complained tying up your hair as to take the long strands out of your face. "If I am not careful with you, soon you will have me subdued." You pointed at him and he bit your finger. You both erupted in laughter as you approached him to kiss again. His eyes expectant of your movements, so you gave him a loud kiss in the cheek before going back to his lips that were impatient to have yours again. He made sure to let you know that he had missed them, tangling his arms around your neck and interlocking his lips on yours in a wet kiss. After pulling away a few inches to breath, you switched to encage his bottom lip now and he corresponded with your upper, gently licking your lip before opening his eyes daring. You caught the glimpse of his gaze and reciprocated the daring look before opening your mouth and meeting his tongue with yours.
While he got lost in the moment, tasting your mouth and exploring cautiously, a thought creeped in the back of his head; he knew he was acting oddly and realized that he was in fact drunk. Something in him ought to decelerate the moment but he lost his determination when your lips gently moved from his lips to his neck and your hand started trailing down his jawline, to his chest and to the waistband of his pants.
The door then opened abruptly and though your first instinct was to yell that the room was occupied, when you and Armin turned to look at the door, you saw Mikasa and a disheveled Eren almost holding tears, both in shock at finding his friend finally getting some action.
Both you and Armin immediately sat straight and he moved you from his lap back to the bed.
"What happened?" You attempted to say.
"Eren has separation anxiety." Mikasa rolled her eyes as Eren clung to her. "He refused to go home without finding him first."
You looked at Armin, who seemed almost angry. You both got up as if you had agreed mentally and walked towards the door.
"I didn't know though," The look in Eren faced changed immediately from sorrowful to a malicious grin.
"Whatever." Armin pushed his friend out of the way.
reader wears makeup / reader has a job at the Daily Planet / kind of shy!Clark /nsfw at the end / slight angst / mentions of : transphobia, xenophobia, harassment.
notes : I hope it suits how you pictured this one, thanks again for the request ;)
wc : 1.9k
english isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes ♡
Females DNI
FIRST MEETING :
He was..surprised to see you, walking through the Daily Planet offices. It had to be said that most of the staff were looking at you too, with eyes that mixed curiosity with incomprehension – because there are always idiots –. You stood out from the crowd, and Clark could only see it with the look of a deer caught in the headlights of car.
He may have been Superman, but at first he was just a little guy who grew up on a farm in the middle of fields. His parents were great, but at school he had seen all too well how cruel kids could be to each other. So it was this idea that pushed him to talk to you for the first time, yet another proof of his constant heroism.
“Hey! Are you new here? Oh, and I love your style, by the way,” were his first words to you, though due to his stress-induced awkwardness, it sounded more like this: “H-hey ! You were huh, I mean are you new here ? Oh and..by the way, I euh really love how you look”.
You immediately fell for his dimpled smile, how could you not?
FIRST STEPS OF THE RELATIONSHIP :
Clark was not subtle at all, even though he believed he was.
He always brought you a cold drink before everyone else, greeted you at eight in the morning with his voice going a little too high, held all the doors for you – even the fridge one – during the day, and so on.
Of course, he hoped you would be receptive to him, that you liked men. But that anxiety quickly left him as soon as you laid your dark-lined eyes on him.
Let's talk about makeup. He loved it. And you'd have to be blind not to notice.
The second you walked into the office, with a new makeup routinely changing, Clark would melt in place. No, but literally, you'd see him slump in his chair or lean on a piece of furniture to support his suddenly fragile frame. When someone pointed this out, he'd quickly come up with an excuse—the worst—like "my back hurts" or "drank too much coffee."
When you two were talking, he had to fight—so hard—to keep his gaze on yours. The black of your eyelashes was so deep, the touches of color around them made him dizzy, and your lips, oh your lips, he sometimes took advantage of your attention being elsewhere to just devour them with his gaze.
This little game lasted several weeks, a little over a month to be exact, before one evening after work you suggested to go for a drink somewhere “to celebrate the success of your article,” you said.
Once together, you naively thought Clark would be a little less obsessed with you, but you were wrong. Now he had constant permission to have his hands and eyes on you.
He was less shy, even though at first he asked a lot of permission to touch you: “Can I here?” “Can I kiss you?” “Does it feel wrong if I hug you like this?” But that was also why you had fallen for him.
He researched as much as he could about transgender people. In fact, he did it as soon as he found out you were, because the thought of doing or saying something that might make you uncomfortable scared the hell out of him.
He memorized all the medical and social terms, explored the most famous transgender figures, and was surprised to discover how many had existed for hundreds of years. He even learned the meanings of the colors of the trans flag—just in case you were wondering.
If you were taking hormones or planning to have surgery, he would have read absolutely every article on the subject. He’d have used his reporter skills to find the best specialists. And of course, he would probably be more stressed than you at every appointment.
About Superman.
He had been sure of one thing when you first kissed: you had to know.
He didn't want to lie to you about it, he couldn't see himself repeatedly inventing lies to justify his absences.
So, right after your first kiss, he slipped in an “I’m Superman.”
He could have said it differently, I agree, but he was so stressed about you leaving him because of that.
“You’re Superman?” you repeated puzzledly, and then he clumsily took off his magic glasses. Your eyes immediately widened, your brain associating the shy and kind Clark with the life-saving superhero.
“Wow, you beat me there,” you replied, “my ‘oh, by the way, I’m trans’ announcement looks out of place.” And you burst out laughing, Clark’s stress evaporating and your love growing.
ESTABLISHED RELATION :
You steal his clothes, how can you not? The farmer-style shirts he has look so good with the right accessories.
Clark loves seeing how you transform simple clothes into a perfect and complex outfit, especially when the centerpiece is one of his t-shirts or pants.
He sometimes asks you to show him how you do your makeup, so he can understand and possibly do it again for you if one day you don't feel good.
And of course, you do his makeup. He doesn't feel like going out with it yet, but he's always happy to see his reflection when you're done.
Clark is like your outfit approver. You show him several versions of the same outfit and he gives you his opinion. He's actually quite good at it.
There are days when you wear tights, for example, but as the day goes on you end up feeling dysphoric. Clark is there to save you. He always keeps an oversized sweater and sweatpants nearby, just in case.
One habit he's gotten into with you is pulling you into a kiss by tugging – gently – on one or all of the necklaces you're wearing.
He enjoys searching for you with his super hearing when you have to meet somewhere or when you come home after him. He would recognize among a thousand the distinctive metallic sound of some of your jewelry, the rubbing of the layers of fabric you wear, or the leather’s soft creak of your belt.
ANGST :
You only had one argument.
You were walking home from shopping when a man deliberately bumped into you, causing you to drop your bag of food. You opened your mouth, but you were cut off by a comment about your clothing style. You were unfortunately used to it, but it still hurt, and when you got home you started crying in the hallway.
Clark came running, having heard your shortness of breath, and you explained everything to him. Of course, he reassured you, he listened to you as he always did. But that wasn't enough for you at that moment. You wanted someone to approve your anger towards this man and humans in general. Except that Clark has always loved humans, and he desperately clings to hope.
So that's when the argument started.
“Don’t you see the rottenness of human beings? How can you still defend people capable of such horrors?” you told him.
He tried to hold on to his ideas, to his faith, but hearing your voice break under your sobs, he finally gave in.
“You’re right,” he told you, letting his head fall back against the wall with a sigh. “Humans are cruel, so cruel to people who aren’t like them.”
The conversation goes then a little more calmly, you explained to him more kindly that you obviously liked his optimism, but that the idea that he remained stubborn about it when you, next to him, experienced transphobia and xenophobia on a daily basis was unbearable for you.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see it that way, forgive me please” were the words that concluded your one and only argument.
Ever since a similar event happened, Clark was there for you more than for humanity. He defended you.
NSFW :
He didn't want to be too clingy at first in intimacy. He wanted you to feel comfortable, and above all, he was terrified of doing something wrong that would make you feel dysphoric. So he held back, enjoying every other moment with you. Until you made the first move—once again.
“I don’t want to seem starving or too needy,” he explained to you, a little embarrassed, to which you replied with a small smile, “I actually like it, I find it sexy and flattering.”
From then on, he couldn't hold back. Perhaps also because he simply couldn't do it anymore.
Clark, who, no matter how much he dreams of fucking you right now, absolutely wants to remove all your layers of clothing without damaging them.
One day you were so impatient that you ripped one of your tights yourself while trying to take them off. Clark immediately fell to his knees at the hole and said something like "no baby! I loved this one, it looked so good on you with the denim shorts" but you just responded by pulling him into a long kiss, interspersed with "it gives it style, ‘like it" to reassure him a little.
When he found out about leather harnesses that could be worn over tops, that was all he could think about. Until the day you surprised him by buying one and putting it on. Needless to say, you kept it on as your only "item of clothing" throughout the night.
One thing he loves: seeing your ruined makeup.
If that's what you like, he'll fuck you so good until he makes you cry over and over again, just to see your makeup completely ruined because of him.
He loves holding you close, seeing the eyeshadow marks on his chest or in the palm of his hand.
If you wear rings, you have to keep them on when he goes down on you. He wants to feel your hand pulling his hair, your rings getting caught in his brown curls, and the weight of your rings on his scalp as you push his head down even further.
Most of the time, he knows when you're feeling more dysphoric than normal. He hears the change in your heartbeat, your throat tightening, and your shortness of breath. So he always avoids the risky areas, focusing on the gentle ones.
“I know my love, sensitive here huh ? It is not a problem, we can still have fun, do you want that darling ?”
Lots of words of affirmation with him.
“Such a good boy for me” “I’m so proud of you angel” “Look at you, you are so brave”.
You discovered that he also really liked to be praised. In everyday life: “Don’t listen to what they say, you’re great Clark.” Just like in bed: “Make me feel so good love,” “Please do that again, love it,” “You’re good at this Kent.”
SENTENCES SCREAMING “CLARK KENT” :
❝ - You look so cool darling !
- How do I take this off? No wait, I don't want to ruin it, this top is so beautiful..
- I don't understand how you manage to put pencil in your eye, it doesn't hurt you’re sure?
- Come in my arms, let me hold you strong boy. ❞
pictures : Pinterest
dividers : @/cafekitsune , @/saradika-graphics and @/cursed-carmine
