#rygo edit

[binchidavinci]

Bush Blues

Thank you to @soupiemeowmeow for this wonderful idea (Ken x AFAB! reader)

'You shave your bush: Ken is horrified.'

Ken had you laid out on the bed like you were the most precious thing in all of Barbieland and beyond. Since moving to the real world, he had discovered something he loved even more than 'beach' and horses: that was, going down on you. On this occasion, his hands— big and warm as ever— were hooked into the waistband of your pants, ready to pull them down in one dramatic flourish. He didn't care what you were wearing on top; in fact, he left you fully-clothed above the waist, and completely nude below, oftentimes. All he cared about was getting between your thighs and making you squirm for as long as he was allowed.

He was already whispering sweetly, trembling slightly as he wrestled your jeans from your legs and threw them over his shoulder. “I’m gonna worship you so good, baby.” He began to pull your panties down, expecting to see the usual sight of bush that he loved so much (being unable to grow pubic hair, himself, he was infatuated with yours), but was confused to find nothing but soft skin. He pulled your panties down further and further, thinking you'd perhaps just trimmed a little lower, or he'd misremembered how far down it started. Ken furrowed his brows, confused and frustrated that something was afoot, and yanked your panties all the way down to your ankles. He gasped in horror, hands flying to his mouth. His eyes remained wide, disbelieving, as he lowered his hands back down to your thighs. “Uhhh… babe?” His voice cracked. “Where is your lovely bush, please?” You propped yourself up on your elbows and blinked. “Huh?” He rubbed a thumb tentatively over the mound, as if the missing hair would magically reappear. “Your beautiful little bush, babe! It’s... it’s all naked!” You stared down, puzzled, then realised. “Oh,” you let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I shaved. I thought you’d like it. Y’know… kind of a summery situation?”

Ken sat back on his heels, looking absolutely devastated. “You… you shaved it?” he repeated back. “For... summer?” His eyes began to glisten, his lip wobbling, then he flopped face-forward onto the bed, crying softly. The smile fell off your face: he looked like he was going through the seven stages of grief really quickly. “Baby, nooo!” You cooed, sitting up quickly and closing your legs to prevent him from being reminded of the tragedy. "It's ok, Ken!" You rubbed soothing circles on his muscular back, still clad in his denim vest. “But— but I love your bush,” he cried out, a single tear rolling down his rosy cheek. “It was so… so you! Like a welcome mat, guarding the happiest place in the world! And now it’s just— gone.” He looked so genuinely heartbroken you almost felt bad for the smile that crept onto your face: you fought hard to suppress it, and half-succeeded, offering a sympathetic grimace. “Awww, Ken, c'mon,” you reached down, rolling him over (he limply allowed you) and cupping his face, thumbs wiping away his hot tears. “Baby, it’ll grow back! Give it a few weeks and—" "A few weeks!?" Ken wailed, alarmed. He began to sob dramatically, rolling over to bury his face in the covers again. "Maybe less!" You negotiated, rubbing his back with increasing rigour. "It'll be back and I'll never shave again, I promise!"

With that, Ken ceased his wailing, sniffled and sat up. He stared at you with big, wet puppy eyes as he spoke. “You promise?” he whispered pathetically. “Never again?” You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing, nodding your head solemnly. “I promise, Ken. My bush will return for good. I was just trying a new look.” He let out a shaky breath of relief and dramatically collapsed forward, burying his face between your breasts like he’d just survived a war. “Thank you,” he mumbled into your skin. “I support all of your choices… but please: never take my beloved bush away from me again. I wasn’t ready. I may never be ready.” He gripped your waist with all his might. You stroked his hair, grinning. “Okay, Ken, it's okay," you giggled. "Now… are we gonna finish what we started, or are we mourning my bush all night?” Ken lifted his head, eyes still a little glassy but determined. “I’ll be strong,” he declared bravely, looking down at your shaved mound with reverence. “For you. Even if it’s difficult.” He pecked your lips, then crawled down you to go back to doing what he did best.

[binchidavinci]

Heatwave

(Ken x reader)

'Ken wants to cuddle, but it's the middle of a heatwave. He negotiates his way into your arms.'

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, doing almost nothing against the thick, humid heat that pressed down on the bedroom like a weighted blanket from hell. The windows were swung open, but the night air outside was just as oppressive. You lay on top of the sheets in a tank top and shorts, already glistening with sweat. Ken, of course, was undeterred. You'd been rejecting his hugs all day because of the heat, and he had had just about enough.

He scooted closer on the mattress (wearing just his heart-patterned boxers), his blond hair slightly damp at the temples: when someone from Barbieland starts sweating, that's how you know it's hot. Still, his big, hopeful eyes locked onto you with puppy-like longing. “Babe...?” he asked softly. You knew immediately from his tone what he was about to ask. “Can we do even a little cuddling? I can be the big spoon, if you want? I’ve been practicing my form— look!” He turned onto his side and stiffly demonstrated his new 'technique', smiling up at you proudly as he did so. You turned your head toward him, giggling despite the discomfort. “Ken, you know I want to, but it’s just so hot. If we cuddle I’m going to actually dissolve into a puddle, and you’ll have to explain to everyone why you're dating a pile of Y/N soup, and it'll be a whole thing." You huffed and wiped some hair from your damp brow, exhausted even by talking. Ken’s face fell, earnest tragedy flashing across his features once again. He flipped onto his back with a theatrical sigh, one arm dramatically draped over his forehead. “But we always cuddle at bedtime,” he whined, staring at the ceiling with wide sad eyes. “I need the closeness, the connection, the… the 'Ken and Y/N forever' energy to fall asleep!” You patted his arm sympathetically, then returned to your spread eagle position, trying desperately to let the lukewarm air hit as much as your body as possible.

He was quiet for a beat; you could almost hear the pink, plastic cogs turning in his head. “Okay, how about this,” he said, rolling onto his side enthusiastically, propping his head on his hand. “What if we do cold spooning? I’ll go take a cold shower, and become a human ice pack. You won’t even notice the heat!” It was beyond endearing that he'd be willing to do that for you, but still: the idea of flesh-on-flesh right now sent a trickle of sweat down your spine. "I dunno Ken..." you began, "still sounds a bit suffocating." He furrowed his brows, then doubled down. "We could put one of those cooling gel packs that you got for my sprained ankle between us? Like a little, cold chaperone. A chilly third wheel, if you will!” He beamed at you. You shook your head.

Ken's suggestions became increasingly ridiculous, ending with a final suggestion of his climbing into the fridge every ten minutes of spooning. When you gently but firmly said no to all cooling contraptions (because even that sounded sticky and awful right now), Ken nodded solemnly and sighed, like a man accepting his tragic fate.

He rose from the circular bed, and disappeared into the bathroom for a minute. When he returned, his hands were carefully carrying two damp washcloths he’d run under cold water. He placed one across your forehead with great gentleness, and laid the other across his own chest like a tiny blanket. Droplets of cold water ran down his hard flank, and you both sighed in relief. “See? I’m adapting,” he announced proudly. “I’m being very independent. Look at me, not cuddling: I’m basically a zen master.”

He lasted about four minutes before he started scooting his foot over until just his ankle brushed yours— the tiniest possible point of contact. You shot him a look that said 'I see what you're doing'. He smiled innocently at you. You laughed softly and let him keep the ankle contact.

Eventually, he settled on his back, but reached out so his pinkie finger could hook with yours on the mattress between you. “This is good,” he said quietly, though his voice was still a little wistful. “I just like knowing you’re here. Even if we’re both turning into puddles… I’m your puddle, and you’re mine.” After a moment, he added with a small, cheeky grin, "but when it cools down, I’m getting full cuddle tax. With interest". "Of course," you giggled, giving his pinkie a squeeze. He curled contentedly into the bed, blankets thrown aside.

You fell asleep with pinkies linked, the damp washcloth cooling you down, a content little smile on your faces despite the heat.

[binchidavinci]

Hands

(Henry Letham x reader)

'You take a liking to Henry's hands; he notices and teases you relentlessly about it.'

Orange light filtered through the half-drawn blinds of Henry's cluttered studio apartment, illuminating the rows on rows of canvases leaning against the far brick wall. You sat on the edge of his worn leather couch, book in lap, but your eyes kept drifting across the room. Henry was crouched in front of one of these canvases, and you were entranced by how he worked— specifically, by his hands; long, elegant fingers stained with charcoal and oil paint, veins standing out prominent on the surface as he gripped the brush with a precise, quasi-reverent control.

Henry noticed, of course; he always noticed what you were interested in— he was just attentive in that way. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he set the brush down and turned toward you, wiping his hands on a rag. “Whatcha looking at, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. Busy ogling him, it took a moment before you realised he was speaking to you; your eyes snapped up to his and your mouth opened to defend yourself. "I, uh—" He flexed his fingers deliberately, holding them up like evidence. “My hands, huh? Not even the drawings," he tutted, feigning hurt. He lowered his hands and peered down at them, turning them palm up, then down as he studied them. "Don't know if they're cause for staring, really.” Heat rose in your cheeks and you rolled your eyes, feigning indifference. "I was not staring. I just..." you trailed off, knowing there was no lie you could tell Henry that he wouldn't see through.

Henry smiled, disbelieving, then stood up from his crouched position and crossed the small space in a few steps, stopping right in front of you. You lifted your eyes to scowl up at him, discarding your book beside you with a huff. Henry reached out, slow and intentional, trailing one paint-smudged finger along your jaw before cupping your chin gently. His touch was warm, slightly rough with callouses, his thumb brushing your lower lip with deliberate precision. "Just what, hm?” he hummed, eyes darkening with playful challenge. “Tell me what you’re thinking about. Or better yet, just show me.” He brushed a hair behind your ear before squatting down in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that sent warmth through you. He peered up at you with innocent eyes before turning his palm upward in silent invitation, watching you with that intense, crooked smile. “They’re all yours, if that's what you want,” he whispered. "Just gotta tell me how you want me to use 'em.”

Henry Letham, often far away, lost in the past or the possibilities of the future, was very much present now, and very much enjoying the way you came undone for something as simple as his hands.

[binchidavinci]

Hey, I hope you're having a good day. I re-watched Stay today and thought of a fic idea and would love to hear your take on it. Reader x angel Henry Letham. Like it's a bit after the crash and reader is really going through it missing Henry and he comes to them as an guardian angel or something.

Slightly changed the idea but I hope you like anyway???

Haunted

(Ghost! Henry Letham x reader)

'You move into a New York flat because the rent was cheap. Apparently, the reason for that is because it's haunted by the most depressing ghost ever.'

Moving into Cherokee Apartments had seemed like a dream deal when you signed the lease: cheap rent (for Upper Manhattan, anyway), great light, and a ton of character. The landlord had only mentioned in passing that he'd had a high turnover of tenants, but you didn’t think much of it— that's just the way New York is, you guessed; people coming and going all the time. You should have asked more questions about why the turnover was so high, what the catch was for this flat, but you were too pleased with your new apartment to dampen the mood. What the landlord did not mention, however, was that you would be sharing with someone else. Only when you moved in did you realise that the apartment was very much still occupied by one of its previous tenants: Henry Letham was a pain in the ass— even in death.

At first, you blamed the stress of moving flat for the weird things happening: books moving on their own, drawings appearing in your notebooks, and the record player suddenly playing jazz at 3 a.m. With retrospect, you were naïve to imagine it could have been anything other than the truth you had now accepted: you had a ghost, and he was annoying.

“Jesus Christ, what, Henry?” you hissed one evening, trying to read on the couch while Henry stared at you. He was lounged dramatically in the old leather armchair across from you, legs draped over the side with a never-ending cigarette hanging from his lips; you only let him smoke indoors because, for one, it seemed to be some kind of ghostly cigarette that didn't smell or leave burn-mark and, for two, it felt wrong to deny a dead man his pleasures. “You’ve been reading that page for ages," he said, a smugness on his lips. "It’s not even a good book.” You sighed, putting the book face down on your chest so you wouldn't lose the page. “Was this book even out when you were alive? Besides, if you're so disgusted by my choice in literature, why don't you go and haunt someone else," you grumbled. He paused, then grinned a crooked, infuriating smile that still managed to charm you, even on a dead man's face. “Hey, I was here first. If anyone should leave, it's you,” he pointed at you defensively with his ringed finger. You scowled back. “You lived here like twenty years ago,” you scoffed. "Oh, and in case you've forgotten: you're dead." Henry rolled his eyes and huffed out a cloud of smoke. “Details."

Henry was somehow always everywhere, and you couldn't blame him: you'd be bored shitless, too, if you were stuck in this one-bed flat forever. The worst part of it was that he was infuriatingly attractive: messy dark hair, intense eyes, and a lanky artist frame draped in the same half-unbuttoned shirt he’d apparently died in. His constant presence was made even more maddening by the fact you sometimes found yourself self-conscious of how you looked in the privacy of your own home. He would hover nearby whilst you cooked, worked, showered (at least for the first week, until you'd popped your head out of the shower curtain to grab your shampoo, only to find him sitting on the closed toilet mindlessly chewing his fingernails; you'd screamed at him to get out and he'd backed out of the bathroom, laughing, claiming that he'd "seen it all before, anyway"). God, he could be a bastard.

Of course, you'd negotiated the space with him; you'd even bought some art supplies (he'd called them "cheap"; you said they were the best he was getting in the afterlife) for him to use in the flat, to pass the time when you were out. You had come home early and caught him drawing the skyline out the living room window with expert precision: his fingers were long, angular— deft like they knew what they were doing on their own. Although he could be terribly private about it, you sort of liked to watch his hands work— you sort of liked his company, truth be told. Still, you realised how insane this situation was without the added complication of wanting to fuck a ghost, so you tried your best to keep him at arm's length.

Tonight, he was being especially clingy while you tried to watch a movie. “You’re really just going to ignore me?” he asked from the corner of the lounge, the end of his cigarette just lighting up his face. “Cold. I thought we were past that phase.” Most people would jump at the sudden voice in the darkness: you, however, were used to it. “We are not in any kind of phase, Henry,” you scoffed, eyes still trained on the screen. “You’re a ghost who won’t leave me alone.” Henry strode forward and sat down so he was right beside you on the sofa, close enough that the temperature dropped noticeably despite your growing blush. “Admit it,” he said with a smirk. “You’d miss me if I disappeared.” You grabbed a pillow and swung it through him. It passed straight through his translucent chest, but it still satisfied you. “Worth a shot,” you grumbled. He laughed, low and warm, and for a moment you forgot he was dead. “Face it, Y/N,” Henry said, drawing his knees up like he planned to stay the whole night. “We're stuck together whether you like it or not.” You sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as you glared it him. "Shut up and watch the movie."

[binchidavinci]

I watched the notebook over the weekend (I cry at everything so that was a good idea) and I LOVE Noah. What do you think a date with him would look like?

Noah Calhoun First Date Headcanons

Noah is nervous as HELL before picking you up, even though he hides it well. like he spends way too long fixing his hair and changes his shirt three times because he's not sure if he looks too formal or too casual.

eventually shows up at your door five minutes early (wants to make a good impression) in his nicest button-down (sleeves rolled up to compensate for formality) with a small bouquet of wildflowers he picked himself before jumping in the car

forgets how to speak when he sees how nice you look at your door. you'd be lying if you said you weren't pretty nervous too, having heard stories about Noah before ever even meeting him. He's got a bit of a reputation as a hothead but he is actually really sweet and shy for you <3

i think either he takes you to the carnival or out on the lake at sunset in his rowboat bc it’s his favorite place in the world, and he wants to share it with you.

The way the golden light hits your face makes him forget what he was saying mid-sentence and he's all shyyyyy about it and equally the way his muscles flex up under his shirt as he rows makes you blush

he's calling you “darlin’” and “sugar” in that drawl that makes your stomach flip

Noah packed a simple but thoughtful picnic because he's big on making sure you're fed. that's his love language, being a Southern boy

He tells you stories about growing up in New Bern— stories about the trouble he and Fin got into when they were kids that make you howl with laughter, and he can't help himself but keep telling you things he thought he'd never tell anyone (let alone on a first date) just to hear you laugh again.

when he stops rowing and you setlle down on the lake, the tension is thick. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek, heart racing

He’s a gentleman the whole evening, but after a while he’s not shy about flirting. You warm up to eachother real quick and it feels like he's known you for a lifetime.

mmm lots of intense eye contact, compliments that feel very earnest (“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,”) while his hand is resting on your lower back or knee, if you'll let him be so cheeky (it's 1940 something: this is scandalous for the time!)

if the sun goes down and it gets chilly, he wraps you up in his jacket and pulls you close before you have time to protest that he's gonna get cold. "can't have you gettin sick- what would your mama say?"

You stay just chatting in the boat, listening to music playing faintly from a distant house on the shore.

The date doesn’t have a strict end time; he’s perfectly happy staying out on the water with you until the stars come out. but when he finally rows you back (he's very conscious that you might not have had as good a time as he did) he walks you to your door

queue him freezing up then deciding, fuck it, and cupping your face to give you the sweetest, most heart-stopping goodnight kiss

if you kiss him back knowing him he's probably walking you backwrd against a wall and letting his hands roam until he pulls away and says something stupid about your dad shooting him if he sees you two.

[binchidavinci]

Hi Rygo & Jake Gylenhaal sluts please send requests in 💋💋 my inbox is getting dryyy