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Its So Sweet - Blog Posts
“Welcome home”
The things here are as they always were, perhaps it is you who’s changed?
Super late entry to ragbrosweek 2022 prompt: ‘Home’
neighbour!kuroo who offers you to stay with him until you've found a new apartment — a small part of him hopes he doesn't seem too eager, another small one wondering if being so close to your ex is going to end up hurting you, but the biggest part of him really hopes that you'll say yes regardless.
who thinks that kenma would snort into his hand if he could see the level of excitement kuroo has to swallow once you agree, apologise for taking up space only to agree vehemently again.
everyday, in the morning when both of you found each other in the kitchen, he opens the newspaper wide for any new apartment postings while you scour the internet; the smell of coffee and breakfast soothing and familiar. a flat far away enough from your ex-boyfriend that you don't have to worry anymore, but secretly he hopes that it's not so far away that he won't ever see you again.
neighbour!kuroo who bids you goodbye when you leave for work first, waiting at the door until he sees you board the elevator safely lest your ex-boyfriend gets the prime idea of harassing you on your way out.
who cackles to himself at the notice hanging on the wall in the entrance hall: the landlord asking for the culprit who taped a tenant's mailbox shut to come forward for community service or to face a fine upon refusal.
kuroo thinks he's got enough money to pay double the fine. (he does plan to mess with it again — to maintain his youthfulness, of course.)
neighbour!kuroo who learns that your work place is not that far away from his own. who wonders if it's far too forward to ask you to spend lunch hour together down the street at the really good coffee shop.
whose heart stutters when he gets a call forwarded from an unknown number only for his ear to meet your voice to ask whether he wanted to meet up for lunch.
(his assistant, looking through the glass wall, raises her eyebrow at the fist pump he throws into the air; her other joining in as soon as she watches kuroo trying to tame his hair but to no avail — stubborn as the head it sits on.)
kuroo also happens to forget to mention that he doesn't like almond paste but when you excitedly show him your favourite pastry with hopeful eyes, lashes caressing your cheeks, a wide grin on your face, he can't help but put his entire life on the line fighting the blush that theatens to overtake his own.
for a second he thinks of refusing, but then he tries the almond riddled pastry, anyway.
he does not like it.
neighbour!kuroo who gets off work half an hour earlier and waits in front of your work place so that he could drive both of you home.
who, with a cocked eyebrow and a sharp retort ready on his tongue, notices a familiar loser linger around the entrance.
"i sure as hell hope you're not here to see who i think you wanna see," he says, looking down his nose at your ex. kuroo, who makes sure to bear his teeth in a resemblance of a sharp smile, who delights in the shifting of uneasy eyes, "but in case you need a reminder of why to stay away, i'm more than happy to help out."
who acts brilliantly inconspicuous once you walk towards him; your boyfriend long gone, shooed away, bullied away, sneered away. (he didn't even have to try that hard.)
neighbour!kuroo who finds it easy to match his long strides to your shorter ones; whose hand swings next to yours. now and then, your knuckles meet his for a split second in a way that makes him want to take your fingers in a tight hold so they can't tease him anymore.
you tell him about an interview you booked for an apartment viewing, excited, asking him whether he had time on the upcoming wednesday at 11 am.
he doesn't, but he says he'll be there with you, anyway.
who tries to ignore the little stab through his ribcage at the thought that he would lose out on your presence before he could even enjoy it to the fullest.
neighbour!kuroo who sends you a smile, void of any cutting edges, eyes crinkling, and tells you, "let's look for more viewings at home."
whose chest squeezes in consolation when you gift him a smile back and nod as you eat the same damn almond pastry; when you don't correct him about home.
neighbour!kuroo who innocently forgets to remind you of looking for more viewings, and instead relishes in the space you occupy on his couch next to him as you settle in with hot tea and a blanket to tackle on the many movies you borrowed from the library.
who gets into a routine with you of making breakfast, washing dishes, saying goodnight and good morning, bickering and teasing, late-night talks and dawn-kissed chats.
who thinks that really, maybe you could just stay here.
taglist | @takes1 @origamipivo @sailanne
@monikosman1311 (i know you didn't ask for a tag, but since you asked for a continuation in the first place—)
Could we get a Viktor drabble where he’s doing that thing teenagers do when they written their name and your name in their journal to see how they sound with your last name?
And getting caught 👀
As you wish, anon. And if Viktor getting caught writing things about reader is your jam, might I suggest A Theory by @gaybybirth which is the fic that dragged me kicking and screaming back into writing on tumblr.
Round and around and around that long finger. How he could twirl chestnut strands so much and not have given himself a permanent little curl or even a tiny bald spot behind his ear was beyond you. As it was he had cowlick after wispy soft cowlick curling errantly in the mess of his hair. It was irritatingly endearing, terribly distracting. Had your own fingers itching every time he started up that bad habit to slap his hand gently aside and and rake your own fingers back down his scalp. Difficult not to think what it would feel like, the silk mess of that hair carded between fingers. To watch him tilt is head back, close those tired amber eyes slowly. Thick lashes dark against pale cheekbones. Let you kiss bruised, tired eyelids softly...
No.
No, thoughts ran away with you far too easily. Not even thoughts - silly fantasies. He was terribly busy, terribly important. Him and Mr. Talis. Busy building the future of Piltover and leashing the power of those terrifyingly unstable hex crystals to allow teleportation across continents, across worlds. And all you could think of was touching that babyfine soft hair that formed a v at the nape of his neck. About the way his voice was always so softly quiet, terribly gentle.
He'd let you hold one, once. A hex crystal. Dropped it into your palm and smiled at how you'd sucked breath in hard and fast as you cradled it like a live bomb. Closed your cupping palms around it with his own.
"Can you feel it?" He asked.
All you could do to swallow, throat sandpaper grit and eyes round saucers. You could feel his fingertips against the outside of your wrists, feel the brush of his thumbs against your own and the warm of his palms to your knuckles. And yes... the shallow pulsing electric vibration of the deadly dangerous crystal you held. Like licking a battery without the copper taste, and with the warning crackle through the whole of your forearms straight to spine.
Lightening in a stone, if not a bottle.
Blue luminescence reflected in gold eyes as he pulled the careful cup of your hands apart and took the stone back. Eyes only for one thing and it surely wasn't for the tech assistant in faded grey and tatty coveralls, constantly smeared in gear grease and always in the background; fixing all the little minor issues the new golden boys of Piltover managed to create with their unlimited intellect and vastly overestimated mechanical expertise.
Sure, they could both design the future, write complex mathematic and arcane problems as foreign to you as Noxian calculus... but ask either to find the actual source of a lack of power in a time train gear network they had designed? Forest for the trees, you supposed. It was fine, you were good with details, with the trees, if this metaphor held.
Details like that hair twirling. Like his shy smile. Like how you'd be under and deep in the guts of a piece of mech and fumbling blindly for a tool only to have him press it into your searching fingers. Never could figure out how he always knew exactly what you were looking for without even having been asked. Nine eighths spanner? In your fingers. Ten quarter allen wrench? Done. The finest pair of needle nose pliers? His fingertips soft against your grease stained palm as he pushed it there in silent passing. Reading your mind.
If only you could read his.
So nice then, that one night, when you’d dragged yourself out from under the guts of their latest prototype, to find him sat there alone, the only other living soul in the lab and shaking an empty pen between twirling the silk licks of his hair.
You rolled tired shoulders and unzipped coveralls to tie the arms round your waist over your sweated tank top. Wandered over to pull the pen from his fingers and put a fresh one in hand. So lost in thought he failed to notice. Went right back to scribbling. Curiosity had you glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of whatever incomprehensibly complex mathematics he was entrapped in.
And instead stared down at two open pages scrawled with your name. And his. And little rough sketches and doodles that had a heat rising under your skin with the searing intensity of a late summer sunburn. Under your lean over his shoulder Viktor had swam to the surface, fresh pen stilling its most recent scrawl of your name before it dropped and he scooped one elegant hand under the jacket of his notebook to slam it shut and spin on you. Luminous golden eyes wide.
Before you could stop yourself you’d reached past him fast as a striking snake and grabbed up the notebook. Back pedaled a few steps as you flipped through it. Your name, his name, doodles and drawings and.... oh. You turned that page sideways and squinted. OH.
“Wait. Please...” His voice was broken, begging. Mortified.
“Viktor. Do you...” You were going to tease him, grinning, delighted. Until you looked up and saw him wilt, the fine splay of one hand hiding half his face as he slumped back onto his lab stool. Oh no.
Still, you weren’t giving that book back. Yet. Tucked it behind the small of your back in the waistband of coveralls and closed in on him. Very much emboldened by all the scribbles on those pages, lovely spidery litany of your name over and over again intertwined with his. Had you slot yourself between the long spread of his lean thighs. Permanently stained and calloused hand tugging away the one that hid his face by the wrist.
He resisted, and for a strained second you felt sure he was going to rise, spindle legs carrying him backward off the stool and out of the lab. But instead he gave, and let his hand drop, heat burning fever under pale skin beneath. Hot as steam burnt steel under your fingers as you caught up the fine angles of his face. Glad he didn’t seem to mind the scent of gear grease and petrol on your skin. Or how rough your thumb was as you slid it over the little freckle under his eye.
“Have you settled on one?” You couldn’t help your teasing nature, had to ask. So pleased he would be so obsessed as to fill pages with your names together.
“Please.” Still pained, he tried to pull his face from the frame of your hands, tried to reach round you to grab the book back. Instead you caught his arm behind you and pressed it higher as you leaned in.
Took a chance and pushed your forehead to his temple. Watched him exhale a shiver and turn amber eyes up toward yours. So close you could see the flecks of brown and green imbedded in the gold depths. Unable to help yourself, you pressed him.
“What else have you written about us?”
Well, I just wanted some Roger Delgado on my dash. Thank you very much.
And actually, what is even wrong? Like, I thought his last name meant "thin" or something like that?
Полезное напоминание
my friend has been telling me a lot about durarara novels, which I haven’t read yet, but hey apparently in one of them it is suggested that Izaya is ticklish
I can't process how amazingly cute this is. All the emotion is so well writen!!!
Whumptober Day 21, 22, 23: pain, painkillers, sleep | Reader
Plot: Part 4, F L U F F
Word Count: 3,044
Warnings: Hospitals and very brief suicidal thoughts
A/N: Douxie is fuckin sad, but after that there’s fluff. BETA READ BY @furblrwurblr THANKS BRO I LOVE U
Tag List: @furblrwurblr @einahpetsyarcip @sorrels-scribbling @anxious-stitcher @alive-and-afraid @animedweeb333 @douxiesdamsel @saroski05
Douxie woke up in Jim Lake Jr.’s living room, dazed, confused, and concerned for your safety.
He was alone. Sun was streaming through the windows. Everything was quiet. For a second, he thought he’d died, and for that second, he was relieved. Death meant he wouldn’t have to torture you anymore. But he wasn’t dead. You, on the other hand, were in the process of dying.
And for Douxie, that was torture.
Keep reading
This clip always gets me-
It's holding all the serotonin I needed
Wilbur called Phil so he could talk to Tallulah! He has become extremely attached.
Timestamp: 2:54:20