i know i have dimples

anonymous asked:

Are you ticklish? Do you have freckles other than the one behind your ear? does your hair tend to curl? Did you know that your dimples are adorable?

I am slightly ticklish. I have faint ones on my face. My hair only curls if it gets too long. Lol you’re very kind for saying so XD


gotta be careful about what you tell an alien who’s just found out he’s an alien

a doodle comic that got totally outta hand bc man reigen makes such a cool agent

MIB AU setup from this post  


In this dark time of art block, I bring you…

Baby Reigen

Not even ageswap, just for whatever reason/by some accident he’s a little kid for awhile. Yeah. More to come probably.


mob is some renowned esper and owns a freelance psychic business. reigen offers to pay mob to be able to learn under him but can only cough up like 30 cents. mob accepts anyway.

Six Facts

Tagged by lovely @lalunalolita whose own response spurred my first fact:

1: I need a night light. I can’t sleep in complete darkness. I’ve got to be able to see my way to the door and the bathroom.

2: I don’t have a specific side of the bed. I can sleep on either side, but I WILL pick the side furthest from the door. Cuz if monsters, aliens, or murderers are coming through the door, fucker, they are getting you first.

3: I hate seafood. I’ve tried many many times to like it and failed. It’s too fishy. I also hate cranberries. This can be a problem when one lives most of their life on Cape Cod.

4: I do love to cook though. I’ve even cooked seafood. Just won’t eat it.

5: I have long toes. Monkey toes. I can pick things up off the floor using my toes. It’s nice not to have to bend down. I can write with them, and paint, and stir things too. Don’t ask how I know that.

6: I have one dimple. On my face. Just one. My gramps called me “Jeannie One Dimple.” I get my swift wit from him.

So now I tag:
But no pressure, only if you want to.

I know I say imagine a lot but like, imagine Yamaguchi having back dimples. Two dimples right above his beautifully perfect butt. Yeah, what a beautiful view Tsukki must enjoy. Or maybe he doesn’t know about it and discovers it when they’re changing in the locker room and he’s just… staring. He’s been Yamaguchi’s best friend for years and this is the first time he’s seeing this. It’s beautiful.

17; artist!namjoon

to your breath (17)
p: following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck

you liked watching namjoon paint whenever you could - wherever you could.

there are days where he’d opt for a ride to the outskirts of town with a briefcase filled with his supplies, gripped with one hand, the other holding onto yours. sometimes he feels like sitting out on the balcony of your shared apartment, loving the soft bustling of the nightlife being painted out with the strokes of his paintbrush onto the canvas, his back, straightened when you lean against him from behind because he sits on the ground and you decide to be his backrest.

today, he occupies the dining area. his easel set up nicely with an angle of the living room. you, however, on the sofa as one of his main subjects if it wasn’t for the gorgeous view out the window; outlines of the city being casted on the carpeted floor in shadows. that was a masterpiece waiting to be captured and namjoon got around to it when he sees you lazing around in nothing but his shirt and a pair of comfortable undergarments, hidden with your crossed legs.

it’s been almost two hours now and you’re getting a little tired but it’s nothing compared to the six hour project he had once and let’s just say, being in a corset where he held back restraint to not take it off the second you had it on was a bitch. so this was nothing, really. you got to lie down, sleep if you wanted to, talk to him, even.

which brings you to now where you’re staring at him with a content smile on your face despite the angle of your legs getting in the way. you get a sight of namjoon focusing on his painting, brows furrowed and teeth scraping over his lip every now and then at the main goal to get that god damned stroke right. he’s extra observant when he’s painting, that’s a given. so when a little shift in your knees to grant a better view, namjoon tuts to the quietness with y/n, legs.

snorting, you shift them back into where they were and that eases a bit of tension resting on his eyebrows.

it’s not until a couple more minutes go by and - “joonie…”

“not yet, love,” he replies almost instantly at your whine, not sparing a glance as he mixes some colors on his palette before going back to touching up. with a sigh and a couple more incoherent words you’re chewing on, he eases your nerves with: “count to hundred and when you’re done, i’ll be done,”

“out loud?”

“at least be fair so i know how many seconds i have left,” he chuckles, dimples showing and when you start counting, they fade away as the seconds dissolve into his efforts of perfecting the remaining touchups on the canvas. it’s like time passes by so fast because the moment you reach hundred! he barely has time to register what’s going on until he feels your chest against his back, easing his sore muscles from sitting upright (and bending, twisting his body around to reach the corners) and the airy breath you fan his neck with.

his hands come over to brush on your skin when he puts away his things, groaning softly when you press kisses down his neck, ever so slowly pulling him back until he turns around and when he does, he gazes up to you with a smile, hands coming up your sides as he touches gently, then tugging you towards him with a squeeze behind your thighs, “do i want to know what brought upon this?”

a giggle from you with an innocent move to use his lap as a seat has him eyeing you carefully. 

“well… you just look really good when you concentrate,” you murmur, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other coming up to his cheek where you’re able to reach his brow with the tip of your thumb, “it’s sexy,”

“…is it, now?” he muses, leaning back but being cautious to not smudge his hard work behind him.

with a smirk, you nod with a hum, “mhm,”

his hands appear again, up your knees, over your thighs, then disappearing under your shirt and leaving goosebumps on your skin wherever this fingers can reach.

“so you want me to concentrate on something else, i assume?”

“if that’s what you’re assuming,” your hands grab ahold of his with the thin material of cotton in between, a shared look of lust in both pair of eyes locked together, “i won’t say no.”

please remind me to only draw frisk with darla dimple legs

Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I do not know how your skin feels in the early morning light but I know what makes you laugh and I know the way your eyes crinkle and I know that you have a dimple on your right cheek. Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I don’t know what your hugs feel like but I know that you would lay down your life for those you care about without a single thought and I know that means me, too. Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I don’t know what your lips feel like or how your kisses taste but I know the things that drive you and I know the things that keep you up at night and I know what causes you worry and how when you’re sad you close up and you so desperately just want someone to fight for you. Can you be in love with someone you’ve never met? I have not fallen asleep beside you or woken up to your hands but I know what your voice sounds like in the morning and you know mine. I know your favorite songs and your favorite books, I know your favorite movie and that your favorite color is black and you wish for the ability to draw because you wish to capture so many beautiful things. I know that reading bores you but yet you’ll do it for me because I sent you a novel that captures all the words of my heart and I know that nothing is easy and that we will have to fight every day but you are a solider and you are strong and I know that you’re going to fight for what we’ve got so I will ask you again; can you be in love with someone you’ve never met?
—  it’s Christmas and all I want is you. (via brizzlewritesthings)

you know when I have a bad day I just think of namjoons cute dimples and how easily embarassed he gets when he has to act cute or how jimins hands are so smol they can’t even reach all around the mic and how yoongi acts all calm and detached but lowkey always looks out for his members and idk things seem less shitty when I do that


Not to discriminate against other eye colors, brown just worked for this one. Pardon if this is awful I’m quite sick and I got going but not sure if it went anywhere. I apologize that it’s long and I hope you manage to read all of it.

No one spoke to him. Not that he minded much because he was pretty shy. But most people were scared of him because he wore leather and smelled like smoke. And when you went to a prestigious university like this one, that didn’t fly well with the cookie cutter kids that came from Mummy and Daddy’s trust fund.

But Zayn didn’t care. He deserved to be here as much as any of the other students. He was studying English because he loved to read and on a good day he would say he was something of poet too—maybe more of a lyricist. But aside from his professors, no one knew he was a good English student.

He loved to write. Even essays he liked because he could get absolutely everything he thought of the literature on paper. He was good at it; and if he was being generous to himself, he would say he was quite original in thought and was better than some of his peers.

But no one dared to remove the leather jacket and see the twenty-one year old for what he was worth. Especially because no one believed that this misfit, bad boy could attend a preppy university like this one.

Zayn had a messenger bag across his body as he skated on his board while reading to the coffee shop down the road. It was actually quite amazing that he could drive and read at the same time. He never bumped into anyone. Stopping directly in front of the coffee shop door, he closed his book and kicked the board into his hand before stepping inside.

There were a few people in the shop sitting and reading while a few stood in line. All the patrons sitting seemed to be very wary of the boy in leather. He fished some bills out of his pocket as he got to the front of the line and was met with the widest eyes he’d ever seen. You were gazing at him sweetly, a gentle smile on your pretty mouth.

It was one of those times that Zayn thought of himself as a poet because he wanted to write about the little speckles in your eyes that no one else saw and he wanted to describe how his heart was sent to the floor but then shot up to heaven…as if it was resurrecting because you were just too beautiful.

Not knowing what else to say, he just kind of stared blankly at a few moments so you waited another moment as he looked at you as if he was looking through you. You should have found it odd, uncomfortable, but you liked the way he looked. His hair was just so and he had really nice hazel eyes that reminded you much of the coffee you served. And you liked that because coffee was one of your favorite things.

Plus, he smelled like cigarette smoke—and maybe it was gross or wrong of you, but he smelled like the good one and you imagined all his clothes smelled like that. And the thought got your cheeks tinting red. You were grateful no one was in line behind him, so you could spend more time ogling him.

And he liked that he could ogle you too.

“C-can I help you?” You stammered quietly.

“Just a regular, three sugars, no cream.”

He would not get cream.

You quickly whipped the beverage up and handed it to him. Zayn felt his hand shake as he passed the correct money over to you. You handed him the change and he dropped it right into the tip jar. “Thank you, have a good day,” you said methodically as you looked at him for a long period of time.

Zayn wasn’t sure if he said, “You too,” he hoped he did. But he was so distracted that he nearly tripped over his board and spilled his coffee all over the floor. But instead he dropped into a seat across the room where he could continue to look at you and write poems about your hair and how all your small movements seemed to make you look like an angel floating around the shop.

Zayn liked you and he was upset by that—because what good girl like you would like a so called bad boy like him?


You worked really hard to get to this university and would be working hard until it was over and then some. The scholarship you got was incredible—you were grateful for it, but it would be difficult to live without a supplemental income.

So you worked as much as you could at the coffee shop. You hated it a bit at times. Because people without coffee were grouchy. You could relate though; you were one of those people.

But there were perks: for example that pretty guy with the leather jacket and the skateboard. He was a delicious perk and since you laid eyes on him, you wondered what he felt like.

You were woken from your daydreaming when a girl from your math class sauntered in and demanded you served her and if you weren’t going to pay attention to the customers you should just go home.

She was your least favorite kind of customer.

However, as much as you wanted to spit in her drink—you did not want to get fired. So you pleasantly handed it over to her and tended to the next customer. You heard people talking about you. You were a scholarship student—you had no money, that’s why you were working.

The trust fund babies didn’t like that you were in their school. You didn’t fit in.

Not that you cared. You would be more pleasant to be hired when you applied having worked hard to where you got—instead of being given everything you wanted.

It’s not like you were Cinderella. You had to work harder to get the things you wanted. So what? You felt better owning your shit when you worked for it.

But you had to admit—you wished you didn’t have to work so hard. Because it would nice to have free time.

And maybe learn the name of that pretty guy that came through earlier.


Zayn was a lazy student. He absorbed a lot of information but he didn’t pay attention a lot in class. For example, he was sleeping when his professor spoke his name. “Mr. Malik, am I boring you?” He asked.

“Huh?” Zayn said quickly shaking his head as he lifted his head from his arm on the desk.

“Am I boring you?” He repeated slowly drawing all attention to the boy in leather at the back of the room. Zayn thought he was through with this back in high school.

“No, sir,” he said quietly.

“Please sleep at home,” he ordered and paced back in front of the board. Zayn rolled his eyes and sighed as he scribbled a few words down on the paper in front of him.

You had the prettiest brown eyes I’d ever seen. I didn’t know where to look, and that’s how I ended up gazing into your eyes for the entire transaction. I wanted to look somewhere else—maybe where the edges of your lips met your cheeks because I still don’t know if you have dimples or not. Maybe I should have looked at your hands because when you handed me my change your fingers were so soft and delicate I should have looked down to see how dainty they were. But that’s okay I guess. Because if I was going to get lost somewhere, I’m glad it was your eyes…I just hope I can find my way back some time and get a chance to look at all the other things I did not see.

He didn’t really like it. He thought it needed a lot of work, but it was a start he supposed. The professor dismissed the class passing back papers just as people filed out the door.

“Zayn, stay a moment, would you?” The professor asked again. People whispered. Because they figured Zayn didn’t do the assignment again. He’d only ever missed one assignment. And that’s because he was up all night writing and forgot to set his alarm. He passed it in late, knowing he would receive a zero but he wanted feedback on it anyway.

Zayn sat back and felt around in his pocket for the lighter and cigarette he planned on smoking on the way to his next class.

He watched as his professor held a paper that was stained with coffee and ink blots across the pages. “You spilled your coffee on it,” he stated. Zayn nodded.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to print it again—it would have been late. And I can’t really afford another late paper,” he needlessly reminded his professor.

He nodded. “This was excellent,” he said quietly. “The best I’ve read in years,” he said. “You pay attention in class,” he stated again.

Zayn nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said quietly.

“Then why do you sleep?” He asked.

“I write,” Zayn stated simply. “I don’t sleep much at night. The best inspiration is at night,” he explained. His professor looked at him wearily.

“What do you write?” He wondered.

Zayn bit his lip. “Prose mostly…sometimes poems,” he admitted.

“That assignment you passed in late—was that because you were up all night?” He asked. Zayn nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I know the policy,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think you would make an exception for me,” Zayn shrugged.

His professor tilted his head. “If you’re comfortable enough, I would love to read some of what you write. You can think of it as extra credit; I’d like for you to have an A in this class, Zayn. You are very talented.” Zayn smiled gently because there’s nothing like someone telling him he’s talented when he thinks he’s just absolute shit.


You were working in the library too, and you liked working here too because you were surrounded by books and had time in between helping and stacking to do your own work. A small compensation for the endless hours you needed to work.

You yawned as you sleepily paged through your textbook looking through your notes to solve the math problem when you saw the dark haired guy from the coffee shop. He strolled in, skateboard in hand, leather jacket tossed over his shoulder along with his bag. He looked dangerous and you couldn’t help but be attracted to him. Because while he looked dangerous, you really didn’t think he was.

You kept your eyes on him as he worked at a table near your desk and you wanted to know everything that was going through his head. You stared at him dreamily as he worked hoping he would need help finding a book, but instead he played with his phone for a few moments before he started to sleep on the table.

Sadly, you looked down at your work until a freshman asked you for help finding the reference section.

Zayn swore he smelled you in his dream. You smelled like coffee and he wondered if that was becoming his new favorite scent.

One of my favorite things in the world is coffee, so I hope you smell like coffee, it would only make sense. Because that would make you my favorite thing too.

He sat up slowly looking over to find you at the help desk and he wished with all his heart that he needed help.

You were unbelievably pretty and all those things he didn’t get to stare at before were his for ogling. You looked exhausted and he realized how late it was and he wondered how you worked so much and why you would need to.

It dawned on him that maybe you weren’t rich like everyone else here.

He bit his lip, longing to speak to you as his head spun lines of poems that would never be finished. Thoughts filtered with thoughts of you and he wondered when he would be brave enough to tell you his name.


“I’m not working with him,” a girl snapped at your professor. “I’m not ruining my grade because he can’t keep his eyes open,” she glared at him. “I don’t even know why he goes here, he doesn’t even do his work on time and yet you all pass him on,” she announced.

His professor kept his lips close while she ranted. He found it ironic because he knew that Zayn worked much harder—she spent most of her weekends partying and wasting Mummy and Daddy’s money.

Zayn just stared off thinking about his coffee girl.

He wanted to write a book about her—the first chapter would just be about her eyes. He wanted to write about what she was like, but he was worried he would get it wrong. That was the problem with Zayn. He was so shy he took forever to get to know someone and then was often wrong about who he thought someone should be.

But you seemed different and he would be lying if he said he didn’t pray he was wrong because with all his heart he hoped that you were exactly as he imagined: perfect, kind, sweet, and just a gentle soul that would appreciate his poetic heart.

Apologetically, his professor asked if Zayn would mind working alone. He would give him extra time on it since he wouldn’t be paired with anyone. “Why does he get extra time?” She snapped.

“Because he wasn’t rude to me or anyone else in the class,” his professor said quietly.

“His presence is rude,” she grumbled under her breath. Zayn wished his pen was a dagger because he would have thrown it at her by now.

So he figured he would write her a nasty poem later and then throw it to the wind.


People flitted in and out of the shop quickly. It was midterms so lots of caffeine was needed by all the students. Including you…but you had to wait until the tide died down.

You seemed to breathe as customers finally left and you felt like crying a little because you needed to study but your shift wasn’t even half over.

You opened your textbook, placing it on the front counter and you read the words from the page.

The bell tinged and you wanted to cry again. But then you smelled cigarette smoke and he cleared his throat before he spoke. “M’sure you’re busy, but I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee,” he whispered. “Or whatever you drink.”

You smiled softly at him and he swore his heart was flying. There would be endless poems about your smile alone tonight and perhaps the word you spoke next.

“Yes,” you said softly. “Coffee.”

He smiled happily. “You’re not scared of me,” he said softly.

“Why would I be scared of you?” You wondered.

“Oh, let me count the ways,” he smirked. “I wear leather, people judge too quickly, they think I’m useless and will never amount to anything,” he shrugged as you made his coffee—same as last time, but you didn’t need a reminder, and neither did Zayn because he was so grateful you remembered. You thought about him too. The thought of that would also make it into his writing tonight.

“Well, I’m not very judgmental…” you murmured. “And most people avoid me like the plague. Like poverty is a contagious illness,” you rolled your eyes and smirked gently.

“Is that why you work so much?” He wondered. Though he already kind of figured.

You nodded shyly. “Unfortunately.”

He frowned. “Well, you’re very lovely and I don’t care—I would love to treat you on a bunch of different dates,” he offered with a wicked smile.

You bit your lip. “Oh, wow,” you mouthed when he looked down at the textbook you were reading.

“Keats,” he muttered.

“It’s an elective,” you murmured. “I’m absolute rubbish at English and it’s got me all stressed out about my exam tomorrow,” you explained.

Zayn smiled. “Well, bird, lucky for you, I’m a fan of Keats, and I would love to help you,” he said and wrote on the back of his receipt. “Consider it date number one,” he suggested from the threshold of the shop before he laid his skateboard down and zoomed off down the road, almost floating away with thoughts of you.


He liked how you wore sweats and no makeup. He would have suggested it, but he didn’t want to sound bossy. Your hair was still damp and he wanted to run his fingers through it, but he didn’t want to be weird. It was constant battle and he’s pretty sure he was going to write about the battle of his mouth to speak and kiss you all at once.

There was too much to do and not enough time.

So he spoke more and explained to you everything he knew about Keats and gave you some tips for reading poems and whatever you might be forced to do during your exam tomorrow. You kept yawning and he offered to drive you home but you said it was fine, you were used to staying up late.

Well, apparently not that late, because you were sleeping as Zayn read you a poem stopping every so often to explain the symbols behind it. Zayn had never seen anything so deliriously beautiful.

His angel sleeping on the floor. He would have written about you for ages. Gently he shook you. “Bird, come lay in my bed,” he offered. You were exhausted and said nothing. So he lifted you delicately into his arms and cradled you to his room. Covering you with his blanket he left you sleeping and returned to the couch where he spent the better part of the night filling his notebook with lines of you.


“You should have made me sleep on the couch,” you said softly as you placed a coffee mug in his hands. Nothing made him happier than to wake up to the sight of you in his apartment looking awfully domestic so early in the morning.

“S’okay, you looked sleepy.”

You bit your lip. “I um…I didn’t read a lot, but I thought your pen was going to stab you in the eye…do you, write about me?” You wondered.

He swallowed and set his mug down on the coffee table. “Yeah,” he nodded.

“Why?” You wondered. He smirked. Only you would say “Why?” and not “Are you a creep?”

“Well, you struck inspiration in me that first day you made my coffee,” he said. “You’ve been stuck in my head ever since.”

“Then why are you considered a bad boy?” You wondered. “I’ve never met a bad boy that writes.”

“Bad boys are people too,” he said quietly. “And you should date a writer,” he said cheekily.

“Oh really?” You blushed. “And why is that?”

“Because writers will have really good wedding vows, and they never forget important dates in your life because they write everything down, we like heartfelt and cheap gifts that are cliché and romantic, and they can help you study for English finals at the very least,” he murmured the ending.

You sucked your lip into your mouth. “You really wanna date me?” You wondered.

He nodded. “Quite desperately, actually,” he admitted.

You blushed shyly. “But I’m poor,” you muttered.

“Again, love, that means nothing,” he said coming closer to you on the sofa. “At the very least it just means I get to pamper you for all I’m worth,” he murmured.

You blushed. “You’re supposed to break my heart,” you said breathlessly.

Zayn removed your coffee cup from your fingers and inched closer to you still. “Oh darling, but aren’t I?” He whispered and closed the distance between your lips and his.