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[skunkes]

swatched my watercolors onto my sketchbook (that is not made for em at all 🫶) for Fun and Pretty Colors reasons

[ducktracy]

Moose with implied skwerl

[foxyou-too]

superkomma ™ Nike

[printpapausa]

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[mrsbarnesblog]

the zipper

masterlist

summary: when you ask Bucky to help with your dress while you two at the gala, it doesn't go the way you planned

words count: 2.1k

warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, mild dominance, light overstimulation,

a/n: I guess there are already tons of fics with congressman Bucky at the Gala (even though I still haven't read any of them), but this has been on my mind for a few days, so I have to give it to y'all.

The gala was in full swing, with way too many important people wandering around, talking, and pretending that they like each other. Bucky didn’t like it. He didn’t like the crowdedness, the tight and fancy suit, and the fact that he still couldn’t fully figure out what Valentina was doing irritated him even more. 

At least he had you by his side, and most of the time you were on his arm, soothingly rubbing his back or placing a kiss on his cheek when you noticed him getting overwhelmed. You were a good distraction—his favorite and only one. 

Though while he was talking to Congressman Gary, Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you went to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago and still didn’t come back. His mind started wandering off, barely listening to the man in front of him, even if it was extremely important. He just couldn’t focus when he didn’t know where you were and what was happening. 

In that exact same moment, his phone rang with a notification from you. 

Buck, I have a problem with a zipper. Could you come and help me, please?

He physically felt himself relaxing, knowing that you were just struggling with your dress, and he excused himself from the conversation as he went down the fancy hall. Bucky knocked a few times at the door until your head poked out of it with a shy smile, and you gestured to him to walk in. He locked the door before fully taking you in when you stepped further into the room. 

Hair pinned up, with a lip gloss in your hand, you applied it standing in front of the mirror. Bucky’s breath hitched when his eyes fell lower, at your chest, to be exact. Probably that was the reason you called him, because the zipper on your back was only halfway done, making the front part of your dress hang dangerously loose. The fabric barely covered your boobs, as it slid so low that Bucky could see that there was no bra underneath. 

You stood there unbothered, looking at yourself in a mirror, and completely unaware that within a second you caused him to have a hard-on. 

“...and I took it off to remove the label from the inside, but I can’t zip it back.” His ears caught only the last part of your sentence, while you were still innocently focused on your reflection. “I’ve tried so hard to reach it, but I’m afraid that I might break my nail… Buck, you okay?” Your soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he stepped behind you, metal hand on your waist. 

“Yeah, just fine, doll.” He mumbled in a gruff voice. Bucky was higher than you, so standing behind your back, he could perfectly see that your loosely hanging dress left basically nothing for the imagination. He looked down at the smooth skin of your back, framed by the soft color of the silk fabric, letting out a deep sigh as his other hand hesitated in the air. 

His cock was pulsating in his suit pants, desperately craving your attention, the feeling of you. So before he could think of anything better, his hand tugged the zipper down to your ass, and he groaned, looking back in the mirror to see the full front part of your dress falling down and bunching at your hips. 

“Bucky!” You gasped at the feeling of cold air against your bare skin. Your hands instantly shot up to cover yourself, your lip gloss fell on the floor and was probably ruined, but Bucky moved quicker, wrapping one hand around your body. “We’re… at the gala…” 

“Like I care, baby. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” His head fell forward into your neck, stubble scratching your delicate skin, lips ghosting just enough to send shivers down your spine. He pushed his hips forward, grinding his bulge against your ass and groaning at the feeling. You gasped again, instinctively melting in his arms, when his metal thumb brushed around your nipple. “No fucking bra, God damn, do you want to kill me here?”

“You don’t wear a bra in such dresses.” You mumbled weakly, throwing your head backwards and barely able to hold back your moans when Bucky teased each of your breasts. 

“Mhm, you should wear them more often then.” 

His other hand trailed down your stomach, using a high slit on your dress to sneak in between your thighs and press his palm against your core. He palmed you shamelessly, feeling the warmth of your pussy through the lacy material, which already started to get soaked. Bicky knew your body better than he knew himself, so the subtle movements like the tilt of your head to the side, parted lips, and barely noticeable rocking of your hips gave him everything he needed to take you right in this bathroom. 

You knew that you shouldn’t do anything in the middle of the gala, when you still had to go to the main room afterwards and face people, pretending that nothing had happened. But it was Bucky, the one who could make you feel lightheaded with only one touch, who always found an excuse to fuck you anywhere and everywhere, who was currently intoxicating you with his cologne and fingers that he already pushed inside of you.

“Oh, please—” You whimpered as he pumped his fingers into your dripping hole, pressing a thumb against your puffy clit. His other hand was still busy with your boobs, twisting and pinching your nipples, almost sending you to tears. 

“‘M gonna fuck you, baby. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.” He groaned against your ear, withdrawing his fingers with a loud, wet sound and immediately reaching for his pants. You felt him fidgeting with the buckle, then pushing your dress up for easy access. His hand softly pushed in between your shoulder blades until you bent over with your hands on the sink and your ass on display for him. 

Bucky’s metal hand pushed your legs further from each other, then slid your panties down until they were bunched around your ankles. At that point you wanted to cry from desperation, looking at him through the mirror and basically dripping from how horny you were. But then you felt the blunt tip of his cock sliding through your puffy folds, teasingly nudging your clit, as Bucky let out a loud moan. “Just soaking my cock, doll. You need it bad, huh?” He teased, slapping your ass once, just nudging your entrance but not pushing inside. “We got five minutes before someone notices. Think you can be quiet for me?”

“Yes. James, just please…” Your eyes rolled back the moment he slammed into you in one smooth motion, stretching you wide around him just the way you both liked, not even giving you time to think when he started slamming into you with full force. Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on the mirror, obsessed, addicted. Your reflection was pure sin—mouth parted, brows knitted in pleasure, tits bouncing with every savage snap of his hips. You tried to muffle your sounds, biting your lip until it hurt, but your breath kept catching on broken little gasps that made Bucky thrust even harder.

He groaned behind you, gripping the flesh of your ass, probably leaving marks on the skin, and keeping you still so he could use you the way he wanted. The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with the faint music echoing from the gala. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He rasped, voice rough like gravel, forehead slick with sweat as he leaned over you. “You were made for me, doll. Fuckin’ made for me.” Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him twitch deep inside you, and Bucky let out another guttural groan. 

His relentless assault on your G-spot easily pushed you closer to the edge, making you gasp for air in poor attempts to not moan out loud. When an orgasm washed over you, Bucky didn’t stop or follow you the way you expected him to. Oh no, after mumbling a bunch of curses mixed with praise, the palm of his hand pressed on your lower stomach, and his fingers reached your clit, moving in circles. 

“Gonna cum again, doll? Soak my cock, huh?” He growled, breath hot against the shell of your ear, his fingers working your clit with maddening precision while his cock kept pushing into your sopping cunt.

Your answer was a strangled moan, your body trembling as overstimulation surged through you like fire. The first orgasm hadn’t even faded, and he was already pushing you into another, forcing your body to submit, to unravel under his touch again and again.

“Jesus, Bucky—” You whispered, your voice wrecked, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as your thighs started to shake. “Too much, I—” He hushed you softly, his metal arm wrapping around your waist to keep you steady as he pounded into you mercilessly, lips brushing your ear.

“You can take it. You will take it. Give me another one, sweetheart. Be my good girl.”

That tipped you over the edge. Again.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your nails scraping at the counter as another orgasm ripped through you, harsher this time, your vision nearly whiting out from how intense it was. Your whole body went limp, but Bucky held you upright, grunting as your walls clamped down on him like a vise.

“Fuck, baby—fuck.” He hissed, his thrusts losing rhythm as you dragged him over the edge with you. One final snap of his hips and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a moan and then pushing his cum into you like he didn’t want to waste a single drop. 

“You’re insane…” You managed to mumble, barely able to straighten up. Bucky shifted behind you, slowly pulling out with a groan and tucking himself back in his pants. He bent down to help you pull your panties back in place, and then, as if nothing had happened, he fixed the back of your dress, lifted up the front, and this time properly zipped it. 

“That’s your fault.” Bucky shrugged casually, giving you a shit-eating grin after spinning you to face him. You slightly wobbled in your heels, and you gripped his shoulders for some stability. He placed his hands on your waist, leaning in for a slow and soft kiss. Being a gentleman, as if he hadn’t just railed against the sink like there was no tomorrow. “Still shaky?” He whispered against your lips, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You gave him a playful glare, but it was half-lidded and dazed. “Gee, I wonder why.” You took one look in the mirror—your hair still mostly intact, makeup a little disheveled but passable, and your eyes? Yeah, they were screaming just fucked, and you wondered how many people could pick up on that instantly. “I guess we have to go back now. Even though I look totally fucked. Both literary and figuratively.” 

“You look perfect, I promise.” Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand slipping into yours as he led you toward the door, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “I’m more interested in seeing how you’re gonna keep that poker face of yours. You’re gonna have to hold it together, doll. Until we get back home.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, fighting the flush that threatened to creep up your neck, knowing exactly what he meant. “Oh, I can do poker faces.”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, but the playful gleam in his eyes told you he was looking forward to watching you try.

[rieamena]

totally (not) beating the allegations

best friend!takuma ino headcanons

contains... best friends to lovers, mutual pining, casual confession of love, kisses (platonic), kisses (romantic), modern au, high school to university au, living together-ish, fem intended reader, pet names (baby, babe, love, sexy, handsome, beautiful, sweetie, the list goes on and on), lots of physical touch, nicknames (you call takuma, kuma.), reader has a mother and a father, y'all are basically dating just without the label...

word count: 2.3k (this wasn't supposed to be long. i told myself 0.8k maximum...)

riea's comments: all sixteen people living in takuma city RISE UP! i miss my husband of 35 years so much, come back to me loml :(( something to munch on while y'all wait for the next full throttle chapter. also not too much on me if this is a drabble and not hcs idk the difference :))

first off... i just wanna say that i KNOW I KNOW that ino is one of the funniest people in the jjk cast idc idc!!! if he had more screentime (and if the situation wasnt dire) my boy would be crackin some jokes!!!!

you've been friends with takuma for around 7 years, your first meeting happening in tenth grade, when your teacher paired you two up for an interview project. when time came to actually record the interviews, it was hard to edit out you two laughing uncontrollably every fifteen seconds or so

i mean, you two just had so much in common!!! same favorite color, same favorite franchise, same favorite tv show, same favorite video game; it was like yall were the same person. there was just one thing you both disagreed on: whether hex code #286061 was blue or green

your argument ended up being the last ten minutes of the final video you submitted...

without a doubt, after that, you two became inseparable. in school, people would take notice of your closeness. when one of you were absent, teachers would jokingly ask "where's the other one?"

there was not a single thing you didn't do together, homework, go to the gym, gossip, eavesdrop, etc etc. so of course, you ended up applying to the same universities and when it came time for college acceptance season...

takuma invited you over, forcing you to bring your mailed letters from the eight universities. sprawling out over his lap, you took in the all too familiar sight of his room. you've been in his room more times than you've been in your own (and vice versa!)

i mean ino's been over to your place so many times that he calls your parents mom and dad. and you've been over to his house so much that takuma's mom practically jumped for joy every time you burst through the front doors with a "guess who's home!!!" so it was completely normal that you guys knew the ins and outs of each other's rooms, right?

"kuma, baby," you started with a sigh, reveling in your best friend's repetitive motions. running his hand through your hair, ino looked down at you, eyes showing that he was listening. "i'm scared, what if we don't–"

"ah-ah-ah! no negativity here!" he cut you off, pushing you off his lap and grabbing the letters you left on his desk. "listen here beautiful," takuma says, bringing a hand to your cheek, his heart swelling when you subconsciously leaned into it, "we're gonna take each other's letters, and open them," he handed you a white envelope, the logo of both of yours dream university on it, "starting with, kyōmei."

taking a well needed deep breath, you nodded. "okay," you and ino began to open the envelopes at the same time, only looking at each other when you saw the status. "accepted or rejected in 3...2...1..."

"ACCEPTED"

"ACCEPTED"

cue the mandatory silence before the screaming. "holy shit. you got in." "you got in." "WE GOT IN!!! WE'RE GOING TO KYŌMEI!!!!" you two practically flew off the bed, jumping up and down in celebration. peppering his face in kisses, you nuzzled your face into takuma's neck. "i'm so proud of us! i mean, kyōmei," you pulled away from his neck, shaking his shoulders harshly, "the kyōmei?!!!"

anyways, soon enough, you both realized that you'd have to move away, resulting in a seven hour search for apartments near the university's campus. and just as takuma was about to give up, you found a listing for units 19A and 19B, right in the heart of the city and just a five minute walk from kyōmei

and with that, it was moving day, well, days is more like it considering that the whole process took like ten days... finding cute furniture is really hard! and moving all of it is even harder!! and don't even get me started on the appliances! although, you and takuma found a way around it

like what do both of you need a microwave for? and there isn't a reason to have two dishwashers, there wasn't even a reason to have one! y'all kept your fridges though... who was gonna be banging on the other's door in the middle of the night for some cold water??

with time, it came for the highly anticipated freshman formal, an welcome event hosted by kyōmei itself, and of course, you had to go. so here you were, staring at your figure in the mirror as your best friend's large hand rubbed your shoulder, the other zipping up your black dress. "all done!" he breathed, taking a step away so that you could see for yourself. "i look so cute~" you giggled, hearing the clack of your heels as you twirled. "you do!" he paused, looking you up and down, "when did you get that dress?"

"your mom gave it to me a couple days ago! where'd you get that tux? i don't think i've seen it before," you walked over and straightened takuma's suit, as he laughed in response, "your mom gave it to me..."

"this was planned."

"this was definitely planned."

"we should send a picture in the family group chat!"

"we should!!! but, hair first!"

notice how i said family group chat, singular, not plural. and that's because there's a gc for both of your families! it's name was a mix between "ino" and your last name, since, in all seriousness, your families were close

so here you were, sitting pretty on takuma's lap as you focused on straightening the front pieces of his hair, because that's what best friends do!

"okayyyy sexyyyy," you squealed, moving out of the way so that takuma could see himself in your vanity mirror, "damnn, i look hot!" he smiled as he checked himself out, his hand firmly on your waist (to make sure that you wouldn't fall, of course!). "i knew i was fine but, did i always look this fine?" he asked, looking up at you with his big dark brown eyes, a playful smirk evident on his face. "yes, takuma. you're the sexiest man ever. just a bit of eyeliner on you and we'll be on our way, okay?"

turning back to your station, you grabbed some brown and black pencils before starting to lightly draw over ino's outer eye corner, "do men as sexy as me really need eyeliner?" a look from you was all he needed to know to shut up and close his eyes

and oh, how he loved being so close to you. not just emotionally but physically as well. like, not every duo can say that they barge into the other's apartment to steal snacks! and speaking of snacks... let me just say, there's a whole cabinet in his kitchen reserved for your favorite foods and! he keeps your favorite ice cream flavor stocked in his freezer

you, on the other hand, have a little space where you hide takuma's favorite anything. chips, gummies, takeout menus, you name it, you have it. because your best friend is oh-so-optimistic, it can be harder for him when he's just not having the best of days. which is why when you go your (not so) separate ways at the end of the day, you pack up a basket for him. ribbons in his favorite color, his top 15 favorite snacks from that one time y'all bought one of everything in a nearby convenience store and ranked them, takeout on the way, horror flicks he's been wanting on dvd because he said "its cooler that way", and a handwritten letter from you, for my kuma, scribbled on the envelope

dropping off the basket at his door and retreating back to your place, you'd press your ear against the wall separating your units, physically feeling your heart break when you heard sniffles. that was all you needed to practically fly over to his, a few boxes of tissues in hand. because that's what best friends do!

and don't even get me started on how many belongings y'all have at the other's place... like that one time takuma walked into your apartment announcing his presence, only to be met with silence. let me set up the scene for you. you are taking a relaxing shower when you hear a knock on the door followed by four more and then three more. "come in!" you called out, unbeknownst to you, ino's voice was closer than you thought

"already in here..., anyways. is my shampoo in there?"

"the one with the purple cap?"

"yeah, thanks babe!"

"wait, can you get me my towel?"

or that time when you causally opened the door to his unit (because it was basically yours too) and greeted him with a simple pat on his head before skipping off to find those jeans you thrifted

slight cohabitation aside, the university life was definitely... something. it was clear and obvious that you two were close, a blind man could see it. but close is a really really really vague word, and it's surely not the word that describes the way the two of you act. in this friendship, terms of endearment drop like rain from clouds. every. other. sentence. contains a "babe" or "baby" or "sweetheart" or "darling" WE GET IT OKAY...

and it seems like if y'all go a single day without touching each other, a bomb will fall from the sky and earth would blow up. his hands are constantly on you, his favorite places (when in public) being your shoulders and arms, and when at home it was without a doubt your waist and thighs. just imagine how difficult it must be for people speak to you both on campus when his arm is slung around you and your hand is holding onto his side. the rumors practically created themselves....

and when i say people were shocked, i mean they were SHOCKED when y'all were like "haha, no, we're not dating!!! we're best friends!" everyone was thinking: yeah best friends who FUCK. best friends who are IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER. y'all became the campus' it couple without being a couple. how does that happen??!??

however... there were a couple of people who were particularly excited to hear that you both were single. a few girls approached you one day while in the general area, asking if it was true that you and ino weren't dating. "we aren't... why?" one of the girls shifted on her feet, clearly nervous. "well... could you um... give this to him for me?!" she bowed, presenting a pretty pink envelope. you froze, staring at the item before giggling. "i see what this is about! don't worry! i'll make sure this gets to him safely!" long story short, that letter was never delivered

and on ino's side, he had some classmates pestering him about you. asking for your favorite show, candy, date style, everything under the sun. "guys, guys! she doesn't even want a boyfriend right now!" takuma shouted, even though two days prior you were complaining about how spending too much time with him was scaring all the hotties away

but let's get into the real stuff... the realization of love

for takuma, there wasn't a "wow, i'm in love with her" moment. what he does know though is that he started feeling something different for you a few months before college admission season. to him, the world was always bright with you by his side but now... it was so much brighter. it was like looking directly into the sun; it hurt but he couldn't look away, he doesn't want to look away. you're the best thing to ever happen to him, and the mere thought of ruining what you have just for some feeling—no matter how intense—isn't... right to him

and you figured it out after a dream you had one night back in high school. you dreamt of being in takuma's arms, the ones you snuck glances at when he wasn't paying attention to you. in not dream world, all you had to do was ask and he'd gladly envelop you but the vibes in this dream were different. there was tension. and it was thick. his beanie was off and thrown somewhere on the bed, your bed. looking back at him, your breath caught in your throat, "hey pretty," he slurred, drunk off tiredness. ino's called you beautiful more times than you can count; he made sure to do it at least once a week, so why... just why did this time make your stomach heat up and your heart race? you woke up with a flushed face, queasy feeling in your gut, and a deep understanding. it wasn't just platonic love anymore

"hey," you started, eyes trained on the movie in front of you, but your mind was focused on something else, "y'know how everyone thinks we're dating?" ino nodded as you reached over to grab the bowl of popcorn. "i've been thinking... maybe they're onto something..."

takuma's gulp could be heard from miles away, "wh-what are you trying to say?"

"what are we? seriously. because i can't sit here and pretend like i don't wish we were something more."

"something more like...?"

"now's not the time to be oblivious! don't you get it?! i'm—"

"i'm in love with you,"

it was like time stood still as you looked at your best friend. his face was lit by the tv screen a couple feet away, his hair was a mess, and slightly prominent dark circles were under his eyes, but... he's never looked more beautiful to you. "have been. for a long time. we've basically been dating for like four years already. four more and then we'll get married?" he flashed his signature smile

"oh, shut up," he brought your face millimeters away from his, whispering "make me." before kissing you deeply, not on your cheek, or your forehead, or your shoulders, but on your lips this time. and all the times after that too

because that's what best friends lovers do, right?

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

@kyozvy @obessionofagrl @bubybubsters @sugurusbaobei @raindropsonrwses

@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

@poopyyy @supernatrualqueen @bxrbie-jadeee @laitifly @discipleofthem

@cheesecake95 @strawberry-cherrypie @makeshiftproject @magiamad0ka @ncitygreen

@stillnotherapy @oniondrip @cloudy-yyy @definitely-not-leena @kidd3ath

@atigerandabear @russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @ourfinalisation

@1ndee @yourhornysister @ancientimes

[wainawtmai]

tags: fluff, 18+, blowjobs, semi-public sex, lots of lipstick, satoru wears elf lip shimmer don't take it up with me take it up with gege

✧˖*° thinking about going to sephora with satoru...

“This one’s cute on you, ‘toru.” You hum, spreading the elf shimmer across his pink lips. They pull up in an endearing smirk, and you couldn’t help smiling yourself, it was unfair how pretty he was.

“Really? What shade is it?” He lifted your hand to read the shade on the bottle, the pale skin of the back of his hand covered in your multicolored lipstick and eyeshadow swatches. 

You squish his cheeks together, his glossed lips pursing as you cock your head, “I like this one, ‘think I’ll get it too.” 

“Yeah?” Satoru’s arms circle your waist as he pulls you in closer, pressing his lips to yours in a messy and unecessary kiss. You’re sure people are staring and are breathless when he pulls away, smiling down at you innocently, “looks good on you.” 

You glance at a nearby mirror, “god, you’re such a perv.” You swipe at the residue across your upper lip and press your lips together, “but you’re right, should we match, babe?” 

Satoru nuzzles his face into your neck as he smirks at you in the mirror, “I dunno, I think it kinda looks better on me.” 

“Does it?” 

“Mhm, I mean if I walk out of the store like this there’ll be a mob.” He presses a kiss to your neck, arms still circled around your hips, “you already have a hard enough time with me as is, baby, I wouldn’t want to give you any more trouble.” He gives you a ridiculous pout in the mirror and you flick him in the forehead, pulling yourself from his grasp and sauntering to another isle. 

You’re scrutinizing a wine colored Dior lipstick when Satoru totters after you, holding your already full basket of makeup. “That’ll look pretty on you.” He muses, eyeing a YSL burgundy colored lipstick before tossing it in the cart, “Ooh, and that one.” He grasps another violet lipstick beside it, “this one too.”

“Really? B-But I’m scared you’ll outshine me.” You say with a fake pout and Satoru chuckles. 

“i know, baby, not everyone can look this good.” He lilts arrogantly and you pinch his cheek, laughing as he winces. 

You glance back down at the red lipstick in your hand, scrutinizing the label, “Hm, says this is transfer and water proof. But I feel like they always lie.” 

“Really?” He says, hands finding their way around your waist once again, you can see his grin in the mirror, the one you know spells trouble, "Let’s buy it and test it out then.” Satoru murmurs into your ear.

You shake your head shamefully at him and place the red lipstick in the cart...But there’s already a smile pulling at your lips, “You’re right, and we can try out the other one’s out as well.” 

✰

“seems Dior doesn’t disappoint.” You murmur, glancing at your lips in your compact mirror. The lipstick hadn't budged one bit, still perfectly dark red and in place upon your lips.

Satoru on the other hand…“You look soo prettyy, baby.” He slurs, completely and utterly overstimulated, cheeks flushed and eyes lidded. “Red is your color, girl.” You laugh at his delirium and he giggles in response, brushing a trembling thumb across your painted lips. 

“Thanks, babe,” You smile, pressing a kiss to his finger, “Let’s check one more time, you know I like to be sure about my makeup.” 

Satoru’s eyes widened despite the stiffness quickly returning to his trembling cock, “I-I don’t think I can anymore, baby.” He tries, giving you a nervous smile.

“C’monn, this was your idea, 'toru.” The second Satoru handed his black card to the cashier at sephora, the two of you sauntered across the mall to a department store, with striped black and white bags in hand (or more in Satoru’s hands), and grabbed a random article of clothing before piling into the dressing room. That was only what, three orgasms ago..?

��And it’s already hard for me.” You murmured, stroking his cock in your warm grasp, acrylic nailed-fingers slick with his cum. “You don’t want to help me anymore, baby?” You asked with furrowed eyebrows, your red lips down in a pout, and fuck he couldn't refuse you when you look at him like that. 

“I-I do, it’s just—ah” You don’t give him a chance to finish as you take him into your mouth again, his thick length slowly disappearing between your lucious red lips. Satoru gives a nervous laugh, moaning at the feeling of your perfect tongue sliding along his cock. “Fuuuck, baby.”

It doesn’t help that you’re making little moans in the back of your throat as you do it, the little vibrations sending tingles throughout his whole body and he has to remind himself that he can’t be loud. 

You pull off him with a sigh, lips shiny with his pre but still so gorgeously red, “You gotta be rough with me, 'toru, c’mon. I know you love fucking my mouth.” 

If he wasn’t so fucked out he’d give a snide reply, but he doesn’t understand how he hasn’t passed out as you fasten your lips around him again. He’s whimpering as you deep throat him, then sifting his fingers through your hair and forcing you down on his cock, whining a little at the surprised sound you make as you slightly choke on him. 

Tears are springing to your eyes now and you’re struggling to breath, but there’s a thrill in that, you’re sure your panties are drenched and you’re dripping all over the carpeted floor of this department store changing room. Satoru’s practically drooling as he moans and whimpers, his words all gibberish as he sloppily fucks your throat. And then he pushes you down to the base, your nose nestled into his soft pubic hair as he empties his load down your throat. Somehow that makes you moan louder than he does. 

You ignore the urge to overstimulate him further, pulling off his softening cock and pressing a kiss to his stomach, “good job, Satoru," you coo, "you’re so good for me.” 

He pulls you up and into a kiss, much less messy than the one that got the two of you in here, more lazy and loving. When you pull away, you rub your thumb along satoru’s pink lips, not a trace of red in sight. “What the fuck is this stuff made of?” You murmur and Satoru chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“what are you made of, you almost killed me, girl!"  

You laughed, “Hey, you started it.” He pressed another kiss to the side of your lips, then your neck, then kneels down in front of you, his blue eyes twinkling as he looks up at you. You card your fingers through his hair as you smile down at him.

“can I finish it too?"

and then they got banned from the department store.

[counterintuitivecomics]

MASK UP FOR GLOBAL LIBERATION

Protect your community by wearing N95s and KN95s when meeting indoors or in crowds! The more of us mask up, the less we get sick, the harder it is for police to surveil us, and the safer we make our shared spaces for our disabled and immuno-compromised comrades and loved ones.

Get started by finding local mask resources on the global COVID Action Map (you can also submit groups to be added). If you have the means, donate masks and tests to your local orgs and encourage accessibility so we can ALL join the fight (bringing in interpreters/translators and medics, ensuring accessibility for wheelchairs/mobility devices, offering child care, filtering the air indoors, setting up virtual options etc).

UPDATE: Download this 8.5"x11" poster for free on itch.io to print and distribute! Includes files suitable for color, black and white, and risograph printing. Any donations will go to printing costs, or buying masks for my local mutual aid groups.

Pandemics have no borders, and all our struggles are united!

[ID: A poster declaring “MASK UP” in red above 3 figures from the waist up, each wearing a different respirator mask. The top figure is an Arab person wearing a fluttering red and white kufiyah over a black hijab and red dress, as well as an Aura 9210+ N95 mask. They steady themselves with one hand on the lower left figure, and raise the other one up triumphantly. The left person is a fat Asian teenager wearing a black hoodie with a genderqueer symbol on the shoulder, and a black Laianzhi HYX1002 KN100 mask. They are holding a box labeled FREE that’s full of COVID-19 Rapid Tests, and two different kinds of plastic-wrapped N95s. The last figure is a middle aged Black person in a power chair, wearing a Flo Mask with a customised rainbow cover, a dark blue winter hat with a Disability pin on it, and a blue shirt featuring 6 countries flags from R to L: Sudan, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Palestine, Haiti, Puerto Rico, and Tigray, Ethiopia. Underneath reads: “RESPIRATOR MASKS PROTECT: your health, your identity, and your community. Find resources near you at COVIDActionMap.org”]

[sixeyesonathiel]

every night, the village waves their golden boy off with tears and pie like he’s off to slay the monster in the mountains, completely unaware that satoru gojo is speedwalking into your claws with a picnic basket and a collar, ready to get absolutely obliterated in the name of love.

wc — 1.3k | masterlist.

all the villagers think he's saving them.

that's the funniest part.

every night, satoru gojo wraps himself in his thick patrol cloak, kisses his grandmother on the cheek like some chivalrous prince, and says, “i’ll protect the village. as always.” dramatic pause. noble smile. his grandmother tears up every time. she calls him her little lamb, pats his cheek, says he has his grandfather's walk. he doesn’t. he has a guiltless saunter and the body language of a criminal in love.

and the villagers? they eat it up like it’s a fairy tale baked into a fresh pie. the women swoon behind lace fans and offer him apples like he’s the harvest god. the men slap him on the back like he’s made of oak and honor. the children run beside him until the edge of the forest, wide-eyed and giggling, whispering about how satoru gojo isn’t scared of the vampire. not him. no sir. he’s their sword. their golden boy. their light in the dark.

(and occasionally, their babysitter. he caught mika’s toddler last week before he ran into the well. he was holding a bouquet at the time. the child bit him. satoru only laughed. he still has the bite mark. he named it.)

they don’t know he’s a meal on legs.

he solemnly nods at their praise. sometimes he furrows his brow with great anguish, like he’s trudging off to face some ancient evil instead of lugging a picnic basket full of wine, gauze, a backup cravat, and an extra silk pillow you liked the embroidery on. he’s even got a bouquet tonight. picked it himself. from the widow’s garden. she waved at him. he winked. it was not romantic. he swears. she offered him pie. he declined. his taste buds belong to you.

then he skips right into your claws.

“satoru,” you purr from the darkness the moment he crosses the deadwood trees. your voice is molasses and moonlight, sweet and unhinged. it coats his spine like ice. oh, not fear. never. it’s delight. demented, brain-rotting delight. the kind that makes him want to scream into his pillow like a schoolgirl. or kneel. sometimes both. always both.

he trips on a root. spectacularly. goes down like a swooning duchess.

“am i late?” he calls, grinning like an idiot in love, cheeks pink and dopey. a single leaf clings to his snowy hair. he doesn't brush it off. it might be your favorite color. or maybe you'll pluck it off yourself with those sharp, pretty claws and pet his head like he's your prize. which, to be fair, he kind of is. he hopes you polish him.

“sorry, got caught up in the mist. very ominous. 10/10 ambiance. smelled like impending doom and your perfume.”

you’re in front of him before the last syllable hits the air. one blink, and you’re there—cold hands on his cheeks, nails cool against the flushed skin of his jaw, cradling him like a relic. your expression is unreadable, lips parted like you're deciding whether to kiss him or bite him. your eyes glint like fresh blood in candlelight. your left brow twitches. dangerous.

“liar,” you whisper, thumb trailing over his lip. “you stopped to talk to her again.”

he swallows. hard. his breath hitches because he knows exactly who you mean. your jealousy is fragrant—heady and cloying like gardenias left too long in the sun. he would bottle it and wear it as cologne if he could. he probably will. he has a vial. labeled. dated.

because when he speaks to her, it tastes like betrayal. not bitter, not sharp—sweet, almost, like a sugared lie melting on his tongue. but you can smell it. you always do.

“baby,” he tries, all teeth and desperation, smile trembling. “she just gave me a scone. i didn’t even look at it. i thought of you the entire time. raisins. raisins, my love. your mortal enemy.”

your eyelids lower, slowly. your pupils swell like a predator's. your lip twitches. he sees the muscle in your jaw tense.

and then he’s slammed into a tree with supernatural force.

a squirrel watching from a nearby branch faints. somewhere in the distance, an owl shits itself. two raccoons scatter like they witnessed a war crime.

“think of me now,” you hiss.

he does. he always does. teeth on his neck, your thigh caging his hip, breath cold against his collarbone. your voice in his ear like a symphony of madness. he thinks if this is damnation, then damnation is a luxury spa with vampire kisses and luxury-grade silk robes and a woman who calls him “hers” like it’s gospel. his fingers twitch from ecstasy.

later, he’s draped on your fainting couch like he’s auditioning for a scandal in oil paint. shirt torn open, blood drying artfully on his clavicle, one arm thrown over his eyes in feigned distress. his hair’s a disaster. his pants are halfway off. he’s glowing like he just saw god and god had fangs. his sock has a hole. he doesn’t care. he’s never been happier.

“you bit me too low,” he whines. “what if someone sees? they’ll think i got mauled by some sultry woodland creature. which, honestly, is accurate, but still.”

“good,” you murmur from the velvet chaise across the room, ankles crossed, sipping from a wine glass full of blood so old it’s probably vintage. “they’ll know you’re mine. maybe i’ll carve my name into your ribs next.”

“you’re obsessed with me.”

“you let me put a collar on you.”

he lifts the little black choker around his throat and flicks the silver bell. it jingles like a cat toy.

“i like the bell,” he pouts. “it’s festive.”

“you like being owned.”

he absolutely does. he should feel shame. instead, he grins like he won the sickest prize at the devil’s raffle. his dimples are weaponized.

“i should head back,” he sighs eventually, sitting up, bones cracking. “they’ll get suspicious. the baker’s daughter wept into her apron last time. gave me a whole cinnamon bun. i cried too. it was dry.”

you say nothing. you simply rise, gliding across the room like mist incarnate. your bare feet make no sound on the stone. the candlelight flickers with your movement. you reach the corner of the room. open the cage door with deliberate grace.

clink.

pause.

you smile.

satoru slumps right back down.

“nevermind,” he says flatly. “they’ll survive. barely.”

“you won’t,” you murmur as you climb into his lap like you were always meant to be there, arms wrapping around his neck, “if you flirt with her again.”

“i didn’t eat the scone!” he protests. “i threw it at a squirrel! who hated it! because it wasn’t yours! see? tragic romance!”

“i should’ve baked you into a pie,” you hiss, nose brushing his. “maybe with raisins.”

“cruel and unusual,” he breathes, fingers brushing your jaw with the reverence of a man touching holy scripture. “but can i get a kiss before you wrap me in pastry?”

you do.

he tastes blood and nectar and devotion dressed in velvet. he tastes like a man too far gone, and you taste like the reason he jumped. the bats in your rafters flutter away in scandalized panic. someone downstairs knocks over a candelabra. the room smells like candlewax, smoke, and disaster.

“your haunted furniture is judging me,” he mumbles.

“they should,” you whisper.

the next morning, the sky breaks pink over the mountain. satoru wakes tangled in red velvet and your limbs, fresh bites blooming like tattoos across his collarbone and thighs. he stretches with a whimper, a blissed-out smile crawling across his lips. his voice cracks.

“i love my life,” he tells the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.

a painting of some long-dead baron falls off the wall. he flinches.

then he limps home. bouquet in one hand. collar jingling.

ready to lie again. ready to “protect” the village from you.

again.

[zerolostwalks]

...

[witherby]

I really want to see Littlest Wayne having more interactions with the justice league, especially Hal! That bit of him getting emotional after the baby says his name was adorable 😭

You don't have to tell me twice. Get ready to get a lot of uncles and aunts 🤭 featuring more Bruce x Hal because I'm shameless

Slightly spoilerly warning: ⚠️ Emetophobia ⚠️

The Littlest Wayne: Meet the Team

Masterlist is Here!

"Oh! No. No, I don't — I'm good, actually. No thanks."

Clark gives Hal a curious look, but doesn't try to pass you over to him after that initial rejection. He smiles down at you and goes back to gently tracing the tip of his finger up and down the bridge of your nose. Your eyes droop almost immediately, then you're asleep a minute later.

"They're beautiful, Bruce," Diana says, clapping a hand against his back. Bruce, to his credit, barely stumbles.

"No names in costume," he says.

"You literally brought us your infant child to coo at," Barry chimes in, cracking open a bag of chips. "They're in a Cookie Monster onesie. I think we can let it slide just the once."

"Hnn," Bruce mutters. He lets the edges of his cape fall over his chest, cloaking his limbs and torso until he looks like one, solid shape. "Only the once."

Barry grins, zipping past him to stand in front of Clark and gush over your snoozing form. Oliver held you for a minute when Bruce first showed up to introduce you to the team, then Dinah stole you from him and peppered kisses all over your face until you were squealing with laughter. J'onn carefully held you how he was instructed and told everyone you were thinking about how colorful they each looked. Arthur jokingly asked if Bruce wanted him to baptize you. Arthur swiftly lost his baby privileges. Then Diana held you kind of like someone weighing a ham, nodded once, called you "phenomenal," and handed you off to Clark, where you currently remain.

It was a little curious to see Hal so vehemently refuse to hold you when, as far as Bruce can see, he hasn't taken his eyes off you the whole time you've been in the Watchtower. Even more curiously, before Clark did that little nose trick to get you to sleep, you'd been staring right back at him.

Bruce could go Full Investigation Mode on this, but he understands that it might be a bit much to do to someone he's only been seeing for, like, ten weeks. They haven't even talked about labels yet.

So he does a small guilt trip instead.

Just a small one. Microscopic, really.

Completely harmless.

When he holds out his arms for you, Clark reluctantly surrenders, and you snuggle up to your father with a soft huff. Bruce delicately thumbs over your cheek, taking a moment to admire you, then carries you over to Hal and puts his very harmless plan into motion.

"It's a shame you hate my baby."

Hal looks like he got shot. Guilt Trip Plan: 6/10, too traumatizing. Refine for future use.

"I'm kidding," Bruce says, trying to cushion the blow. "Calm down."

"Jesus, Spooky," Hal mutters, rubbing his temples, "do you ever just ask normal questions outright?"

"Of course I do," Bruce says. "Last night, when we were both free, I asked you if you were interested in having se—"

"Okay!" He waves his hands, glancing at you with panicked eyes, which Bruce finds absurd. You're barely old enough to comprehend the fact that you have a body, let alone the ability to start processing language. You don't even know your name. You do kind of recognize Bruce's voice, but mainly when he's changing or feeding you, and only by his tone. It's all just senseless noise for you, otherwise, stimuli you allow to wash over you without putting conscious thought to it.

Bruce sighs and takes a smaller step closer to Hal. Hal takes a step back.

"I'm very curious about where this is coming from," Bruce says, choosing to be blunt. "You're fantastic with children, in and out of costume."

He takes another step forward. Hal takes another step back.

"Yeah, sure — kids and stuff — not babies," Hal says. "Kids can walk and talk and aren't...y'know, breakable."

"The baby isn't made of glass, Lantern."

One step forward. One step back.

"I know that! But they're also, y'know...just there. Kids are just tiny people. Babies are babies."

One step forward. One step back.

"I feel obligated to inform you that babies are also classified as people. They have social security numbers, birth certificates —"

One step forward. One step back.

"You know what I meant, don't get smart with me."

"I'm trying to know what you mean, actually. It's not like you don't want to hold them, I can see in your face that you do. The question is why you won't."

One step forward. One step back.

"Bruce, I need you to turn that gorgeous detective brain off for ten seconds and realize how intense you're being. I'm literally being backed into a corner."

Bruce stops walking. Hal can't walk back anymore because he's flush against the wall. Oops.

He acquiesces with a step back and turns his focus back on you. Your eyes are twitching under the lids. He wonders what you're dreaming about.

"This child is mine," Bruce says quietly. "I'm not asking you to step up and play stepfather, Hal, but this is a package deal. Them, and my boys. If that's too much...if that's a deal breaker —"

"Oh," Hal says, "no. Hey, no, of course it isn't! I'm not like that, B, I'm just — I've never — ugh."

He wills the domino mask away so he can rub his eyes, groaning, then shakes his head.

"They always puke!"

Bruce pauses. Thinks. Comes up empty. "Elaborate."

"Babies! Every time I hold a baby, they vomit on me. It's like some horrible magic trick or something, but I swear to you, I've never held a baby and it be able to keep its formula down."

Hal looks very distressed as he admits this, gesturing emphatically to get his point across. Bruce finds it endearing.

"Babies are the most adorable things on the planet. You think I don't wanna take them from you and snuggle up on the couch all day? I do! But they're gonna hurl about it!"

"Okay."

"I swear I'm not lyi— okay?"

"Okay," Bruce says. "I don't want you to get puked on, and I don't want to clean up more baby vomit than I have to. It stains absolutely everything it touches. It's a nightmare." He shifts his weight, rocking you slowly when you start to fuss. Is it a bad dream, or do you feel stuffy in the onesie? He'll take you home and get you down in the crib, soon. "But that's good to know. We'll figure something out."

"We will?" Hal says. "You aren't upset?"

"No. In fact, thank you for admitting it. I would have been pissed if you made my baby spit up and didn't warn me ahead of time."

Hal snorts. Bruce cracks a small smile, looking back down at your sleeping form. You seem to be settling again.

"So you'll have to wait a little longer to say hi to uncle Hal," he murmurs. "That's fine."

"Sorry for eavesdropping, but if he's Uncle Hal, can I be Uncle Clark?" The Kryptonian asks, almost shyly as he floats over. "Also, I didn't make the baby spit up. Can I hold 'em again?"

"We get to be uncles?? Hell yesssss," Barry says, pumping his fist.

"I will be the most impressive uncle among you," Diana declares, cracking her knuckles. "How do we battle for such a title?"

"You're an Auntie, Di."

"Then I will be the most impressive auntie among you."

"I think we're all just gonna let you have that one. You win."

Diana smiles, triumphant.

[solxamber]

Oh Hero, My Hero || Riddle Rosehearts

You’re a villain. Riddle’s your destined hero. He wants to arrest you—you want to hold his hand. It’s love, it’s war, and honestly? You think you’re winning.

You are a villain. A rather good one, if you do say so yourself.

And you do. Often. With flair.

Not because you're arrogant—heavens, no—but because it’s important to maintain workplace morale. Your minions, bless their easily influenced hearts, thrive under positive reinforcement.

They chant your name with gusto during heists, schedule evil meetings with color-coded agendas, and once threw you a surprise “Congratulations on Burning Down That Insurance Building (For Tax Reasons)” party. You cried. It was beautiful.

Your lair is everything a villain could want: spiky towers, ominous mood lighting, and traps that range from “mild inconvenience” to “psychological evaluation required.” You’ve even installed a mechanism that drops glitter every time someone steps on the wrong tile. It’s technically not dangerous, but it is infuriating, which is honestly better.

Yes, life is good. But... something’s been missing.

You know how these stories go. For every great villain, there is a great hero. A dramatic, infuriating, righteous counterpart with impeccable hair and a moral compass that spins violently in your presence. You’ve read the lore. Studied the tropes. Ripped out pages from “The Villain’s Guide to Theatrical Longing” and taped them to your dream board.

One day, your hero will be chosen, and when they are, oh, what a pair you’ll make. You’ll clash! You’ll banter! You’ll bring balance to the world through mutually assured flirtation and destruction!

After all, that’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it?

It’s a slow day, which is the perfect time for a little recreational crime.

Nothing major, of course—you’re not cruel, you just think the local artifact museum has gotten far too cocky with its security system. Besides, the cursed amulet you’re currently attempting to swipe really ties together the “apocalyptic-chic” shelf in your lair.

You’re halfway through disarming the exhibit’s alarm—a very fiddly one, with far too many wires and a voice that keeps saying “You are not authorized to touch that” in an increasingly judgmental tone—when you hear it.

“Stop right there, villain!”

You pause.

Slowly, theatrically, you turn.

There, bathed in a ray of dramatic light that absolutely wasn’t there a second ago, stands a guy. No. A hero. Red hair, grey eyes, and an expression so stern it could cut glass. His hand is clenched around the hilt of his sword like he knows how to use it, and his entire posture screams “I memorized the moral code and I will recite it to you.”

You blink. Then beam. “Oh, you’re adorable. What’s your name?”

He blinks back, completely derailed. “...What?”

“Your name,” you say, stepping away from the pedestal like you’re not currently committing a felony. “I feel like we’re about to start a very meaningful rivalry and I’d rather not label you ‘that handsome one with the righteous fury.’ Although it does have a ring to it.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Riddle,” he says eventually, in the tone of someone who isn’t sure how they ended up in this conversation and regrets all their choices. “My name is Riddle. Riddle Rosehearts.”

“Riddle,” you echo, tasting the name like fine wine. “Delightful. Very ‘divine mission meets repressed rage.’ I love it.”

He takes a step forward, clearly gearing up for a speech. You cut him off by snatching the amulet with a flourish and tucking it into your coat. “Well, Riddle, I’m afraid I have to run. Villainy doesn’t wait for anyone, you know. But don’t worry—we’ll see each other very soon.”

And then you skip away.

Like, full bounce-in-your-step, cartoon-character skipping. It’s important to commit to a bit.

Behind you, there’s a moment of silence. Then, from the museum steps, a cry of pure indignation:

“YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE AFTER—WHAT WAS THAT?!”

You grin as the scream echoes after you.

Oh yes. He’s perfect.

It’s well past midnight when your latest act of moderately tasteful villainy concludes.

Tonight’s caper had a theme—“Revenge, but Make It Fashion”—and you’ve just successfully replaced the mayor’s wig collection with sentient moss creatures. It’s your finest work yet. You even left a calling card. It was scented.

You’re about to vanish into the night, cackling quietly to yourself and dodging a very judgmental pigeon, when a voice rings out.

“There you are!”

You freeze. Not out of fear, of course—you’re wearing your lucky boots, and they’ve never failed you. No, you freeze because you know that voice now. You like that voice. It’s the sound of divine justice and emotional constipation.

You turn around slowly, dramatically, your coat billowing like you practiced in front of a fan for hours. And there he is.

Riddle Rosehearts.

Sword drawn. Eyes ablaze. Face scrunched into that exact same scowl he always wears when you do something heinous like wink at him or breathe near museum exhibits.

“You can’t keep running away after committing these crimes!” he says, striding toward you. “I will stop you. I don’t care how clever or deranged you are—this ends now!”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then you beam. “Oh, Riddle. I knew you’d ask me out eventually.”

He halts so fast he nearly trips over a rogue bit of moss.

“What?!”

“I mean, it’s a little sudden,” you say, brushing ash off your sleeve from where something behind you may or may not still be on fire. “But if you wanted dinner, you could’ve just said so without the threats. I get it—you like a little spice in your courtship.”

“I was not—this isn’t—You replaced the city council’s water bottles with electric eels!”

“Which we can talk about over appetizers, obviously,” you say. “I’m in a bit of a rush right now—horribly mysterious deadline, secret villain society, you know the drill—but let’s make it happen tomorrow. Same restaurant I robbed last week. I’ll even pay this time, for the experience.”

“You held the maître d’ hostage with a baguette!”

“And yet the ambiance was divine, wasn’t it?” You’re already walking backward, saluting him with two fingers and an over-the-top wink. “See you at seven, Riddle! Wear something red! It brings out the fury in your eyes!”

You disappear around the corner with a twirl of your cloak.

Behind you, Riddle stands in the wreckage of your crime scene, gripping his sword in white-knuckled hands, yelling to no one:

“THAT WASN’T AN INVITATION! THIS ISN’T—YOU CAN’T JUST SCHEDULE—STOP MISINTERPRETING MY JUSTICE!!”

But you’ve already mentally penciled in the date.

You’re bringing flowers.

Riddle has made many mistakes in his life.

Eating that one suspicious tea cake in the third grade. Agreeing to babysit Ace and Deuce in his spare time. Wearing white in a rainstorm because he “checked the forecast and it said clear skies.” But nothing—nothing—compares to the existential mistake of actually showing up to the dinner you invited him to after literally committing a crime in front of him.

He sits at the candlelit table of the very restaurant you robbed last week—still functioning, somehow—and wonders what exactly is wrong with him.

Maybe the goddess is testing him. Maybe this is a deeply specific curse. Maybe he’s sleep-deprived and hallucinating a date with a criminal.

And then you walk in.

You walk in, with all the confidence of a person who thinks “arrest warrant” is a love language. You're wearing something entirely too dramatic for the venue, looking like you just strolled out of a villain-themed opera. And in your hands—dear, blessed heavens—are flowers.

You walk right up to him and smile like this is the most natural thing in the world. “For you,” you say, handing over the bouquet.

He stares.

Then, slowly, like someone defusing a bomb, he takes the flowers.

“What…” he begins, clearly unsure what part of this situation he wants to question first. “What is this?”

“A date!” you say cheerfully, sitting across from him. “You asked so sweetly last night. Shouting. Sword waving. Very romantic.”

“I was threatening to arrest you.”

“Yes, yes, and now we’re here.” You unfold your napkin. “Funny how life works.”

He sits there, holding the flowers like they might explode, lips slightly parted in sheer bafflement. And yet—yet—he doesn’t leave.

Dinner is, despite his eternal internal screaming, pleasant. The food is good, you don’t commit any crimes at the table (an honest effort on your part), and Riddle slowly transitions from vibrating with rage to… a sort of confused civility. He even joins in when you mock the restaurant’s ridiculous chandelier that looks like someone turned a jellyfish into a war crime.

At the end of the night, you walk out together. You stop just outside the restaurant, turn to him, and lean in without a word to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

He freezes.

“See you next crime night,” you whisper, grinning, before vanishing into the shadows with the speed and flair of someone who definitely practices this.

Riddle remains there, completely still, blushing down to his collarbones and clutching the flowers like they hold answers.

“…Why,” he whispers to the empty street. “Why was that… actually nice?”

The flowers don’t respond.

They do smell great, though.

The next time Riddle corners you, it’s on a rooftop because of course it is. Villainy is fifty percent dramatic elevation, thirty percent elaborate monologuing, ten percent jazz hands, and the rest is tasteful crime, of course. You’re perched on the ledge like a gargoyle with better cheekbones, admiring the mess below.

Tonight’s crime was “turn the city’s water supply into champagne” and honestly? You think the bubbles give the infrastructure a certain je ne sais quoi.

Then, behind you, boots clack ominously.

“Villain!”

You turn and there he is. Riddle. Divine wrath incarnate. Red cloak billowing, sword strapped to his back, expression locked in that righteous fury that just screams “I rehearsed this in the mirror and accidentally made eye contact with myself too long.”

He’s prepared this time. You can see it in his eyes.

He’s convinced he's not going to fall for your charms again.

He takes a step forward, inhales, and begins reciting something clearly not written by him.

“By decree of the Goddess, I will bring your reign to an end. I will dismantle your corruption, tear your empire apart piece by piece until—”

You gasp. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.

“First dinner,” you say, hand to chest, “and now you want to tear me apart? Hero, you’re bold.”

He physically chokes.

“What—NO—THAT ISN’T—”

“I mean, I like to take things slow, personally,” you continue, swanning over like you’re not actively the reason five neighborhoods are flooded with sparkling rosé. “I’m a little old-fashioned. Maybe court me a bit before the dismemberment, hmm?”

He makes a sound like a kettle reaching a full boil.

“I am not trying to court you! I’m trying to arrest you!”

You lean in just slightly, grin widening. “Sure. Arrest my heart, maybe.”

His eye twitches. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then makes a weird little squeak and visibly blue-screens.

And just to finish him off, you pluck a rose—where did it come from??—out of literally nowhere, and step close enough to tuck it behind his ear like you're in a telenovela and this is your third scandal of the episode.

“There,” you murmur. “You get prettier every time we meet.”

You hop onto the edge of the building, cape fluttering. “See you next crime night, sweetheart!”

And you leap.

Not fall.

Leap. Like an Olympic gymnast with zero regard for city ordinances.

Riddle stands there for a solid thirty seconds, completely motionless, as his brain tries to recalibrate from “heroic justice” to “accidentally seduced again by a chaotic menace with an infuriatingly cute smile.”

The rose is still in his hair.

He stares into the night.

Somewhere far away, the Goddess laughs into her wine.

It’s been a long week. You deserve a break.

You’ve committed three heists, sabotaged a bridge (a small one, you’re not a monster), and orchestrated a flash mob in the bank lobby purely for dramatic effect. The mayor’s still recovering. Your minions are thrilled. You’ve earned this.

So tonight, you do what any self-respecting supervillain does on their off-night: wear your pajamas backwards and binge the local news while eating cake with a fork in each hand.

And then—there he is.

Hero of the People. Bringer of Justice. Riddle Freaking Rosehearts.

You squeal, legs kicking in the air like you’re fifteen and he’s the lead singer of a boy band.

The news anchor looks mildly afraid as they gesture at Riddle, who is standing in front of a smoking crater you may or may not have caused because someone at City Hall called you a rascal.

“Hero Rosehearts,” the anchor says, “any words for the villains of the city?”

Riddle takes a breath. Looks directly into the camera like he’s about to propose to a jar of moral purity. He radiates the energy of a substitute teacher on the verge of snapping.

“I will find them,” he says, calm but filled with unholy fury. “And I will bring them to justice. They can’t hide behind glitter bombs and confusing innuendos forever.”

You gasp, hand to chest, cake forgotten.

“He remembers my glitter bombs,” you whisper, soft and touched.

Twenty minutes later, at Hero HQ:

Trey opens the door expecting takeout.

Instead, he’s greeted by a florist holding the largest bouquet of roses, peacock feathers, and hand-folded origami doves anyone’s ever seen. The card dangles off it like it’s trying to escape.

“Uh… Riddle?” he calls, carefully dragging it inside.

Riddle appears in the hallway, looking like he hasn’t slept since your last rooftop encounter. “What now—”

He sees the bouquet.

He sees the card.

He reads the card.

"Can’t wait! You always know how to make a villain feel so special. ~Yours in mild but persistent crime"

There’s a doodle of him in the corner. Blushing. In your handwriting. With little sparkles. And dramatic shading. His cape is glorious.

Cater walks in, sees the scene, and drops his phone from laughing so hard.

“They SENT YOU FAN ART. You’ve got a criminal parasocial relationship.”

“This is not a relationship,” Riddle hisses, clutching the card like it personally offended his lineage. “This is TERRORISM. Emotional terrorism.”

“Aw,” Trey says, examining the bouquet. “They even matched your color palette. That’s considerate.”

“I’m filing a formal divine complaint,” Riddle mutters, turning on his heel. “The goddess lied to me. She said I was chosen for righteousness, not romantic sabotage.”

Cater wheezes. “Bet you five madols they send you a mixtape next.”

Meanwhile, back in your lair, you’re gluing rhinestones to a brick with “To: My favorite nemesis” scrawled on it in glitter glue.

You hum a little tune and smile to yourself.

Love is war.

And you’re winning.

There was a time—not long ago—when Supervillain Group Night™ filled you with a certain kind of existential emptiness.

Everyone else would be lounging around in their aesthetic-themed lairs, attending the secret network meeting (there’s a schedule, a calendar, a monthly tea sampler, and a surprisingly active Discord), trading stories about their latest dramatic rooftop clashes and high-stakes battles with their assigned heroic rivals.

And then there was you.

“Oh, no hero for me yet,” you’d say, sipping your drink with forced casualness. “Still waiting on fate. The divine matchmaker’s probably just backlogged, y’know?”

“Backlogged for three years?” muttered Villain A whose hero punched him into a canal weekly.

But now?

Now the universe has finally answered your prayers.

Riddle Rosehearts: Chosen by the Goddess. The embodiment of law, order, and unyielding justice. Blushes like a strawberry when you wink at him. You love him. (Professionally.)

You beam as you drop into your villain lounge chair, already mid-rant during today’s check-in.

“—and then he said I’d be brought to justice, again, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing ever. And when I said, ‘careful, darling, you’re gonna make a villain swoon,’ he made this noise like a kettle about to explode. Isn’t he the cutest?!”

The others stare.

Villain B sips her wine. “Did you just say darling?”

“Several times. Also ‘beloved symbol of righteousness.’ I was feeling poetic.”

Someone coughs.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of your yearning, he appears.

The wall to your hideout blasts open (you just had it repainted), and there he is—Riddle, in full dramatic hero mode, hair windswept, cape fluttering, eyes narrowed like he’s about to smite you for jaywalking.

“You’re under arrest,” he snaps, stepping inside like a one-man apocalypse.

You stand immediately. “My hero!”

Riddle visibly stutters. “Th-that is—you can’t just—” He yanks out the handcuffs like they insulted his ancestors. “You’re under arrest!”

You practically glow. “Oh, you brought cuffs? You always know just what I like.”

There is a horrified choking noise from him. A villain drops her wine in disbelief.

“I came here to detain you, not—!”

“Flatter me in front of my colleagues?” You shoot the others a smug grin. “Isn’t he great? He always shows up right when I’m talking about him. It’s, like, our thing.”

“You’re being arrested,” he says, and it sounds like he’s begging the gods to smite him then and there. He slaps the cuffs on, ears glowing red. “Stop making this sound like a date!”

You gasp as he starts dragging you toward the exit. “You admit it’s not just in my head?”

He trips.

The council of villains erupts into chaos. Someone’s filming.

“You’re so shy,” you coo, utterly delighted. “Save that for the interrogation room, sweetheart.”

He lets out a noise of pure pain and kicks the broken wall on his way out.

By the time you arrive at the holding cell, you're still in full chatter mode.

“—so anyway, I know you usually interrogate me in the serious room with the chair and the threatening spotlight, but I brought snacks this time. I thought we could do something a little more casual? Maybe get to know each other. Or maybe you could, I don’t know…” You lean in. “Search me for more secrets.”

Riddle looks like he’s five seconds away from yelling objection in a court that does not exist.

“I SWEAR, THIS ISN’T—THIS IS NOT—”

You smile as he slams the door of the room shut behind him.

You know what this is?

Bonding.

The interrogation room is silent.

Riddle sits across from you, arms crossed, face neutral, expression studiously blank—the expression of a man who has taken a fifteen-minute breathing break in a broom closet just to convince himself that you are not, in fact, flirting with him on purpose.

That this is a job. That he is a hero. That he is not involved in the slowest and most emotionally confusing courtship ever orchestrated by a criminal lunatic with glitter glue and a god complex.

You are currently lounging in your chair like it’s a chaise at a five-star spa. Legs crossed. Elbows on the armrest. Not a care in the world.

“Do you understand,” he begins, calm and practiced, “that breaking into the mayor’s garden, kidnapping his prize-winning koi, and replacing them with rubber ducks is an act of terrorism?”

You nod solemnly. “Some crimes are worth committing for justice.”

He stares.

You blink innocently.

There’s a pause where he very obviously chooses not to ask what you did with the koi.

Instead, he sits forward slightly. “This isn’t a game, you know. This is an official interrogation.”

“Oh, I know.” You look around, squinting slightly at the cheap fluorescents above you. “But I have to say, this is… the most intimate lighting you’ve ever used. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Riddle blinks.

Hard.

“These are standard government-issued bulbs.”

“Exactly,” you say softly. “You remembered I like minimalism.”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again like his internal OS just crashed and is trying to reboot from safe mode.

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence where the entire city’s justice system hinges on whether he can form a sentence.

And then—

BOOM.

The side wall explodes. A cloud of smoke and glitter (your signature mix) floods the room as three of your minions rappel in through the hole like synchronized ballerinas with grappling hooks and vibes.

“Boss!” one of them shouts. “We got your emergency sparkle-signal!”

You beam. “Aw, you noticed! I made it red this time.”

“Very flattering!”

Riddle—coughing through the smoke—lunges out of his chair, but one of the minions is already rolling a smoke bomb under the table. Chaos erupts.

In the middle of it all, you stroll up to him, utterly unbothered, and gently kiss him on the cheek.

He freezes.

Like a startled cat.

“I had a lovely time,” you whisper. “You should come by again. Next time I’ll make tea.”

And with that, you're hoisted into the air by glitter-stained ropes, cackling into the night like a Disney villain.

Riddle stays there, motionless, as confetti slowly drifts down around him. One of the doves from your last bouquet flies through the hole and lands on his shoulder like punctuation.

He stands there.

Still.

Blank.

“…I hate my life,” he mutters.

The dove coos sympathetically.

It’s supposed to be your crime night.

Riddle knows your schedule better than he knows his own. Mondays are for mail fraud (the glitter kind, not the dangerous kind—unless you count eye injuries), Wednesdays are for elaborate museum heists that end in interpretive dance, and Fridays, like tonight, are for whatever ungodly act of chaos your whimsy drags into the world.

Once, it was robbing the city’s largest jewelry store and replacing everything with candy rings. Another time it was just—you, standing on a rooftop at midnight, holding up a sign that read “my hero is cute” while fireworks spelled out his name.

And now? Nothing.

No alarms. No sparkle-smoke clouds. No explosive streamers. Not even a vague threatening note written in calligraphy and sealed with your signature wax stamp of a raccoon in a crown.

The silence is... disturbing.

He lasts three hours. Which is already two hours and fifty-nine minutes longer than he’s proud of.

Finally—against every rule, regulation, and speck of dignity he possesses—Riddle storms over to your lair.

He expects traps. He expects overly enthusiastic minions. He expects you, standing at the top of a dramatic staircase with a glass of something suspicious and a cloak that flows unnaturally in the wind.

What he gets is chaos.

Not the usual kind. This is frantic. Your minions are sprinting through the halls, panicked and yelling over each other, their coordinated outfits undone, glitter smeared across their faces like war paint. One of them is crying into a smoke bomb.

Riddle doesn’t yell at them.

He should.

But something in him twists. Something cold.

And then he sees you.

You’re slumped against a sofa—barely upright, pale, one hand clutched to your stomach where blood is steadily soaking through your otherwise very stylish outfit. Your cape is torn. Your usual cocky smirk is weak and trembling at the corners. And when you see him, your eyes light up.

“Hey, hero,” you mumble, giving a little wave before flinching. “I'm a little late for our date, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think. He crosses the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside you and pulling open his bag with shaking hands.

“You’re bleeding,” he snaps, already pressing gauze to your side. “Why in the world didn’t your minions call for help?! Why aren’t you in a hospital?! Why are you always like this?!”

“You came,” you whisper, a little loopy. “Awww. I must’ve made an impression.”

He presses harder than necessary.

“Who did this?” His voice drops an octave—low and dangerous in a way that makes half the room go silent.

You tilt your head lazily. “New hero. Caught me off guard. It’s rude, right? Jumping into someone else's love story…”

His hands pause.

Then tremble.

“You reckless imbecile!” he shouts. “You’re—! You’re a top-tier villain! A menace! A disaster with a good tailor! How could you let some random newbie hurt you?!”

You blink slowly. “...Awwww. You think I’m a good villain?”

“I think you’re my villain!” he snaps, ears red, not even noticing what he’s said until your smile returns in full, dazed brilliance. “I mean—! To vanquish! To arrest! You are mine to defeat, not to be taken down by some amateur with no style and worse morals!”

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

He presses the last of the bandages down with a huff and shoves his supplies back into his bag with unnecessary force. Then he stands. Straightens his coat. Brushes glitter off his sleeve in a futile display of dignity.

“I’ll… return for your proper arrest when you’re not on death’s doorstep,” he mutters, turning away, “and when your entire organization isn’t crying into each other’s capes.”

One of your minions sniffles louder.

You reach out and grab his hand weakly.

“I’ll be good next time,” you say, tone teasing despite the wince. “But don’t wait too long, or someone else might steal me away again.”

He yanks his hand back like it burned him. “Tch. As if.”

And then he leaves, stomping out of your lair with his face red and his heart doing something very not hero-like.

Later that night, he has to explain to Trey and Cater why he’s muttering “mine to arrest” into his tea while clutching a stress ball.

You’re halfway through dramatically pretending to die of soup poisoning just to get Riddle to feed you by hand—when you notice he hasn’t even touched his own bowl.

He’s just watching you.

Not in the normal “I’m here to arrest you when you’re no longer half-stitched up” way, but in the “if I blink, you might vanish and I will spiral emotionally” way.

His spoon sits untouched, his posture rigid, and his pretty grey eyes flicker with something that looks like... worry. The kind of worry that makes your stomach do strange fluttery things unrelated to the stab wound.

“I’m not going to drop dead in front of you, hero,” you say lightly, swiping the last bit of soup from your bowl. “Unless you like the drama. You do keep showing up when I’m bleeding—are you into that?”

He ignores your comment. Tries to.

“I just need to make sure you’ll be fine,” he says stiffly. “So that I can arrest you properly. That’s the only reason I’m here. This is not... a social visit.”

“Of course not.” You grin, tilting your head. “And the soup?”

“For strength.”

“And the way you’re looking at me like I’ll evaporate?”

“For strategy.”

You reach out and take his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in.

And so do you.

And then you kiss him.

It’s soft at first. Shockingly tender. And then—desperation. Like he’s been holding back this whole time. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of rebellion and regret. Your hand cups his jaw, and his own fists relax against your lap, and you’re about to pull him in for round two—

And then: knock knock.

Riddle practically falls off your couch.

You, still bleeding slightly but never off-brand, stand and open the door like you’ve just invited the Girl Scouts over.

But no. It’s not Girl Scouts.

It’s the Goddess.

She’s glowing, slightly levitating, and wearing the expression of someone who has just crushed a celestial bet and can’t wait to gloat about it for the next few centuries. You can feel the divine smugness radiating off her in waves. Like sunshine. But condescending.

“Hi sweetie,” she says, casually leaning against your doorframe like she owns the multiverse. Which, in fairness, she kind of does. “Riddle. Looking radiant, darling.”

Riddle straightens like a soldier under inspection. “G-Goddess—I—I can explain—!”

“Oh no no, don’t you dare ruin this for me.” She waves her hand. “You’re adorable. That rooftop scene? The rose in the hair? Chef’s kiss.”

Riddle looks like he’s about to either combust or faint.

You lean against the doorframe next to her. “So... how many gods owe you favors now?”

She grins with teeth. “Twelve. And a demi-god promised to name their firstborn after me. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to win a Hero/Villain Rom-Com Wager?”

Riddle opens his mouth, probably to say something about sacred duties and moral responsibilities, but she steamrolls right over it.

“Oh, and by the way, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Follow your heart, chase your destiny, snuggle your villain, whatever. The others bet you'd smite them in the name of justice. Fools.” She turns to you and wiggles her fingers. “You’re my favorite now. Don't tell the others. Or do. Stir the pot.”

Then, with the daintiest wave imaginable, she disappears in a puff of divine light.

Riddle just... stands there.

Staring.

Processing.

Reevaluating his life’s entire moral framework in real time.

You close the door gently and turn back to him.

“So,” you say cheerfully, plopping back on the couch like this is your usual weekday, “I’m thinking spring wedding. Maybe late summer, depending on your heroic arrest schedule. Also—do you mind if our honeymoon includes some light tax fraud?”

He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. “W-what—no—this isn’t—this is not how any of this is supposed to go—!”

“But the soup was good, right?” You lean closer. “And the kiss?”

“I—I—yes!” he snaps, blushing furiously. “But that’s not the point! I was supposed to bring you to justice, not fall victim to your—your criminal charisma!”

You boop his nose.

He freezes.

“I don’t see why you can’t do both,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Be my spouse and my nemesis. I believe in multitasking.”

“I’m going to lose my knighthood.”

“You’re going to gain a very fashionable set of matching his-and-theirs balaclavas,” you purr, tucking yourself under his arm. “So when do we start planning the cake? Is koi-flavored too on-the-nose?”

Riddle sinks down beside you with the exhausted sigh of a man who knows he's doomed—and is weirdly fine with it.

“I regret everything,” he mumbles.

You kiss his cheek.

“You regret nothing.”

And he really doesn’t.

This is just your life now.

Sometimes you commit crimes.

Sometimes Riddle comes to stop you.

It’s a rhythm, really. A delightful little dance. He shows up, flinging spells and citing laws with the righteous fury of someone who still hasn’t fully accepted that his archnemesis steals art mostly for aesthetic purposes.

You flirt. He gets flustered. You escape. He grumbles. You leave a note on his office windowsill with a pressed flower and a coupon for couple’s therapy “just in case.

And then you both go home.

Because home is shared now. With one (1) moral hero, one (1) incurable criminal, and an alarming number of cat-shaped throw pillows neither of you remembers buying.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchen, valiantly attempting to bake a cake. The counter looks like a flour-based war crime. The batter has suspiciously purple streaks. Riddle stands in the doorway watching you, eyebrows slowly crawling up his forehead as you hum tunelessly and pour the batter into a pan shaped like a skull.

"Is that... supposed to be edible?"

You turn around with the expression of someone who absolutely believes they’re on The Great Baking Showdown of Doom. “It's lavender and love flavored! For you.”

He blinks. "I’m... honored. Deeply concerned. But honored."

And he is concerned. He’s concerned a lot. He still doesn’t understand half of what happens in his own life now. Like why the city keeps thanking him for “finally putting a leash on that criminal menace,” even though he's very clearly the one being led around by the hand.

Or how his arrest quota has somehow increased since dating you. Or why the Goddess keeps sending him anniversary cards. (“Keep being cute, my power couple! XOXO—The Divine Matchmaker.”)

But then he looks at you.

Standing there in an apron that says “Kiss the Villain,” with flour in your hair and cake batter on your cheek and the biggest, most ridiculous grin on your face. Like you just won a gold medal in chaos.

And he realizes—he doesn’t even care anymore.

He’s in love. Horribly, irrevocably in love.

With you.

And that makes all the sense in the world.

“Fine,” he sighs, walking in to wipe a smudge of frosting off your nose. “But if this cake kills me, I’m haunting you.”

“Promise?” you ask, eyes twinkling.

He kisses your cheek. “Unfortunately.”

And honestly?

It’s perfect.

Masterlist

[celestial-sphere-press]

Book Decoration: AKA All The Ways I Don't Use a Cricut

(this post is for people who don't want to buy an expensive cutting tool, or for those that do have an expensive cutting tool that would like to mix things up a little)

1. Print That Shit

If you're already printing your own textblocks, an easy step for titles is to print them. Above is a title printed onto an "obi" of decorative paper. I measured out where I wanted things on the finished book and laid it out in Affinity, then printed it on a full sheet & trimmed it down to wrap around the book. A more simple method is to print & glue on the label into a slight indent in the cover (to protect it). A third option is to do the spine in bookcloth, while you print on paper for the cover and then glue that paper onto the boards (this usually looks even better when it is a three-piece bradel bind).

2. Foil Quill / Heat Pens

The heat pen is one of my go-to tools, but it can be a bit touchy about materials. The most popular version is the We R Memory Keepers' Foil Quill (which is one of the most ergonomic), but other pens exist that can get you to a higher heat temp, finer lines, or more consistent foil. For example, I have a pen created by a local Japanese bookbinding studio that fares way better on leathers than the WRMK quill & with a finer tip, but it's hell to control. Best results in general are on paper or smooth bookcloth (starched linen, arrestox, colibri - even duo will work but its less solid). The fuzzier a bookcloth is, the less your foil quill wants to deal with it. This means the heat n bond method of making bookcloth does not play nice with a heat pen usually, but there are two solutions: 1) use this tutorial on paste + acrylic medium coated bookcloth instead that will get you a perfect surface for the heat pen, or 2) use the pen on paper & then glue onto the cloth. I did a video tutorial for both foil quill use and this type of homemade bookcloth for @renegadeguild Binderary in 2023.

You get the most consistent results by tracing through a printed template that is taped in place, as I do in the video above.

3. Paint That Shit

Acrylic paints will do you fine! The above is free-handed with a circle template, because I wanted that vibe. If you need straight lines that won't seep, lay them down with tape first & then paint over it first with a clear Acrylic medium, then your color. Same goes for stencils. Two more examples of painted bookcloth:

4. IT'S GOT LAYERS

By using layers of thinner boards, you can create interesting depths & contrasts on your cover. You can also make cutouts that peep through to the decorative paper behind. The most important part to this technique is the order in which each edge is wrapped. To get a good wrapped inside edge, you will split the turn in into tabs to get them to conform to a curve. You can also layer multiple colors of bookcloth without multiple layers of board, as seen below left, so long as you mind your cut edges for fraying.

5. Inlaid... anything

Mirrors! Marbled paper! I saw someone do a pretty metal bookmark once! The key is creating a little home for it to live in, which is pretty similar to the above layering method. On one layer you cut the shape, & glue that layer onto the bottom solid board before covering. You can do the top layer as an entire 1 mm board (like I did for the mirrors) or a sheet of cardstock, like I would use for inlaid paper.

6. Decorative Paper

Decorative paper is always helpful & adds to the paper hoard... & its effects can be layers with other techniques, as below. Marbles, chiyogami, momi, or prints & maps of all kinds can be great additions. Some papers may need a protective coating (such as wax or a sealer).

7. Stamps (with optional linocut)

While I've not used many more regular rubber stamps, I do know some who have, successfully! And I've used one once or twice with embossing powder (see photo 3 up, the gold anchor on the little pamphlet bind). What also works is to carve your own linocut or stamp, & then use block printing ink to ink it onto your fabric (as i did above). A bit time intensive, but it was nice how easily reproducible it was, and I liked the effect I got for this particular bind.

These methods are not exhaustive, just ones I've used, and there are of course many others. I haven't gone too into detail on any of these for the sake of length (& post photo limits) but feel free to ask about more specifics. Usually I'm using them in combination with other options.

[malasquid]

So. I've Cracked The Code On The Appearance Changes in Side Order.

Wall of photos and such incoming.

After a lot of testing, I've discovered there are 7 different little lights and doodads that are added to Agent 8 via upgrading certain chips, each with a basic 1st tier and and upgraded 2nd tier. The 1st tier of upgrades appear after picking up two of the same chips in that changes pool (ex: 2 Homing Shots chips), with the 2nd tier appearing after picking up five of them (ex: 5 Homing Shot chips). There is no further visual indicators added for maxing chips that go beyond 5, such as Splash Damage or Rush Attack.

Full disclaimer: This is the result of researching a LOT of my own runs, so I can say this is true with about 95% certainty. If I labeled an ability chip in the wrong visual pool, please let me know!

Let's start with the basics - our control group. No Teal upgrades provide any visible changes to Agent 8 (or Pearl-bot for that matter), so I ran an all-teal palette to demonstrate.

First is likely one of the more requested visual changes - the Headset. The 1st tier sports a basic metallic earpiece, with the 2nd adding an antenna and eyepiece that match your primary ink color.

Maxing Splash Damage, Sound Wave Damage, Splash Radius, Special Charge Up, Turf Lucky Chain, Rush Knockback, and Homing Shots all provide the headset!

Next up is Ink Bubbles. The 1st tier shows transparent, slower bubbles flowing in 8's ink tank, with the bubbles being faster and more opaque in the 2nd tier.

Nabbing Poison Ink, Splat Ink Recovery, Ink Saver Sub, Ink Recovery Rate, Sticky Ink, and Explosion Knockback all provide Ink Bubbles.

Following that is the Fins. The 1st tier shows the base shackles being added to 8's boots, with the fins themselves being added for the 2nd tier.

Picking up Run Speed, Swim Speed, Rush Attack, Mobile Ink Recovery, Mobile Special Charge, and Mobile Drone Gauge all provide the Fins.

Now, moving on to the weapon upgrades!

First we have the Muzzle Lights, which appear at the muzzle of most weapons, and the sides of the brush and roller nearest the base. The 1st tier shows a circle and squares circling around the muzzle, with the 2nd tier being more exaggerated, with alternating squares and rectangles forming a hexagon pattern in the center.

These are exclusive to the Ink Damage, Main Damage (Close), and Main Damage (Distant) chips.

Next up is likely the most common visual one can see on their run - the Arrows. The 1st tier shows a circle with three arrows pointing down the weapon, with the 2nd tier adding some blowback markers behind the circle.

These are on a whopping TEN upgrades, being Splatling Barrage, Main Firing Speed, Horizontal Slash Speed, Main Range, Main Piercing, Main Ink Coverage, Rush Ink Coverage, Quick Charge, Shot Spread Reduction, and Ink Saver Main.

Last of the weapon upgrades are the Dots. The 1st tier is 3 large dots and a circle spinning at the bottom of your weapon or around your wrist, with the 2nd tier adding another circle around the dots.

These can be found on the Hindrance Damage, Ink Attack Size, Charge Storage, Moving Ink Speed, Extra Dodge Roll, Brella Cooldown, and Knockback upgrades.

And finally, my favorite little knick-knack, the Shrimp Hook. This little guy appears on your ink tank after picking up 2 matching Luck upgrades (ex: Lucky Bomb Drop, Canned Special Drop, etc), and begins to glow after picking up 5. However, the glowing effect is not visible in the post-game screen. 😔 (I would totally buy one of these if someone made one, btw)

By the way, 7 visual upgrades * 5 chips needed to max each visual is 35 chips, which is just shy of the 36 total chips you can have on one palette, which means, in theory, you could. Have every maxed visual indicator on in one run.

Just a thought. : )

[jacksabbotts]

spencer reid x fem!bsf!reader tw .' suggestive themes , nsfw ( mdi 18+ )

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist

imagine spencer reid getting a boner after looking down your shirt at work

it would start with you sitting next to him on the jet during a normal briefing, tablet in hand. his brain would short circuit for a whole minute ( longer if he'd gotten a glimpse at the lacy blue bra you'd had on ) scratch that, of course he noticed and due to his eidetic memory, he would never forget it

you, however, you had gone and done it on purpose. you would lie and say that you just wanted to show him something in a crime scene photo but you had specifically been wearing his favorite color lingerie and a strategically chosen a white button up with the first two buttons undone in the hopes that he would notice

his whole face would probably turn redder than a tomato and he would have to physically tear his eyes away from your cleavage. it wouldn't even cross his mind that you had wanted him to see it, so he would spiral in to guilt for looking. he would label himself a creep and flush red for a whole other reason

the other reason being that he could feel the his slacks tightening in the area of his groin. his body had betrayed him in a monumental way. and what was even worse is that you were still sitting next to him. your thigh touching his ( dare you say innocently )

he'd apologize to you in his head seventeen different ways. each starting with 'im so sorry, its biological' and ending with 'please, don't stop being my friend'. not that he'd ever have the courage to even begin to broach this subject with you and even if he could, he'd couldn't lie to you

yes, his body was having an uncontrollable reaction to you but he couldn't lie to your face and that that was the only reason

he'd start trying to think of anything else, anything but the color of your bra and what it might look like on the floor of his bedroom. or what you might look like sans the white shirt and deep blue bralette—

no! reid, get yourself together. this is your best friend you are thinking about and she definitely doesn't deserve your perverse thoughts. think about schrödinger’s cat, the fibonacci sequence—

he couldn't even look at you right now. would he ever be able to look at you again? he couldn't last more than two minute without thinking about your face, how would he survive never seeing it again once you decided he was a pervert for looking down your shirt?

his slack were beginning to feel uncomfortable and it was still growing. he reached for his water bottle, bringing it to his lip. when did he get to thirsty? oh my god—

string theory, think of the periodic table, anything other than the curve of her—

'spence, are you ok?' you had interrupted his spiral when you placed your hand on his upper thigh, suspiciously close to his raging boner. the mere touch alone made him grow even more in size. it had also made him choke on his water

he coughed violently and you moved your hand to his back as he leaned forward. but the action, while in attempt to help him, only made him cough harder

'i’m—fine—i just… water went down the wrong pipe.'

you smirked and then returned your hand to his thigh. only this time you placed your hand higher, your thumb rubbed the inseam of his pants. and spencer reid never wanted to die and live at the same time

he stood abruptly. your hand fell from his leg and he fumbled his way around you, desperately trying not to touch you as he tried to get to the aisle. in hindsight he probably should have faced away from you while shimming past as you got a full view of his bulge he tried to so hard to hide

'restroom!' he squeaked and gave you no time to protest

he'd stare at himself in the mirror, bead of sweat beginning to form in his hair line, his glasses slightly fogging

this is fine, just gotta wait it out, spence. five to seven minutes. blood redistribution. standard physiological response. this is science, not—

buzzzzz

he froze and slowly but robotically ( praying it wasn't morgan texting him to say he'd seen spence's little huge problem ) after seeing who it was from, he took back his praying

he'd wished it was morgan, or hotch telling him he was fired for borderline sexual harassment. but he would never be so lucky. no, the text was from you. with bated breath he opened the message

lmk if you need any help with your little problem, spencey

wait, what?!

he swore his heart stopped right then and there. not only had you known about . . . but you were offering to help. his first instinct was to hurl the phone, as if it burned him. the second was to drop dead and hope that if there was some kind of afterlife that it would be kind to him. neither sounded very productive to him.

he leaned against the door and mumbled, 'i'm gonna die in this bathroom.'

THE END