#I don’t really like using marker

[flowersnot4u]

Had to cross a couple time zones to do it but I made it in time for Mermay!

[pommegrantaire]

The (Dragon) Kiss

just wanted to do something fun with a bunch of different traditional media, and ended up with This… based very loosely on Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss” ✨

[n00tuz]

Flash backs to the one time I made fanart for a chonny cosplayer on TikTok back in April and they never saw it and I was too embarrassed to @ them-

They are so cool lol idk where they went- if I find them I’ll redraw their cosplays rahhh

[bumblerhizal-art]

two sun religions, both alike in dignity

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🕳️ What to Write When You Have No Idea What Happens Next

aka: you’re staring into the creative abyss and the abyss is not only staring back, it’s asking for a rough draft

hi writer. welcome to that fun little liminal space in your project where ✨absolutely nothing✨ makes sense. you wrote the last scene. you know you’re not at the end. but suddenly your characters are just standing there like NPCs waiting for a quest marker and your brain is doing the spinning beachball of death.

so. what now?

let’s break down some actually useful strategies for when you hit That Point™️. not vibes. not ✨manifest your way out✨ energy. not the “just keep writing” slog. here’s what to do when your story is refusing to tell you what happens next:

———————————————

zoom out: do a “scene audit” ———————————————

you don’t need a full outline to do this. take five minutes and sketch a bullet list of every scene that’s happened so far. not just what happened, but why it mattered.

like this:

MC lied to their boss (sets up stakes re: trust/power)

antagonist shows up at cafe (establishes tension + location crossover)

best friend gets suspicious (emotional complication, adds pressure)

this gives you a birds-eye view of what you’ve set in motion. often you’re stuck because you’ve lost sight of the threads you were pulling, your own story has momentum, you just need to feel it again.

—————————————————————

try “ghost drafting” (aka fake writing) —————————————————————

open a doc. start typing what would happen, if you were writing. super casual. something like:

“okay i think the next scene is maybe them at the train station?? or wait--maybe we need to see the fallout of the argument. i don’t really know what x character wants rn but i think y might be planning something…”

this trick works bc it removes pressure. no fancy prose, no perfect structure. it’s literally you telling yourself what might happen. and weirdly? your brain will often finish the scene for you without asking. (the number of times I’ve ghost drafted myself into 800 usable words… witchcraft.)

——————————————————————————

pin your characters to a corkboard and interrogate them ——————————————————————————

not literally. (unless you're into that. i don’t judge.)

but seriously: when you’re stuck, it’s often because your character has no immediate goal or emotion. pause and ask:

what does this character want right now? like, in this moment?

what are they trying to avoid?

what’s keeping them from getting either?

character-driven scenes are rarely static. even if it’s just an awkward dinner or walking to the store, someone’s always trying to do or hide something. if everyone in the scene is just reacting or waiting, you’ve got fog. bring in the fire.

—————————————————

don’t skip the “boring” stuff--weaponize it —————————————————

sometimes we’re stuck because we think the next scene is dull. like “ugh i guess they just… travel to the manor” or “they regroup at the safe house.” but these slow beats are GOLD if you embed purpose.

try giving the “boring” scene:

a time limit or interruption (they’re hiding but someone knocks)

a secret (someone is lying about something small but important)

a reversal (what they expected is the opposite of what happens)

even if it’s a quiet scene, layer it. conflict isn’t just yelling or action. it’s discomfort. it’s misalignment. tension between what’s said and unsaid.

—————————————————————

when all else fails: write the next emotional beat —————————————————————

strip it back. forget plot. forget pacing. ask yourself:

then write that. a monologue. a journal entry. an outburst. a line of whispered dialogue.

sometimes it’s not that you don’t know what happens next. it’s that your character hasn’t processed what just happened, and until they do, the story can’t move forward.

✨✨✨

the void is normal. getting stuck doesn’t mean you failed or picked the wrong idea or that the muse packed up and left for a better writer’s house. it just means your brain needs space to regroup.

writing isn’t linear. stories aren’t built in perfect lines. they loop. they stall. they circle back. and that’s okay.

if you’re in the middle of nowhere, here’s your sign to sit on the side of the metaphorical road, open your weird little notebook, and write anyway. write wrong. write messy. write ghost drafts. the path shows up when you start walking.

🕳️ you got this, writer.

tag me if you end up crawling out of your stuck scene with a little victory paragraph. i’ll bring snacks for the next one 🧃✨

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[kamiversee]

Big ruby shaded eyes, matching that of her father’s, have this adorable thin layer of gloss over them as she pleads with her parent for the millionth time.

“Daddy pwease?” She has the cutest little pout on her face, one that’s worked on her mother time and time again that’s sure to work on her father too—

“No.” Sukuna says yet again.

The child is tired of asking and receiving that same answer over and over. She doesn’t understand one bit why but she hates hearing that word. Folding her arms, she lets out an annoyed puff, “Mommy would never tell me no…”

One statement and there’s already another vein bulging in the right corner of Sukuna Ryomen’s forehead. “Go away, brat.” He breathes out in an overly irritated tone.

The child, unable to take no for an answer and more like her father than she even realizes, takes her foot and brings it down on the curse’s foot in frustration.

If he wasn’t ticked off before, he damn sure is now. “You little—“

“Sukuna,” And there it is, the voice of the sole human in this reality who could ever even dream of cutting the king of curses off mid-sentence. Not only is it you, the mother of his overly insolent child, but you have the nerve to give him that scolding tone he hates (loves).

He scowls for a long moment before looking down to the smaller human who carries more of your features than his. “Fine, child.” Sukuna drawls out after a long roll of his many eyes.

Then, with a big smile plastered all over her small face, her hands are shooting up and she’s making a grab motion with her hands.

Sukuna stares down at her and sighs, “You really are a spoiled brat, y’know…” He grumps while leaning down to pick his daughter up with one out of his two pairs of hands. “…Just like your damn mother.”

The child’s smile fades for a moment and she tilts her head, “Damn?” She repeats in a confused tone, making Sukuna’s heart spike.

“Wait-, don’t… don’t say that.” He’s been down this road one two many times—having taught the child how to say ‘fuck’ the moment she began spewing words. He received an earful from you that he didn’t care for so, here he is now, “That’s a bad word.”

His daughter blinks, “But, Daddy said it.”

Sukuna groans lowly in irritation, “Daddy can say whatever the hell he wants.”

“Hell?” Oh she had to be doing this on purpose, knowing her mother was only a room away.

“Child.” The curse scolds, “Are you trying to irritate me?”

She shrugs playfully, “This is what you get for telling me no.”

“You asked me if you could draw on my face.” He deadpans.

“And you should’ve said yes,” You suddenly chime in, entering the room, “Instead of teaching her more curse words.”

The little girl snickers in Sukuna’s arms and he swears he has an image of the child being flung across the room for just a moment. That image is interrupted by the girl speaking again.

“Like fuck?” She says loud and clear. “I heard Daddy say it again earlier today—“

A big hand goes over her mouth (practically her entire face) and she’s cut off by her father who’s innocently smiling at you, his darling wife.

“Ignore her. I was just about to let her draw on my face so,” He glances down at his daughter who’s giggling victoriously beneath his palm and then sighs, “If you’ll excuse us.”

You’re left smiling at the two as Sukuna turns away with his daughter and exits the room—the sound of them bickering as soon as they’re out of sight heard moments later.

And the next time you lay eyes on the two, Sukuna’s got a face full of stickers and marker and his little mini-me has a mocking face full of her father’s markings. To which you just had to take a million and one pictures of.

[fushitoru]

all i want for christmas is you! a gojo satoru fic

pairing ⸺ bf!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ after a well needed rest from the kids, you and your boyfriend focus on baking christmas cookies for your pta responsibilities. however, it ends up taking a naughty twist when satoru finds out the surprise you've planned out for him.

warnings ⸺ FLUFF, smut in the form of fingering and p i v sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied, some jealousy, but mostly crack, pta cookie baking for megumi, very domestic, not edited, “good girl,” teasing, use of pet names like “baby,” gojo is a warning in himself

a/n hbd to my husband and loml 😚😚 i hope you guys enjoy this it kind of made me realize only long fics heal my soul but this is anticipation of holidays :33

general masterlist

You sometimes did not know what to do with Satoru.

When he told you to come over to make Christmas cookies that are part of his PTA commitments for Megumi, you really didn’t expect him to come out of his room with that sweater on. It’s an ugly sweater—so he’s got the holiday spirit nailed down—that has printed “BIG PACKAGE JUST FOR YOU.” Below it, a cartoon Santa stood pantsless, strategically holding a neatly wrapped gift box over his crotch.

You give him a look as he comes out to join you in the kitchen. “Please don’t tell me you wore that in front of Tsumiki and Megumi.”

He has the gall to look offended as he puts on his even stupider “Your opinion wasn’t on the recipe” apron. “Of course, what kind of father do you think I am?”

You sigh, moving to put in the last of the dry ingredients. “I saw Megumi watching Breaking Bad on his iPad last week.”

“What?” he gasps dramatically as he pauses while moving for the fridge. “I swear I downloaded Youtube Kids!”

Look, Satoru is a good dad. Foster-dad. Whatever. He’s been taking care of Megumi and Tsumiki for ages now, ever since that incident happened, and he’s been doing his best. But, unfortunately, his adult life and burdens and responsibilities cause him sometimes to be a absent father. He makes up for it—goes shopping with Tsumiki for her clothes, spends quality time with Megumi.

One thing he’d never miss, however, are those PTA meetings.

He is the PTA mom final boss. No matter what event is being held, he’s going to go all out. You don’t miss the smirk he gives to Karen everytime he brings an even bigger cookie platter for Megumi’s homeroom than she did for her son Sam’s, nor the sassy pursed lips as he donates artist-grade markers from Michael’s instead of Mia’s cheap ones from Walmart.

Yea, he is just petty like that, but it’s always the moms whose sons have gotten into fights with Megumi that he outdoes everytime. You know better than to question his peculiar form of revenge.

“I think that means he found a way to break through the parental controls. He’s definitely your kid,” you reply with a bit of mirth in your voice. Then, you quickly move to intercept Satoru’s journey to get the eggs as soon as you notice a miniscule movement of his. You were not about to let Satoru force another trip to Whole Foods with the clumsiness you’re all too familiar with in your five years of dating.

Grabbing the eggs before he can, you turn around to find him staring at you, a dazzled look on his face.

“What?” you ask, already smirking. The view of the outfit you’d worn today had been obscured by the apron when he first came in, but when you moved to get the eggs in front of him, he definitely got a view of your ass in your tiny red skirt and fuzzy, festive top.

“Why the hell are you wearing a sexy Mrs. Claus outfit?”

“I was thinking we’d watch Christmas movies and chill today after the cookies!” you exclaim, just as Satoru interrupts with, “We’re baking cookies for children, you freak.”

The room went dead silent.

Your cheerful smile dropped instantly. Meanwhile, Satoru’s face lit up like he’s just won the lottery, full of pure glee.

Both of you shout at the same time, “What?”

You slam the eggs down onto the counter with just enough force to make him flinch, narrowing your eyes at him. “Excuse me? Did you just call me a freak?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” he yelped, backpedaling so fast you were surprised he didn’t trip over his own feet. “It’s just—” He gestured wildly at you. “—that outfit is… is…”

“Is what?” you demand, crossing your arms and daring him to dig himself deeper.

“Babe,” he starts to whine, apologetic like a wet dog and padding his way back over to you while pulling you in for a back hug. “It’s hot, okay? Don’t get me wrong, it’s driving me crazy. I’m trying to focus on cookies, and you’re over here looking like every Christmas fantasy I didn’t know I had.”

“Get off me,” you grumble, shooting him a glare as you try to shake him off. “You are not touching these cookies. Sit on the couch.”

He yelps as you slap his hand. “Babe, but I’ll just be reinforcing the patriarchy if I let you stay and do all the work in the kitchen.” Then, he moves closer to your ear like the chronically online loser he is and whispers, “6’ 3’’ btw.”

“Go away!” you shriek, waving him off. This process would indeed be two times faster if Satoru was on his couch. There wasn’t any rush, but you’d really appreciate getting to the dicking-down part of tonight after much appreciated privacy from the kids for the first time in forever. You take a mental note to thank Yuji’s grandpa and Nobara’s grandmother with extra cookies for the sleepover as you shoo your boyfriend to the couch.

You get back to work on the wet ingredients by cracking the eggs, but not before you hear a “I’ll be reflecting on the systematic oppression women face in the workforce.”

Pulling off the oven mitts on your hands, you wash your hand but not without sneaking a peek over the kitchen counter. You were locked in on the cookies, paying no mind to Satoru’s existential bemoaning, and now that you’re done, you can’t wait for the fun part of tonight.

After waiting a few minutes and checking and rechecking the cookies to make sure they’re done, you set them aside to cool and make sure to turn off the oven. Tonight, you were determined to get that big fucking package Santa owed you, and your boyfriend was going to be the one to deliver it.

As you walk out, you know the strat you’re going to use: innocently suggest a Christmas movie to watch, snuggle close to him, and he’ll fall into the trap you set for him like a bear towards honey. You know your boyfriend all too well, and today, you were feeling coy.

He’s stretched out on the couch, scrolling on his phone, his posture as awful as ever. But the second he hears your footsteps, his head snaps up. His eyes immediately dart to the movement of your bare legs, lingering on the tiny red skirt you’re still wearing, before slowly traveling back up to your chest. Wow. He really wasn’t making this difficult.

You plop down next to him while grabbing the remote, pulling up Netflix. “What movie should we watch today?”

He blinks, clearly distracted. “We’re watching a movie?”

The Princess Switch catches in the side of your eye as you scroll through the options. Without looking at him, you answer, “Yes? What else were we going to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawls, his voice already dipping into that teasing tone you know so well. “Maybe something that doesn’t involve Vanessa Hudgens playing herself two times.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his shoulder with your own. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Mr. Holiday Spirit.”

His gaze doesn’t leave you, though, and when you finally glance at him, his expression has shifted. He’s not teasing anymore. His eyes are a little darker, his lips twitching like he’s holding back a grin. “What?” you ask, already smirking.

“Nothing,” he says, his voice lower now. “Just... you look really good in that outfit.”

Your cheeks heat, but you play it off with a laugh. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Satoru.”

“Won’t it?” he murmurs, leaning a little closer, his hand brushing against your knee. The heat of his palm lingers even after he pulls it away, and you feel your heart skip a beat.

You’re about to respond—something witty, something to keep the banter going—but then his hand moves again, this time resting firmly on your thigh. “You’re really going to make me sit through a Christmas movie when you look like that?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.

Your breath hitches, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, leaning just a fraction closer to him. “What would you rather do?” you challenge, your voice softer now.

His gaze dips to your lips, and that’s all the invitation he needs. In a second, he’s closing the distance, his mouth pressing against yours in a kiss that’s anything but sweet. It’s hungry and demanding, like he’s been waiting for this all day, and when his hand slides higher up your thigh, you realize you’ve completely forgotten about the movie and the preview playing. Satoru, clearly a little annoyed judging by the pout on his face, moves to close the preview featuring Vanessa Hudgens’ obnoxious British accent and then the room is silent except for the wet sounds of your sloppy kissing.

When you’ve both made out for a while—now with you on his lap—you both pull back with fastened breaths, looking at each other’s glistening lips. Finally, from Satoru comes out a, “That. I wanted to do that.”

Maybe it’s the attention whore in you always looking to rile up Satoru and get his affection, but you couldn’t refrain from blurting out a “Are you sure you wanted to do this with me, or would Linda have sufficed?”

At the scrunch of Satoru’s nose, his face practically spells out a Who the fuck is Linda? “You know, the one that gets really friendly with you when I’m going to the bathroom at those PTA meetings.”

Satoru sometimes did not know what to do with you.

Here he is, trying to make out with you when you’re looking like that, makeup done perfectly and looking beautiful as always. He hasn’t gotten laid with you in a hot minute, and here you are, picking at him. He has no fucking clue who Linda is, but what he does know is that you’re really cute when you get jealous. “Yeah?” he teases, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek. His grin is maddeningly smug, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Linda sounds nice. Should I call her up?”

Your jaw drops, but the sharp retort forming in your head is lost when his hand slides from your cheek to your neck, his thumb brushing lightly along your jawline. He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You know,” he continues, his voice a low murmur, “if you’re jealous, you could just say so.”

“I’m not jealous,” you shoot back, your voice unconvincing even to yourself. You shift under his gaze, trying to keep up the façade, but it’s hard when his lips hover so close to yours.

Satoru’s grin widens. “No? Then why are you bringing up some imaginary PTA Linda when I’m clearly only interested in you?” His lips press against the corner of your mouth, a slow, deliberate kiss that makes your breath catch.

“You’re clearly only interested in being annoying,” you quip, but the words lack their usual bite as his hand slips lower, trailing down your side until it rests on your bare thigh. His touch is firm, possessive, and it sends a shiver through you.

“Annoying?” he echoes, his tone mock-offended. “That’s a big word for someone who just ruined a perfectly good makeout session to talk about Linda.”

You glare at him, but the effect is ruined when his thumb begins tracing lazy circles on your thigh. “I didn’t ruin anything,” you argue weakly.

“Didn’t you?” He dips his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Because now, instead of kissing you like I want to, I’m stuck reassuring you that Linda doesn’t stand a chance against my very sexy, very jealous girlfriend.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, but it turns into a soft gasp as his teeth graze your skin, his tongue soothing the faint sting. “You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but your hands betray you, tangling in his hair and tugging him closer.

“Mm, but you like it,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck. His free hand slides higher, skimming under the hem of your skirt, his fingers teasing against the soft skin of your hip. “Admit it.”

“Shut up,” you manage, though your voice is breathless now. He’s too close, his scent overwhelming, his touch setting your nerves on fire. When his hand tightens on your thigh and he pulls you closer, you give in, letting him capture your lips in a kiss that’s all desperation.

Linda, whoever she may be, is long forgotten as Satoru kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second you’ve spent apart. His hands roam, his touch firm and confident, and when he pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “You’re all I want,” you believe him completely.

A breathless “Satoru” leaves your lips as he gently–but hurriedly–lowers you down to lay on the couch while he bends over you, inching down the hem of your top to bury his head in your tits. “Oh my god,” he groaned. “I missed my girls.” He starts to leaves rough kisses, an occasional bite and suck, and then stops. Takes in a deep breath. “Wow, you smell good babe.”

You look at him, flustered. “Stop smelling my tits, oh my god.” For good measure, you grab his hair to bury his face against your breasts once more.

“No,” smooch, “it’s,” smooch, “smelling good. Like the new holiday scents from Bath and Body Works.” He then abandons your chest to kiss his way down your body, sliding your skirt down as he kisses around the edge of your panties. “I’ve missed her, too.”

Despite yourself, you moan, spreading your legs to give him full access. He takes it enthusiastically, giving you a little kiss in your middle. Then, his eyes don’t leave yours as he uses his teeth to pull your panties down, slowly and sultry. Your pussy leaks even more, and the motherfucker notices, because there’s a faint smirk on his face as he hones back in your wetness, running his fingers to spread your slick. “Wow, my girl must have been sooo pent up,” he croons, eyes not leaving your hole and the way it clenched every time he spoke. “My good girl is soo desperate.”

Without missing a beat, you sneakily reply, “Don’t call me that, that’s so corny oh my god—-“ You’re interrupted with your own gasp as he enters a finger in. When he finally curls it, hitting your g-spot dead on, you suck in your breath. You really missed this.

“Oh, really?” He giggles, clearly amused by you trying to rile him up. “If my baby doesn’t like being called a good girl then why is she clenching so hard on my—“ thrust— “fingers?”

And suddenly the feminist in you leaves as his big, thick fingers ram into you faster than ever, and you start squealing like the slut you are for your incredibly hot boyfriend who’s equally as much of a slut for you, judging based on the rock hard erection against your thigh. Take that, Linda.

You’re in a daze of pleasure, too fucked out to notice Gojo wrenching down his sweats to pull out his throbbing cock, to pump it to full mast. It’s only when he rips his finger away from your cavern that you start to whimper, clawing at his arms to continue fingering you.

And he starts cooing, giving you a small kiss on your cheek as he aligns his dick with your pussy. “I know baby, I know,” and he groans as the soft, wet heat of your pussy grips on him hard as he pushes in. It’s not long before he starts thrusting, wiping your tears while driving in even faster. “Wow, good fucking pussy.”

“Satoru,” you whine, but you don’t even know for what. You were close enough when he was fingering you, but now you’re steadily approaching your climax. But Satoru, who’s attuned to what your body needs, readjusts himself to go even deeper.

It’s when you gasp loudly that a glint lights up in his eyes. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?” He drives into that spot like a jackhammer, savoring in your little squeals and moans of his name, until finally, he feels you climax.

“Oh my god,” you says breathlessly as your orgasm takes over you, convulsing while Satoru doesn’t let up, continuing his pace until his hips become more sloppy. After a few off rhythm thrusts, he comes in you, collapsing on top of you.

He’s breathing heavily from exertion, and you run your nails on his back and hair gently. You both bask in the glow of your orgasm. Of course, that is until Satoru perks his head up. “Do you think I can eat that kid Martin’s cookie? Megumi told me he doesn’t like him and that he’s annoying—-OWWW, what was that for?”

[sooniebby]

an idea; a (bottom) male reader who’s apart of an indie jpop boy group. The members are just you, a childhood friend, and three other people you met through college/random events. Your group was lucky one of the members comes from a rich family that doesn’t mind spending some money to help you guys out—waiting until a company finds interest and asks to manage you.

The first month or so is rough so you all find part time jobs in the mean time. But regular jobs just don’t interest you so it takes you awhile to even apply for any… mostly getting fired after the first week or so because you end up showing late all the time.

You’re left wondering what to do when you come across a website of camboys and camgirls. Some of them show full nudity while others stay dressed for the most part.

It intrigues you enough but you don’t do it without running it through your members. They’re mostly shocked you even want to do that… but other than that, they just tell you to not speak and wear a mask.

Easy peasy. You chose a simple and almost silly name, “Shy Usagi” since your mask resembled a rabbit.

The first stream is awkward, you had to figure out a way to talk. Surprisingly, a few of the people that dropped in were intrigued by your refusal to talk. You had expected them to immediately want you naked but it seemed you attracted people that liked the teasing aspect of camboys.

Though you were 99% sure it was only men watching you. The first few weeks, you only wore skimpy clothing and did anything they requested. The most sexual thing you did was suck a dildo.

Occasionally you’d masturbate on live and that would always garner more attention. But there was always one person who would tip you no matter the stream.

“Hitachikoi”

You were sure he was probably an old man but you didn’t care, money was money. He knew how to flirt so you never felt weirded out with his attention.

Things were going reasonably well until after your group’s performance at a little festival. You had spilt away for a second to look around when you bumped into someone. He had his face covered with a mask and baseball cap.

You were going to apologize and go about your way when you caught that he was holding a poster of your group. He didn’t say anything as he simply held up a marker.

It took a second before you finally realized what he wanted. “Oh! Sure.” You were a bit excited, having never really signed anything before. Your signature was a bit messy but still legible.

“Here you go, thanks for coming to see us!”

“I only came to see you.”

“Hm?” You leaned in closer, wondering if you had heard him right. Only you?

The man let out a laugh as he reached up and pulled down his mask, leaning down so you could get a clear look at his face. “Mhm. Only you… (Name)… or ah,”

His hand reached up and cupped your face, his thumb pressing on your bottom lip. It was only when he pulled off his cap that you got a good look at his face.

He… he wasn’t some random guy. He was a famous actor… a famous actor knew about you?

“Shy Usagi? It’s nice to see your entire face… that mask never hid your lips.”

You could stare as he pushed his thumb into your mouth. The only thing you were thinking of was if he was about to ruin your career before it even took off? But why would he care? Why was he even—

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. Someone like you isn’t made to think so hard,” he said, a slight frown on his lips. “I just, well I got tired of watching behind a screen. I wanted to touch you…”

His other hand moved to rest on your hip, pulling you closer as he pressed his lips against your ear.

“To be inside of you instead of that dildo… I mean, I’m paying you so much money, it’s only fair I get to have you, right? Mhm? I can have you, yea? I’ve thought of fucking your mouth for days now.”

“(Name)! Where are you?”

He pulled away, rolling his eyes. You only watched as he slipped back on his mask and cap, pulling your shirt back down. “You’ll stream tonight.” He said, as if he was giving you an order, not asking.

“I’ll see you tonight, baby. Wear something red tonight… that’s my favorite color.”

With that he left you standing there, mouth agape just as one of your members walked over to you.

You… were so fucking screwed.

In more ways than one.

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @secretivemessenger @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @tehyunnie @remdayz @cherry-blossoms-187 @tomoeroi @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @smellwell @iwishtobeacrow @euthymiko @rhetorical-conscience @mooncarvers-world @love-kha1 @anchoredphoenix @yuzuukix @bensontrechic

I already made a face claim lol.



[niennanir]

Listen to your elders

So last week I posted abut the importance of downloading your fic. And then three days later AO3 went down for 24 hours. No one was more weirded out by this than I was. But while y’all were acting like the library at Alexandria was on fire I was reading my download fic and editing chapter eight of Buck, Rogers, and the 21st Century. And also thinking about what I could do to be helpful when the crisis was actually over.

So first off, I’m going to repeat that if you’re going to bookmark a fic, you really need to also download the fic and back it up in a safe place. I just do it automatically now and it’s a good habit to get into.

But let’s talk about some other scenarios. Last October I lost power for over a week after hurricane Ian. Apart from not having internet or A/C I did find plenty to do, I collect books so I had plenty to read, but maybe, unlike me, your favorite comfort reads aren’t sitting on a bookshelf. So let’s do something about that, shall we?

In olden times many long years ago around 1995 we printed off a lot of fic. It was mostly SOP to print a fic you planned to reread and stick it in a three ring binder. And that’s totally valid today too, but you can also make a very nice paperback with a minimum amount of skill and materials.

Let’s start with the download; Go to Ao3 and select your fic, we’ll be working with one of mine. This method works best with one shots, long fic tends to need a more complicated approach. Get yourself an HTML download

Open up the HTML download and select all then copy paste into any word processor. Set the page to landscape and two columns, then change the font to something you find easy to read, this is your book, no judgement. This is all you have to do for layout but I like to play a little bit. I move all the meta, summary, notes to the end and pick out a fun font for the title: 

No time like the present to do a quick proofread. Congratulations, you’ve just created your first typeset. On to the fun part.

Now you’re going to need some materials:  8.5x11in paper ruler one sheet of 12x12 medium card stock (60-80lb) scissors pencil pen or fine tip marker sheet of wax paper white glue two binder clips 2 heavy books or 1 brick butter knife

You’ll also need a printer, if you’re in the US there is almost a 100% chance your local library has a printer you can use if you don’t have your own. None of these materials are expensive and you can literally use cheap copy paper and Elmers glue.

Print your text block, one page per side. Fold the first page in half so that the blank side is inside and the printed side out:

use the butter knife to crease the edge. Repeat on all the sheets. When you’ve finished, stack them up with the raw edge on the left and the folded edge on the right. I used standard copy paper, because you’re only printing on one side there’s no bleed to worry about. Take the text block and line everything up. Use the binder clips to hold the raw edge in place.

Wrap the text block in the wax paper so that the raw edge and binder clips are facing out. I’m going to use my home built book press but you don’t need one, a brick or a couple of books or anything else heavy will work fine.

Once the text block is anchored down, take off he binder clips and get out the glue.

You can use a brush but you don’t need one, smear some glue on that raw edge.

Go make a margarita, watch The Mandalorian, call your mother. Don’t come back for at least an hour

In an hour smear some more glue on there and shift your brick forward so that the whole book is covered. This keeps the paper from warping. While glue part 2 is drying we’ll do the cover. Get out your 12x12 cardstock

Mark the cardstock off at 8.5 inches and cut it. Measure in 5.5 inches from the left and put in a score line with the butter knife (the back edge not the sharp edge)

Carefully fold the score line, this is your front cover. You have some options for the cover title, you can use a cutting machine like a cricut if you have one, you can print out a title on the computer and use carbon paper to transfer the text to the cardstock. I was in a mood so I just freehanded that beoch. Pencil first then in pen.

Take your text block out from under your brick. Line it up against the score mark and mark the second score on the other side of the spine

Fold the score and glue the textblock into the cover at the spine. Once the glue dries up mark the back cover with the pencil and then trim the back cover to fit with your scissors.

Voila:

I’m going to put this baby on the shelf next to the Silmarillion.

The whole process, not counting drying time, took less than an hour.

If you want to make a book of a longer fic, I recommend Renegade Publishing, they have a ton of resources for fan-binders. 

[cultkinkcoven]

Super easy and cheap devotional acts for beginners.

A nice cup and some clean, fresh, water on the altar can often be all you need for daily offerings

Grow a plant on your altar, use your weekly watering as a devotional act. Hermes is currently helping my peace lily grow :)

Draw their sigil on your nails and then paint over them with nail polish that matches their color correspondences.

If you can’t acquire alcohol for your deities (wine, vodka etc) because you’re too young, white vinegar also works. The quality we’re looking for is the purification aspect. White vinegar is natural, antibacterial and never goes bad. You can leave it on your altar until it evaporates if you want.

If you work with a deity involved with self love like Aphrodite, investing a little more time into your skin care and scent can be very rewarding. Nothing super boujie, it can be as simple as getting some nice smelling lotion at the dollar store.

Food and water offerings don’t have to be external, especially if you’re in the broom closet and don’t have an altar. Reserve the first bite of your meal for your deity. Savour its taste while you think about them. Pour yourself a crisp glass of cold water and guzzle it as a devotional act.

Use a washable or dry erase marker to draw sigils on your shower wall for bath rituals. It’ll come right off when you’re done.

Tea bags are just bags of dried herbs. You can use these as offerings or draw sigils on them and burn them for witchcraft. No one is ever suspicious about a little tea. Adding a tea bag to your water offerings also gives them an extra kick.

A couple dollars at the thrift store will take you a long way. I love thrifting items because they’re usually well loved. I especially like thrifting spirituality books that past practitioners have written in. Sometimes my deities communicate with me through the books that are available on any given day. If I was just talking to Leviathan about the power of water and I see a book about Hydromancy, I know that he’s sending me a sign. Like, 90% of the books Lucifer has sent me popped up at the thrift store. Most expensive one was $7.99. (and I tag swapped it for 2.99 😊 thanks, Hermes-

and on this note, literally steal. Not from small local thrift stores, but I mean this with my whole chest, steal from Value Village. If you can sneakily swap a tag and get something for cheaper literally do it. Value Village gets all their inventory for free I literally do not care. Corporate thrift stores don’t deserve rights. I steal from Value Village as a devotional act to Hermes 😊 lmao )

If you don’t have money to spend on really nice paintings and posters of your deities for your altar, start buying books about them. It’s a double win. A book about Greek religion will certainly have multiple beautiful sculptures and paintings of Aphrodite that I can cut out and put on my wall. A book about angels might have a cool painting of Lucifer. Books about Goddesses, ancient religions, anthropology, astrology etc. You get the opportunity to learn, and if it’s a book you don’t particularly care too much for, you can take it apart for imagery. People ask me all the time where I got all of my paintings and pictures from. BOOKS.

Does your deity have a kind of complicated sigil that you love but you also kinda hate redrawing every other day? Sorry Cerberus (Naberius) I love you but that sigil is so complicated babe.

Learn how to block print! It’s very simple. You get a block of linoleum (usually pretty cheap, I think mine were like $5) , some ink (~$10), and a carving tool (varies depending), and make a sigil stamp! All you gotta do is draw your sigil and carve it out nicely one time. You can still bless it and imbue it with your energy, and you can easily put it on prayers, talismans etc.

Chalk is your best friend. Use it to draw sigils on the floor or wall that can easily be wiped away. You can imbue special chalk and use it for casting circles if you don’t like the mess of salt.

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 2: Piercings and Puns

“Pleeaaasse?” Johnny whines, pressing his hands together and giving you the biggest, sparkliest puppy dog look you could imagine.

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please! My two o’clock cancelled an’ I’m so bored!” He flops over the counter, arms dangling right above the appointment books. You pointedly ignore the size of his biceps.

“I’m not letting you pierce me just because you’re bored.” You scoff. “Now shoo, Simon’s got an appointment coming in soon.”

“But ye barely have any!” He argues. “All I’m askin’ fer is a wee ear. No’ even a nipple!”

A shocked amalgamation of a bark, laugh, and scoff forces it’s way out of you at that. “It’s still a no!”

Johnny groans, but at least moves away from the counter. Unfortunately, he takes the opportunity to circle around behind you, pinching the cartilage of your ear. “C’mon, ol’ righty’s beggin’ fer a conch.”

The intercom buzzes before you can respond. You swat Johnny away with one hand while pressing the speaker button with the other. “Hello?”

“I’ve go’ an appointment with Ghost.” A man’s voice drifts through. You blink dumbly for half a moment. You still haven’t gotten used to Simon’s social media and booking moniker - he doesn’t like giving his real name out much, apparently.

You buzz him in. Johnny is still hanging around the desk even when you leave to get Simon - making your way down the shirt hall to his studio. The large man stands in front of his stencil maker, back turned to you.

You knock on his door frame quietly. “Your guy’s here.”

“Be out in a moment.” He mumbles, focused on whatever he’s doing. You don’t really know the steps by heart, but you do know that there’s something so special about watching artists perform this repetitive song and dance. This rhythm they know by heart. Skilled hands enacting each step with careful precision.

He’s so hard to read. Big and bulky but calm as the night sea. You want him to like you, but you know badgering him certainly won’t get you there. So, you turn on your heal and head back out. When you return to the front, Johnny’s disappeared back into his room.

You suck your teeth and lean back in the desk chair, rolling your earlobe between your thumb and index finger. It’s not a bad offer, really. You only have two earlobe piercings on each side. Wouldn’t hurt to add a helix… you’ve also wanted to get your thirds done for a while. Work your way up. You glance at the clock. Simon won’t be done with his client for at least an hour or so, and you’ve balanced the registers for the moment. Both Kyle and John are out today, so they won’t need anything.

It wouldn’t hurt… well, not metaphorically.

With a sigh you stand, wandering your way to Johnny’s space. The door’s wide open, and his head snaps up the moment you step close like a sixth sense. “Takin’ me up on my offer, bonnie?”

You roll your eyes. “Guess I am.”

“Whit d’ye want?” Johnny practically skips around his station, pulling out wrapped, sanitized tools and placing them on a rolling tray. He pats the center of the padded table in the middle of the room.

“Uh, been wanting to do my thirds for a while.” You shrug. “If you have time for two.”

“Och, I’ve got all the time in the world fer ye, hen.” Johnny grins, pulling up in front of you and grabbing a marker.

He’s so close as he places the marks on your ears, warm fingers feeling for the best spots. A thumb traces the back of your left ear down just to the beginning of your jaw briefly. Fuck, he smells good. Warm musk with hints of citrus around the edges. The way he tucks your hair back, hands framing your face as he lines up the dots, is so oddly intimate compared to the other times you’ve gotten pierced. He chews at his lip in concentration, pulling at the scar on his chin while turning your head back forth a couple times.

“Think I’ve got it.” He grins and steps back. “Have a look.”

You take the mirror, casually checking but not paying too much attention. You trust him to do right by you. “Looks good.”

“A’right. Now the fun part.” He grins, tearing open the pack of tools and a two new needles.

“Is this fun?” You frown, squirming a little at the size of the needle.

“It’s always fun t’poke a pretty girl.”

You roll your eyes, a growing theme between you two it seems. “Oh, you thought that was real clever, didn’t you? Had that in your pocket a while?”

“Why donnae ye reach in an‘ check?” He murmurs, leaning close to clamp your left ear. You’re half tempted to tell him it’s mean to tease a fat girl like this - but you don’t think he means anything like that by it. He’s just a flirt by nature.

Before you can answer, he shoves the needle through your ear. You stiffen, a strained noise bubbling up out of your throat.

Johnny coos as he slips the earring into your ear. “One doon.”

“Uh-huh.” You sniffle. Not that it hurts badly, just a basic physical reaction. Johnny still gives you an empathetic smile.

The second goes quicker, Johnny locked in on his work. It’s interesting, seeing how intense they get. You Is it odd to wish someone would look at you like that? With that much focus and passion?

“There ye go…good girl.” He murmurs in that deep rumble that would have you squirming if you didn’t still have a needle through your ear. “Doin’ so good f’me...”

“You’re a devil, MacTavish.”

Johnny just chuckles, knowing full well exactly what he’s doing. He steps back to look at the final result after slipping the second stud into your ear. They feel hot - like two small ovens on either side of your head.

“If it weren’t for the piercings I’d think ye were blushing, hen.”

“You’re gonna get yourself slapped one of these days.” You scoff, sliding off the table.

“Wouldnnae be the first time.”

You find yourself rolling your eyes for the millionth time.

You grunt, squatting low in an attempt to pick the last of the parlor trash. It’s not that you mind, trash was part of your duties from the start, but holy shit do these boys put bricks in their bins? You’d think tattoos would make light trash. Especially after the sharps are disposed of separately.

“Solid?” Simon appears in the hall, eyes flicking over you. You still can’t tell how he feels about you. Neutral, you suppose. At least that’s all you can glean from behind his seemingly permanent black surgical mask.

“Ya.” You sigh, letting the bag drop and leaning back to stretch. “Just heavy. Swear y’all aren’t throwing rocks in these just to fuck with me?”

You give him a grin. Simon just cocks an eyebrow - exaggerated by the small piercing lining it. You think, maybe the slight shaking of his shoulder is a laugh. In combination won’t he crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Maybe not.

“‘ere.” Simon grunts, closing the short distance between you quickly before snatching up the bag like it weighs almost nothing.

You stutter, following after him toward the back exit. “You don’t have to-“

“Not a problem.” He grunts, tossing the thing over the side of the bin. He quietly leads you back inside, locking the door behind you “Johnny go’ you already?”

When you frown in confusion he points to his ears.

“Oh! Yeah.” You shrug, leading the way back to front desk to finish up your closing duties. “He’s insistent. I’d wanted them for a while anyway so I figured there’s no harm.”

“Give ‘im an inch...” He sighs, pointing to the black bar bridge piercing at the apex of his nose. “Somehow talked me into this shite.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah? I think it suits you.”

It really does. You can’t see most of his nose form under the mask but the arc of it leading up to bridge is strong, the piercing settling into the space nicely.

Simon breaks the silence. “You about done?”

“Almost. Just gotta check the ATM against the book real quick.” You nod.

He stares down at you for a moment, glancing out the semi-opaque window, now black with the night sky. There aren’t many street lamps on this side of town. You can only see a very faint glow from the one down by the car park.

“I’ll wait.” Simon settles his wide frame into Kyle’s usual chair.

“Oh! No you don’t have to! I’m sure you’re tired-“

“Wouldn’t feel right leavin’ you alone in the dark.” He cuts you off.

“It’s not a far walk-“

He scoffs. “Definitely not leaving you to walk alone.”

You sink your teeth into your lip, debating briefly on arguing. Based on his comfortable lean and crossed arms, it’s probably best to just let him walk you home. He looks so wide like that, veins prominent across his forearms. Fuck, you gotta find a boyfriend or booty call or something in this city. Anything to stop the temptation to stare at your hot coworkers.

It doesn’t take long to finish up your final chores. You turn all but one light off, wiring down from the bright overheads glaring at you all day. You glance over at Simon a few times while locking up the ATM, his covered face lit up by the light of his phone.

He leads you out of the shop once you’re finished, locking the door behind you and trying it a couple times to be sure. “Which way?”

“Uh, down here. It’s only twenty minutes.” You murmur, feeling guilty that you’ve kept him out extra late. You shove your hands in your hoodie pockets as you walk, the only sound on the street made up of your footsteps and some distant cars.

“What falls but never gets hurt?” Simon asks suddenly.

You frown. “Huh?”

“What falls but never gets hurt?”

You squint at him, trying to decipher anything from his face in the low light. You get nothing but a calm, warm gaze resting on you.

His eyes crinkle in the corners again. “Rain.”

“Pffft-“ You choke, caught off guard. “That’s such a lame pun.”

“Oh? I’ve got a better one.” Simon says, a smirk in his tone. “Why’d the mother clam scold her children?”

You chew your lip. God, you’re too literal to be clever enough for stupid puns and riddles. It doesn’t help that your head is spinning from this brick shithouse, incredibly attractive and intimidating man spitting popsicle puns at you.

“They were being shellfish.”

“Oh fuck off!” You shove at his arm playfully without thinking. He gives, let’s you push him slightly before you stiffen. “S-sorry! I don’t-“

“Nothin’ to apologize for.” The corners of his eyes crinkle deeper. Yeah, definitely a smile. You answer it with one of your own.

[dokyumms]

eyes on you

pairing: ot13 x fem!14thmember!reader

genre: angst, fluff

word count: 1.4k

cw: brief violence (album is thrown at reader), carats are mean to reader 😔, cursing, nightmares, protective svt ?, carat calls svt “oppa” and it’s the cringiest line i’ve ever written.

a/n: been getting some requests for 14th member reader so here yall go! couldn't find a good pic for this theme so just enjoy the winter photo lolol, have no idea if relationship between svt and reader is platonic or not so it's up to interpretation... i don't know if i like this or not....

fan signs were usually fun.

key word: usually. you really did enjoy interacting with fans, playing with toy guns and whatever props you were given, but there was just one thing that would always happen.

it was normally something small, just a weird look or an obvious difference in the mood of a fan when they'd get to you, but no matter what it was, it was always noticeable.

you were used to it by now, the hate that came with being the only female member of the group. thankfully, it'd died down since debut, and over time, you learned how to ignore the comments. the members were your family, and you were theirs, why should people online dictate how you live your life?

however, there was always something different about when it happened in person. maybe it was the way you could see the joy in their face drain at the sight of you or how someone would look at you as if you had hurt them. you didn't know, but just that coming from one person would keep you awake for nights, no matter how many fans you met after.

but maybe today would be different, or at least that's what you told yourself as you sat down between vernon and minghao earlier that morning. these two were some of the calmest members of the group, so surely someone wouldn't dare to piss them off by insulting you, right?

well, just about half an hour in, a girl shoved an album before you. you had your hands out in front of you, just fidgeting around while you waited for minghao to finish up with her before she nearly knocked out your fingers.

you were taken aback a little, but you gave her the benefit of the doubt and didn't react to it, just greeting her as usual. looking down at the album, you read the name written on a sticky note. "your name is gaeun? how pretty," you commented, uncapping your marker to sign the album when she stopped you.

"don't." she warned sternly, grabbing ahold of your wrist. you tried to retract it, looking around for help, but to your dismay, the venue seemed to be understaffed. there were only two managers to help out, and they both happened to be at the very ends of the table, slowly making their way down the row as if they have all the time in the world.

you looked back at her. “i’m sorry?” you said, trying to figure out what was going on, but she didn’t budge. “okay, okay, i’m not going to sign it.” you backed off, holding your other hand up in surrender.

“good. i don’t need your nasty hands on it either. give it back!” she snapped, snatching back the album as if she hadn’t been the one to place it in front of you. the noise garnered the attention of minghao, who looked at her before turning his head toward you.

he raised an eyebrow, confused, but you shook your head. nothing was wrong, just some weirdly aggressive hater. what was new?

then the girl, or gaeun now that you knew her name, all of the sudden lit up at the sudden glance from minghao. “ohh oppa~ there’s nothing to worry about! you look so handsome today~” she cooed.

you could see him try to keep a neutral facial expression as you held back laughter yourself. he nodded awkwardly before turning his attention back to the person in front of him. honestly, you were unsure of what to do now. the other fans you had come across before may not have liked you, but they at least let you sign their albums.

thankfully, there shouldn't be much time before the fans have to switch members, so you just kept yourself occupied by eavesdropping on the conversation vernon and the girl in front of him were having. clearly, yours didn't want anything to do with you.

"come on, entertain me, bitch."

your head snapped back at her, noticing the two members beside you do the same as you gave her a puzzled look. she didn't seem to notice them, though, fully focused on you.

"what are you just staring at me for? you can't do your one job? no wonder so many people hate-"

"don't. don't you dare say another word to her."

you turned toward the voice, quite shocked to find the owner of it to be vernon out of all people. he and minghao both glared at the girl, filling the room with silent tension.

by now, the timer had went off, meaning it was time to switch members, but the girl wouldn't move, causing a line of people to form to the side of her. the managers made their way toward her to stop the delay, and now most of the members' attention was on you and her.

"god, you're pathetic," she scoffed, ignoring vernon's warning and the amount of stares directed at her. she made a quick glance at the managers, and as some sort of 'last laugh' before she got kicked out of the venue, she chucked the album- straight at your face.

by some miracle, yet slow reflexes, you managed to avoid getting poked in the eye, taking a hit to the temple instead. it's quiet for a couple of seconds, then all chaos commences. fans were yelling, probably at the girl as the managers practically dragged her away, and the members started to stand up and crowd around you.

before she was fully dragged out, the girl mouthed something at you, but you really couldn’t make sense of it right now.

this hadn't happened recently, the last incident being when someone shoved an album at joshua a couple years ago. and since then, pledis had put out strict warning about it, so it was even more shocking that someone had done it again.

you turned away from the audience, attempting to conceal yourself as you shut your eyes at the pain that began to spread from your head. voices overlapped over one another until you felt someone pull you into a warm embrace, hands falling onto your ears.

finally, all the noise seemed to die down. you opened your eyes, curious as to who was holding you.

joshua smiled as you met his eyes; his hands fell to your shoulders.

“hey, it’s okay, they’re moving everyone out of the venue. we’re not going to finish the fan sign.” he explained assuringly, but the comment sort of made you embarrassed. maybe if you took care of the situation better, everyone wouldn’t have had to leave.

you were frustrated, upset, scared, all of the above. you hated that someone disliked you so much to the point that this would even happen. why did so many people have a problem with you, and only you?

but there was one thing bothering you the most, something that kept your heart racing. deciding that you didn't need everyone worrying about you again, you kept your mouth shut as the managers came back and announced that you all were done for the day.

but that night, you dreamt of it.

you were at the fan sign, living through all the moments again. the girl is dragged away as she mouths to you,

"next time, i won't miss."

you couldn't move, frozen in fear as she began to laugh hysterically.

"y/n? y/n, wake up."

seungcheol shook you awake, stepping back when you yelped. "it's okay, you were having a nightmare." he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking your hair. "what was it about?"

trying to move on from the conversation, you said that it was just about what had happened earlier, but he stopped you.

"you were saying something, though. you kept repeating 'no', y/n, did something else happen?"

oh, you had no idea that happened, and now you were stuck. taking your hesitance as an answer, he took your hand into his.

"y/n, you can tell me. i don't want you to be scared anymore, okay?"

you sighed, giving in and telling him about the threat the girl made. his eyebrows furrowed as you explained it. truly, there was nothing the two of you could do about it, and it made him frustrated.

"it's fine, though. it was a shallow threat anyway, i don't know why i was so scared."

"no, it's not fine," seungcheol argued, pulling you into a tight hug.

"i promise you, i won't let anything happen to you. never again."

[lcvecove]

៹࣪ ៸៸ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄’𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐀𝐓 ꒱꒱

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 what I think attending a race weekend with your f1 boyfriend would be like . . .

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕. fem!reader. just fluff. maybe some suggestive dialogue. flirting. 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕. charles leclerc , lando norris , carlos sainz , lewis hamilton , oscar piastri , pierre gasly . . .

ೀ ⋆ 𝒄harles 𝒍eclerc

he insists you wear some of his ferrari merch or the stuff he knows the team sent you. if you show up in a non-ferrari outfit, he’ll pout until you cave. he loves all your outfits and thinks you’re the most beautiful girl no matter what you wear but he needs his girl in red on race weekend.

you’d be standing with the team, chatting with someone from hospitality in a black skirt and cute top, and as soon as he spots you, it’s all, “where’s the red baby? no jacket today? not even the cap?”

and he’s half-joking but also not.

so you’d roll your eyes, dig through your tote bag, and throw his hoodie on and immediately he’s satisfied.

he’ll secretly take pictures of you when you’re not looking. wearing his oversized windbreaker with sunglasses on, sitting in the back of the garage like a damn queen, and saves them in a hidden album titled “mon ange.” most of your insta pics from race weekend if from this folder (if he feels generous enough to share them with the rest of the world and not gatekeep them)

and when a fan posts a blurry picture of you two holding hands post-quali and captions it “power couple in red,” he sends it to you with a heart and a “we look good, non? i love when we match outfits”

he totally gets all soft and boyish whenever you’re in team gear. like you’re his little good luck charm in red.

charles isn’t really big on pda at the paddock, but his hand always finds yours when you’re walking together. pinkies linked, fingers brushing. he makes sure you’re close to him and can keep up while walking into the chaos of the weekend.

when you attend he has to kiss you before every practice/quali/race. right cheek, left cheek, forehead. it’s a thing. can so see this being filmed by someone and it blows up cause everyone just thinks it’s the cutest thing. pierre commenting “he never kisses me like this before a race😒” and charles responding with “it’s wifey privileges😇”

he writes your initials on the inside of his gloves in marker. it’s not a big thing, no one knows but you and him. but before every race, he looks down at them and kisses them.

if a commentator ever tries to stir drama about your presence being a “distraction” charles shuts that shit down instantly. “she’s my calm. not a distraction. if anything, I drive better when she’s here.”

late night after race day, when it’s all over and he’s showered and in a hoodie with damp hair, he pulls you into his lap and murmurs, “I like this part the best. just us. no cameras. no noise.”

ೀ ⋆ 𝒍ando 𝒏orris

lando would try to be lowkey about you coming to the race but he would fail miserably because he just looks so much more happy and excited and everyone wants to know what’s going on that has him in this good of a mood until eventually they see you walk into the paddock on saturday and everything makes sense all of a sudden.

if you wear his number on your outfit (especially in a subtle, fashion-y way), he will always post it on his story. a close up pic of your shoulder with the little ‘4’peeking out and the caption: “best looking fan in the paddock”

lando loves loves loves a pre-race nap with you. he’s so clingy about it. burrito’d in the duvet, face smushed into your neck, hair all messy, mumbles like, “don’t leave. you have to stay until my alarm. it’s science”

hates all the attention he’s getting from everyone but with you there it’s a little more bearable.

if the race doesn’t go as planned, he goes straight to his driver room and you’d be unsure what to do at first, choosing to give him some space but he texts you and tells you to come to him.

and the two of you just stay in there for a bit. cuddled up together. you’re not saying anything, not trying to make him feel better, just letting him be whatever he needs to be for a bit.

“you still proud of me?” he’d mumble after a while and when you answer with a reassuring “always” he already feels ten times better

loves that you get on with the rest of the grid’s girlfriends so much but is such a little baby about not having all your attention on him

“we have to do something about all our girls sneaking around to see each other man. we’re losing them. they’ve unionized. she said ‘I’ll meet you after quali’ and then disappeared into wag dimension” he’d complain to the guys at the drivers parade

“what? you upset that she’d rather hang out with the girls than give you back rubs?” carlos teases and lando shrugs “yes actually”

he’s a slut for forehead kisses before he gets in the car. will literally lean down and go, “give me the magic touch,” and tilt his head like a puppy until you do it.

ೀ ⋆ 𝒄arlos 𝒔ainz

carlos constantly thinks you’re hungry. doesn’t matter if you just ate. if he walks into hospitality and sees you without a snack or drink in hand, he’s immediately like, “did you eat? what did you have? that’s not enough. I’ll get you something”

he keeps an extra water bottle on hand just for you. even on race day when he has a million things going on, he’ll pause and be like, “drink some water, mi amor. It’s hot today”

so protective in the paddock. always walks a little in front of you to shield you from cameras, media, random people rushing around.

one time a cameraman brushed your shoulder trying to squeeze past and you stumbled just slightly. carlos caught your waist immediately, steady and quiet, eyes flicking up with that calm but don’t test me look and muttering a soft “careful” to the man. not rude. not loud. just firm enough to say this is my girl. watch where you’re going.

carlos is a post session cuddler. he showers, throws on a hoodie, and climbs right into bed with his head on your stomach. ‘just for five minutes’ is what he always says but will wake up 40 minutes later and be like, “okay, now I’m ready to go to dinner”

uses you as his personal belongings holder while he races. will put his sunglasses on your head and his watch around your wrist. tell you to, "keep 'em safe for me 'til I come back okay?" with a kiss to your head before he jumps in the car.

will make you have little ‘taste tests’ with him rating the paddock/hospitality food. you guys have little favourite dishes from countries all over the world.

ೀ ⋆ 𝒍ewis 𝒉amilton

when lewis knows you’re attending a race with him, he makes sure the team knows so you get VIP treatment the whole weekend.

right there next to his crew, there’s a sleek black seat with your name stitched into the back and next to it is a smaller seat for roscoe. you and roscoe chill next to each other and cheer him on together.

someone will come up to you every thirty minutes or so and ask if they can get you anything. will bring you water and your favourite snack unrequested and when you try to protest they’ll just say the boss insisted on it and they’re not about to get on his bad side.

lewis is of course known for his high fashion in the paddock, but he also loves matching outfits with you. not the whole thing maybe, you both have your seperate tastes and styles but maybe you’ll always colour code. or wear the same sneakers! and roscoe will have the same colour bow tie or jacket or something.

when lewis has braids done, he’ll sometimes ask you to tie them back for him before he heads to the car or during race weekends. it’s such a sweet moment because, while he’s incredibly independent and most of his race rituals are isolated, he enjoys having that little moment with you before things get hectic. it’s something personal and intimate.

similar to carlos he’ll have you hold his accessories. put his chain around your neck and his rings on your fingers until he’s done racing.

there are so many pics/vids of the two of you on lewis’ scooter just zooming around in the paddock. nearly running over people or one of you falling off and laughing. you guys will do the ‘track walk’ on the scooter and maybe he’ll let you control it. make jokes about you’re racing skills. “aw you went outside track limits there baby, gonna get us a penalty” he’d tease with a kiss against your head.

likes it when you drive to the track cause he’s gonna be driving all weekend and it’s nice to just shut his brain off a little before the hectic day starts.

has you name tattooed on his chest right over his heart and your name on his helmet.

ೀ ⋆ 𝒐scar 𝒑iastri

this boy loses you constantly over the weekend😭 let’s blame it on you a tiny bit for just being so interested in everything that you walk a bit slowly sometimes or your attention gets caught and you’ll stop for a split second and when oscar turns to look at you, you’re gone.

half of his netflix clips are just ‘man I lost my girlfriend again. I never know where this girl is’

it’s become a bit of a running joke in the mclaren garage cause oscar will poke his head in every room and be like ‘have you seen my gf?’ the crew starts putting up reward flyers for when you’re found

but this is how his little handholding habit started. he constantly reaches for your hand or loops his finger in your belt loop to ensure the two of you don’t wander away from one another.

can see you losing your lipgloss once in the paddock and ever since then oscar has gone full airport dad mode every time you leave the paddock. ‘you have your phone? lipgloss? glasses? jacket?’ and will run through the little checklist until he’s sure you have all your possessions.

will make sure the two of you actually spend time together when you’re there. don’t get me wrong he’s 100% focused on racing still, but every free moment he has you guys are watching your show together or playing board games or something. just makes such an effort to actively spend time with you.

the two of you take a photo before every race (if you’re there) it started as a little habit for his mom because she’d always ask for a picture of the two of you over the weekend and since then you just always take a picture and it’s pretty sweet to think you’ll have your memories captured at most races he competes in during his career.

ೀ ⋆ 𝒑ierre 𝒈asly

the #1 reason pierre brings you is so that he has someone to blame when he’s late to events. he’s chronically late as charles exposed and whenever someone calls him he’ll just say he’s waiting on you 😭

like charles calling him before dinner and asking why he’s late and he just goes “my girl takes forever to get ready you know by now” with a wink towards you and a kiss against your palm when you slap him for his antics.

this man is not afraid of pda. arm around your waist, thumb stroking your hip. holding your hand while walking through the paddock. hand on your thigh in the hospitality tent. always touching you in some way. and if anyone chirps him? “what, i’m french. we’re affectionate”

he gives you an important job. pierre claims you’re vital to his race prep, even if it’s just handing him his water bottle or double-checking his suit zipper. “don’t forget to give me my good luck tap, baby. left shoulder, always. if I crash, it’s on you and my mechanics will blame you” he’d tease and even tho he’s just joking he loves how serious and focused you are when you do that left side tap.

he’ll jokingly narrate your every move. walking up to the garage? “and here she comes, the love of my life, looking like a goddess on this sunny grand prix morning” you’re just holding his coffee and shaking your head, but it’s gets filmed and the fans are obsessed with how cute you two are.

©lcvecove — please refrain from copying/taking inspiration/posting any of my content to your blog or any other platform.

[jellyfishsthings]

The Equation of Distraction

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Dick Grayson wasn’t used to competing for attention. Not in the way that actually mattered.

Sure, in the field, he competed with Bruce for control. With Jason, for who could kick in a door with more dramatic flair. With Damian, for sheer stubbornness. But when it came to relationships—real ones, ones with something soft and sacred curled at the center—he had always been attentive. Loving. Present.

So how the hell did he find himself third-wheeling to his own girlfriend, Tim, and a whiteboard full of integrals?

"Okay, stop. Stop right there," you said, stepping between Tim and the tangle of numbers he’d just scrawled. You were wearing one of Dick’s old hoodies, hair twisted into a bun, marker ink on your fingertips.

Tim leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed behind his glasses. "What? That’s the limit of the function as x approaches negative infinity."

"It should be," you said, tapping the board, "but this entire partial fraction decomposition is botched. You factored wrong."

Tim blinked. “I did?”

Dick, sprawled on the living room couch and pretending to read a book, smirked to himself. “Rookie mistake.”

You didn’t look away from the whiteboard. “Grayson, don’t snipe from the peanut gallery unless you want to solve this integral by hand.”

Dick shut his mouth.

Tim looked victorious. Dick glared.

The first time you met the family, you accidentally corrected Bruce on a quantum theory reference.

He had blinked at you.

You had flushed.

Alfred had smiled very faintly into his tea.

Dick, meanwhile, had fallen in love a little harder.

You were brilliant. Not just brilliant, but terrifyingly multidisciplinary brilliant. You knew literature and physics and evolutionary biology, and spoke with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had once gotten into an argument with a professor and emerged victorious.

You didn’t brag. You were just curious. A sponge for information. You asked questions and listened to the answers. And somehow, in a household full of detective minds and vigilante instincts, you were still the smartest person in the room.

So when Tim, swamped with his joint MIT-Gotham U coursework, mentioned offhandedly that he was struggling with differential equations, you offered to help.

Dick hadn’t realized what a tactical error that would be.

Then came Damian.

The kid walked in on one tutoring session, glanced at the diagrams you were sketching, and said, “That’s wrong.”

You turned, brow arched. “Excuse me?”

"The mitosis illustration. You’re using a generalized mammalian model. That isn’t accurate for marsupial chromosomes."

You blinked once. Slowly. “Are you studying marsupial mitosis in school right now?”

Damian scowled. "No. I already completed the human unit. I'm reading ahead."

Tim didn’t even look up. “He’s trying to skip grades again.”

You tapped your pen against the diagram, thinking. Then you shifted a few lines, adjusted a chromatid angle, and said, “There. Better?”

Damian squinted. “Acceptable.”

And that was that.

He joined the study sessions.

Suddenly, Dick’s evenings with you turned into academic triage.

Tim asked about imaginary numbers. Damian demanded enzyme pathways. You, looking entirely unbothered, juggled both while sipping lukewarm tea and wearing your glasses slightly crooked.

It was like watching a goddess of learning hold court.

And Dick? Dick got to sit there, watching you solve everyone else’s problems, while his half-written texts and longing stares went unanswered.

He tried not to pout.

It didn’t work.

The next Friday, Dick walked into the manor living room with takeout and three movies tucked under his arm. He had plans. Cozy night. Cuddles. Maybe make-out session #437.

Instead?

He found you, Tim, and Damian on the floor, surrounded by papers. You had a biology model of a nephron drawn across two pieces of poster board.

Dick stared.

You looked up. "Hey, love. You want to quiz Damian on the loop of Henle while I explain countercurrent multiplication?"

He dropped the takeout. "Absolutely not."

You blinked.

Tim smirked. Damian looked smug.

Dick folded his arms. “Babe, I love you. But I am not quizzing a fourteen-year-old on renal function on a Friday night.”

"Fifteen," Damian muttered.

You smiled sweetly. "We’ll be done soon. I promise."

Dick sulked off into the kitchen.

Alfred found him twenty minutes later, brooding into a cup of tea.

"Something the matter, Master Richard?"

Dick sighed. "She's supposed to be my girlfriend, not the tutor of every prodigy in this house."

Alfred didn’t flinch. "You are, perhaps, experiencing what Master Timothy and Master Damian have often felt about you."

Dick blinked. "What?"

"You have a history of... commanding attention."

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. "Damn it."

Alfred handed him a second cup. "Jealousy, in moderation, is a sign of attachment. I suggest you redirect it.”

Dick took a breath. Sipped. Nodded.

Then promptly marched back into the living room.

"Alright, nerds. Move over."

You glanced up, amused. "Joining us after all?"

He plopped down beside you, tugging you into his lap. “No, I’m kidnapping my girlfriend."

Tim: “Rude.”

Damian: “Good riddance.”

Dick ignored them. Nuzzled into your neck. "Tell the mitochondria to wait."

You laughed. Warm and real. "That was biology. We're doing organ systems now."

"Whatever it is, it can survive without you for one hour."

You looked at him, eyes soft. "Are you jealous, Nightwing?"

"Me? Jealous? Never. Just asserting my dibs."

Tim made a gagging noise. Damian threw a pen.

You kissed him.

The study session ended shortly after.

And if Dick helped grade practice tests with glitter pens the next day just to feel useful? Well. No one had the heart to mention it.

Not even Tim.

(Okay, Tim did take a picture. But he sent it only to Kon, and Dick pretended not to notice.)

Eventually, things settled.

Tutoring became once a week. You started leaving time just for Dick. You told him how much you loved his patience, how good he was with his family, how your favorite part of the week was still movie night with him.

You even let him teach you something, once—acrobatics, on the mats in the cave. You fell on your ass laughing, legs tangled with his, and kissed him like you didn’t need textbooks to understand what you had.

And for once, Dick Grayson didn’t mind not being the smartest person in the room.

Not when he got to be yours.

[dozybeez]

Spin For Me (Pt. One)

She’s the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He’s the campus heartthrob who’s used to getting what he wants—except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part two

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 2.3k

content warnings: slowish burn, eventual smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I’m a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones

- Robbers by The 1975

- That Funny Feeling by Phoebe Bridgers

The lecture hall smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and cheap coffee. It buzzed with that mid-semester kind of tired—hoodies tugged over faces, headphones in, eyes on the clock instead of the slides.

You weren’t invisible.

Not in the way people usually meant it.

You were seen—just misread. Easily boxed in, easily ignored. In lecture halls filled with raised hands and loud, overconfident voices, you were the person in the back row with your hood pulled over your ears, black flats tapping lightly against the floor while you took neat, quiet notes.

No one looked twice. And if they did, it was only to borrow a pen.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

Until Kim Mingyu walked into class ten minutes late.

The door swung open like he owned the place. Sunglasses perched on his nose despite the cloudy forecast and a white tee stretched across his chest like it was tailored just to show off how broad and well-built he was. That half-grin had made him the most followed student on campus—15K and counting. He had a height that forced anyone to lean around him just to see the board whenever he was in a row in front of them. He gave the professor a lazy nod and ignored the dozen girls who immediately perked up in their seats as he dropped into the chair beside you like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t already trying to disappear.

You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him look at you.

“Group project presentations,” Professor Norris announced, clapping once to pull focus. “Partners are posted. No trades. Don’t ask. You have three months.”

Your stomach sank before you even looked.

A rustle of movement. Groans. Whispers about how unlucky they were not to be matched with Mingyu.

You flipped open your laptop to check the pairing list and whose name resided in the spot next to yours.

Kim, Mingyu

No.

No no no.

You felt him turn toward you the second he saw the same list. You couldn’t even process how he was able to match your name to your face, never having interacted with the campus heartthrob before.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” he said, smiling wide like it was good news.

You didn’t return it. “Great.”

No giggle. No flip of your hair. No “Oh my God, I totally follow you on Insta!” like the girl in front of you had said during the last class lecture. You just stared back at your laptop like you weren’t next to the most popular guy on campus. Like you hadn’t seen his face on flyers, tagged in party pics, or shirtless in more thirst traps than you could count.

Something in your tone made his smile falter—just for a second. But then he laughed like you were kidding, like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

“You free after class?” he asked. “We can talk through a game plan.”

You closed your laptop slowly. “I have work.”

“Okay, then maybe—”

“I’ll email you.”

And with that, you stood, shoved your laptop into your tote, and slipped out the side exit before the rest of the room even processed the assignment.

⸻

Mingyu stared at the empty seat you’d left behind.

It wasn’t that people didn’t say no to him. It happened. Sometimes.

But they didn’t say it like that.

Like they’d already decided who he was.

He scratched the back of his neck, still watching the door you’d walked out of.

⸻

The library study rooms on the second floor were always just a little too warm.

Mingyu tugged his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it onto the empty chair across from him. Underneath, his designer top showed his shoulders too well. He wasn’t trying to show off—well, not really—but he also wasn’t apologizing for it either.

You walked in exactly two minutes late. Oversized black hoodie, hair up in a messy claw clip. Your flats were silent on the tile. You didn’t look at him as you sat down.

You pulled out a worn spiral notebook instead of a laptop. Mingyu blinked. “Going analog?”

“It doesn’t die on me.”

He opened his laptop. “Fair.”

Silence. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“So, uh… should we just start with the topic?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were flipping through the first few pages of your notebook, all neat handwriting and annotated margins. When you finally glanced at him, it was like you’d only just remembered he was there.

“I already picked one,” you said. “You can veto it if you want.”

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Taking charge, huh?”

You stared.

He threw his hands up. “No complaints. What is it?”

“Emotional repression and memory retention.”

Mingyu blinked. “That’s… intense.”

You shrugged. “It’s Psych 3023.”

“I was thinking something lighter. Like social media attachment.”

“You mean influencers?”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a dirty word.”

You didn’t grin back. “Isn’t it?”

Mingyu let out a soft laugh. You were sharper than you looked. He wasn’t used to that. Most people talked to him like he was a golden retriever with a ring light. But you? You looked at him like he was a pop-up ad you didn’t remember clicking on.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go with yours.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

You narrowed your eyes. He noticed—again—how big they were. Soft, doe-like. You blinked twice and looked away, like you were annoyed you’d been caught looking at him at all.

“Fine,” you muttered, uncapping your pen. “We’ll split the research. Half each. Meet again Friday?”

“Works for me,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Your place or mine?”

You looked at him flatly.

“Or the library,” he clarified with a grin.

“You’re not funny.”

“I kinda am.”

You stood before he could finish the thought, already packing your things. “Friday. Four. Don’t be late.”

He watched you walk out again. Same way you had in class—fast, focused, like you couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Mingyu let out a low breath.

He was used to people liking him right away.

But you?

You didn’t just not like him—you looked at him like he was a disappointment you’d already predicted.

And for some reason… that made him want to try harder.

⸻

You had two hours before your shift started. Enough time to switch.

Your dorm room was small and cluttered—textbooks in one corner, a makeup bag you rarely touched sitting unopened on the dresser.

The two-piece was already laid out on your bed. Pale pink, almost childish, with a satin ribbon tying across the back of the top. It looked like it belonged to someone with gum in their mouth and sparkles in their hair.

You pulled it on in silence.

You tied the ribbon. Adjusted the straps. Then you sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the mirror while you tied your notorious soft satin half-mask with little black lace trim.

You blinked slowly at the person staring back.

Fawn blinked back.

⸻

At Club Indigo, Fawn didn’t have to speak unless she wanted to. The lighting was dark—deep cherry reds and pools of purple. You took your time stretching backstage, your body moving to the low pulse of the music already spilling out from the main room.

Your name was on the lineup—third from the top.

You didn’t strip. Never had. You didn’t even give private dances. That was the rule. That was how Fawn stayed safe while working in your college town. Mentally and physically.

You danced.

And when the first notes of Deftones’ “Change (In the House of Flies)” echoed through the room, you stepped onto the stage, barefoot with light delicate steps, and climbed the pole.

Above the noise and lights and breathless stares, you finally felt in control.

⸻

The library smelled like burnt coffee and printer paper. You were already regretting agreeing to this study session.

Not because of the material—but because Mingyu had an undeniable way of drawing attention just by existing.

The tall ones always did.. and the ones that had faces like Kim Mingyu.

He sauntered into your corner of the library a couple minutes late, hoodie bunched at his elbow, still somehow managing to look like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot. His laptop was tucked under one arm, headphones tangled in his fingers, and two girls from across the room immediately perked up when they saw him.

You pretended not to notice.

He spotted you and smiled, bright and lazy. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, collapsing into the seat beside you. “Had to walk a friend to class.”

You nodded without looking up. “We’re already behind on the lit review.”

“Always so serious,” he muttered, pulling out his charger.

Another girl drifted by your table—a blonde in a tennis skirt who paused, leaned down, and touched Mingyu’s shoulder like she had every right to.

“Hey, you still coming Friday?”

You didn’t look up.

Mingyu glanced at you briefly before answering. “Probably not. Got a thing.”

“A thing?” The girl smiled, tilting her head. “You ditching me again?”

He laughed, low and polite. “Work. Group project.”

She blinked down at you like she hadn’t noticed you until just now. “Oh.”

You just kept typing.

“Good luck then,” the girl said after a moment, her smile fading, before walking away.

Mingyu sighed and leaned closer. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“The plague of being stupidly charming.”

You shot him a deadpan look.

He grinned. “Kidding.”

You didn’t smile, but you also didn’t tell him to shut up. Small victories.

⸻

That night, you sat curled up at your desk, the glow of your laptop the only light in the room.

You’d just finished editing a short pole routine—a slow, eerie clip to “Robbers” by The 1975. Your grip was clean. Your spins, effortless.

You wore a mask in the video, just like always. Your hair swayed over your bare shoulders like curtains.

You uploaded it to your Tumblr. Two hundred thousand followers. Dozens of reblogs in seconds.

You closed the tab before the notes could start piling up.

This part of your life—your secret Tumblr, the masked Fawn, the quiet kind of fame—none of it existed outside of your laptop.

You went to bed in an oversized T-shirt and socks, not checking your phone.

⸻

The study session was, miraculously, productive.

At least until you hit a new section, and you leaned forward to help explain the concept to Mingyu, only to realize Mingyu’s arm was stretched across the back of your chair.

He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close—close enough to be noticeable. He wasn’t even looking at you, just staring at the screen, listening with his brow furrowed like he was genuinely trying.

Still. You scooted half an inch away.

“You always do that?” he asked after a while.

“Do what?”

“Lean away whenever I move.”

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You just did.”

“I just—” You paused, frowning. “You’re tall. You take up space.”

He smiled. “So it’s a spatial issue.”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

A pause.

Then, under his breath, he added, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone so easily flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pink.”

You shut your laptop a little too hard. “We’re done for today.”

⸻

Back in your room that night, you pulled your laptop into your lap, opened a private browser tab, and typed in your Tumblr handle.

Your latest video had almost 60,000 notes. Just you, in your usual black ruffle set, spinning slowly on the pole in a dim-lit studio. The mask covered most of your face, and your hair was down, hiding the rest.

Nothing overtly sexual. Just movement. Art. Mood.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then closed the screen.

⸻

Mingyu liked the campus café in the morning because no one expected him to talk.

He kept his sunglasses on and his hood up as he leaned over the counter. “Two sugars, no cream.”

The barista nodded—she already knew.

He’d barely sat down when the bell above the door jingled again.

You.

You were in your usual morning armor—giant hoodie (navy this time), jeans cuffed at the ankle, and mary janes. A spiral-bound book was hugged to your chest like a shield. You didn’t look around. You didn’t see him.

He almost didn’t say anything.

But then again… almost wasn’t really his style.

“You stalking me?” he asked casually as you approached the counter.

You flinched. Just slightly. Then rolled your eyes. “God, do you live here?”

“Only when I’m hungover or avoiding the gym.”

You ordered tea—no milk, no sugar—paid in exact change, then turned and caught him still watching you.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t peg you as a tea person.”

“And I didn’t peg you as a person who reads.”

Mingyu clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Ouch.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. It was tiny—barely there—but it was the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t a wall.

He tapped the empty chair across from him. “Come on. Sit. We’re supposed to be friends now.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay. Co-researchers?”

You hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t ask about your tragic backstory.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you sat.

You sipped in silence for a while. Outside, campus was already coming alive—groups of girls in tennis skirts, someone skating by with a speaker, a guy on a bike nearly running into a recycling bin. The usual.

Mingyu noticed your eyes flick to a group of laughing students by the window. You looked at them like they were a movie you’d already seen too many times.

“You don’t hang out much, huh?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t like noise.”

“That’s probably why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just don’t like me.”

You met his eyes then. “You’re loud. And everyone’s always looking at you.”

He tilted his head. “And that’s bad because…?”

“It’s not bad,” you said slowly. “It’s just… everything you do seems like it’s for show.”

That caught him off guard.

You went on before he could respond. “You know how some people walk into a room and it feels like they’re trying to win something?”

Mingyu blinked. “You think I’m trying too hard?”

“I think you’re used to being liked,” you said simply. “And when you’re not, it bugs you.”

You picked up your tea and took a sip, calm as ever.

Mingyu just stared. He wasn’t used to being read like that. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

But he was sure of one thing: you saw through people like glass.

And now he was dying to know what else you’d see if you actually looked.

⸻

[moyazaika]

sharing is caring

yandere! childe (genshin impact) x fem! reader

cw; (1.9k wc) darling wears glasses, obsessive + possessive themes, allusions to violence, implied non-con, nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by @lucienbarkbark who was an angel to work with! it's always fun to dive into fanfic so thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so; have fun reading! ♡

the snezhnayan winters are deathly cold, but even then, they are not nearly as chilling as your husband’s ire. 

rarely are you ever the object of his interrogation, but there are those inevitable few moments you’re reminded of how old habits really do die hard—you slip up, in spite of all your best efforts—and hell freezes over.

take, for instance, right now. 

because although his lips curl into something akin to a smile, you know childe far too well to believe this is anything but a deception, returned in favour of your own omissions.

the heat of the nearby fireplace’s flames lick at your feet and are, you recognise, the last remnants of warmth in the room. even the heavy fur coat draped over your shaking shoulders does little to protect you against childe’s blue eyes, cutting into you like shards of dark ice. 

“ajax,” you plead. “i’m—”

“a liar.” childe finishes for you; his voice is deceptively gentle, soft as a lull. it devastates you when he laughs. “you’re a liar, my love.”

he’s got all of your letters in his hands. already, you know you’ve lost. the envelopes have been ripped open and the codes deciphered. how stupid of you to believe you could make a fool of the eleventh harbinger.

the silence that follows; settles down into the space between the two of you, is long and languid. your husband is in no rush to speak, seemingly content in merely taking in the way you’re squirming before him. he is eager, yet impassive, in his appraisal. it’s not the reverent sort you’ve gotten so used to, for there are no sweet nothings whispered against your skin as he lets his eyes linger on the softest parts of you. 

tonight, his observation is more akin to an examination. an analysis, perhaps. like he’s looking for something—finds it, you realise with a sinking feeling, as his gaze snags on your hands, curled up by your sides, and marred by deep, black, ink.

damning markers of your disloyalty. 

instinctively, you let the sleeves of your coat fall past your wrists. it’s a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable, and it makes you feel like nothing more than a guilty little girl having been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. you can’t stand the silence anymore. you really need to just—

archons—

the hair on your skin stands on end when he finally deigns to meet your eyes. beneath the weight of his cold gaze, you think anything would be better than this. it’s difficult not to walk right into the fireplace; lie down amidst the welcoming warmth of the flames that burn so brightly.

“i tried to trust you, y’know? i let you send your family little letters, and i never opened any of them even when all i wanted,” he confesses, “was to tear those pretty envelopes apart. i’ll admit, i even thought about breaking a finger or two a couple of times, did you know that? nothing to post if you can’t write.”

he looks to you for an answer, and it’s all you can do to stare back. he shakes his head, then. “no, no. of course you don’t know. how could you? you thought you had me all figured out.”

you have to force yourself to speak, because the words don’t come easy when you’re on the verge of a meltdown. you don’t even recognise the strangled sound of your own voice. “i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. please don’t hate me.”

“sweetheart,” he chides, fingers pulling the corners of his lips down into a melodramatic frown. “i could never hate you. i’m just, y’know, curious.” he lets his hand fall back to his side, pale mouth splitting into a sharp grin as he takes a step closer. “only wondering where i went wrong with you, that’s all.”

“nowhere. you didn’t.” your eyes are burning, though his are still crystal clear. lucid. sharp. he is immovable. you feel like the yielding force of weightless waters that split apart before a glacier’s path. “it’s all my fault.”

“i thought we put all this behind us. that you’d finally gotten it through your head.” he stalks closer, even steps far too measured to be casual. “imagine my surprise when i read these letters my wife begged me to let her send to her family and, ohh! would you look at that?”

“my little wife,” childe's voice falls completely flat, “thinks she can leave me.”

you cast a quick glance around your bedroom, scanning the space in your immediate vicinity for anything to hold onto. the vacant eyes of porcelain dolls and ornately carved figurines from your favourite novels all stare back at you emptily. a typewriter gathering dust by the windowsill. how it used to delight you at first, filling your monotonous days holed up within the walls of your husband’s prison by decorating it with pretty things.

they’re all useless to you now.

you wonder why childe chose not to cut off your fingers. he should have, you think. then you would never have ended up here. then maybe you would never have had any hope.

but you know the answer to your own question. after all, you’ve known him long enough to understand that childe finds great amusement in the way you still manage to carry that quiet hope within you.

oftentimes, he’ll catch you roaming the halls of this maze-like palace, attempting to mentally chart your way out. and every time he catches up to you, he’ll laugh, and press a kiss to your cheek, as if he knows exactly what you’re up to. as if it’s some sweet, private jest the two of you share.

“please, ajax.” you try again, “tsaritsa’s soul, i never meant to—”

“yeah, yeah. save it, love. there’ll be plenty of opportunities to beg for forgiveness later on.” you know it’s all for show when he pretends to think something over; nothing more than a performance when he suddenly snaps his fingers with an eager grin. “oh, that reminds me! i actually have something i needed to tell you.”

you watch as he thumbs through the stack of opened letters in his hands. you catch glimpses of your familiar scrawl; the desperation painfully obvious in your every etching onto the papers, begging your family to send a saviour, to reach out to the adventurer’s guild or the archons and send a cavalry to come knocking down the doors of the tsaritsa’s palace.

“you’ll love this one, sunshine.“i mean, well, you kinda have to. don’t have much of a choice, huh?”

all of it is a performance. from the ease with which he tosses the envelopes into the fire down to the very cadence of his voice as it takes on a familiar, sickeningly sweet lilt. you know this because you remain acutely aware of the fact that childe knew exactly what he was going to do with you the moment he finished reading those letters.

that doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.

“we’re going to liyue, lovely. i’m going to let you see your family again. i mean, isn’t that so much nicer than sending a letter? we’ll even catch the lantern rite whilst we’re there.” you sink deeper into your furs, stumbling away from him for every step he takes closer. “figured it’d be good for you.”

childe’s voice dips an octave lower, and the curl to his lips is a mockery of the usual smile that sits there just for you. “good for the baby, too.”

“tartaglia.” it’s impossible to see his face through the tears; everything in the room takes on the haze of a distant memory, and you wish, so desperately, that this moment would be over sooner. you could tuck it away within the recesses of your mind and never visit it again. let it be another lesson. “what baby?”

“your mother was overjoyed at the news.” he hums absently, “she said something about your haircut? mentioned already working extra hours to commission new baby clothes.”

your back hits a wall. and finally, with nowhere left to go and no saviour here to help you, childe takes his sweet time in catching up to you; and when he finally does, it’s all you can do to keep your neck painfully craned and looking up at him without falling to your knees.

“aren’t you excited, sweetheart?” he tilts his head, lifts a palm to cup your face. he’s smiling so earnestly, but his eyes are completely dull. you try searching for a sliver of the sunny man childe can sometimes be, and find, in place of the sunshine, the cold rays of light that hit shimmering snow and dissipate into nothing, instead. “finally, a family of our own making. it’ll be nice to go back to liyue, too.”

“i don’t understand.”

“it's simple, my love,” childe’s lithe fingers creep beneath the heavy fur coat you’re wearing. with deft hands, he slides it off your shoulders in one fluid motion. it falls onto the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. a shiver rolls down your spine as you instinctively inch closer to your husband, seeking any semblance of warmth within the freezing halls of the palace. “it’s only tradition. it takes a village to raise a baby.” he laughs. “trust me, i know. my sisters were the sweetest little girls, but the boys have been a handful since birth. we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“…ajax? i never—”

“i’m trying, y’know?” he takes off your glasses and presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. sighs against your skin as he folds up the frames and tucks them aside. “i’m trying very hard to be a good man for you, sweetheart.”

"listen to me, i—"

"you missed your family, sunlight. i get it, i’m a busy guy. i clearly wasn’t giving you as much attention as you needed. you obviously had too much free time on your hands. i figured if we had a family to tend to, that’d keep you busy. plus,” he grins. “i wouldn’t need to take your fingers! you’d never turn to anyone outside of zapolyarny. maybe, finally, you would also have something to love.”

you can barely breathe. “no, no i don't want—”

“you’ll learn to,” childe smiles. this time, finally, it reaches his eyes. “you’re going to adore our little one. trust me, sunlight; we’re going to be the only family you’ll ever need.”

you search his face for something, anything—and your heart breaks at the sight. you turn to the side, can’t even bear to face the man before you for a second longer, when all you find is a terrifying absence of anything but the deepest depths of conviction.

in the distance, as childe works to shed your body of all these elaborate furs between flittering kisses, you can already hear the sound of fireworks. when he sinks into you; a baby’s wailing cry.

the fire crackles cruelly, as your letters of desperation turn to ash, going unanswered for eternity right before your eyes.