#and it fills me with a longing for the future

[bunsim]

Did you know you can modify your game files to start with custom lots in the lot bin? Did you know you can add your favorite lots to the program files and you'll never have to import them ever again? I sure didn't. Here's how.

Part 1: Freshen Up That Lot!

Locate the lot you want to freshen up. If it's in your Documents > LotCatalog, it'll be named something like cx_00000001.package. [Hint: you can use CleanInstaller to browse your LotCatalog with pictures!]

Clean it up using LotCleaner and LotCompressor (and Magic Wand, if you want). Here's a tutorial. Do NOT skip this step, or you risk contaminating future save files with old sim references.

Make it a spiffy new picture. Personally I like to lump my similar lots together with a similar title/street name. And I color-code using CatherineTCJD's color-coding format. If you want to match me, you can download my template psd here.

Open your lot in Simpe and replace that old preview. Click 'jpg/png image'. Right click the property > Replace. Change file format to 'all files' to see your image. Click either 'yes' or 'no' on the 'resource changed' popup (it doesn't matter--one updates the image preview immediately, the other doesn't). Click save.

Part 2: Relocation Time! *MAIN LOT BIN*

You cleaned up your lot, right? No sim references left? Don't skip this step or you risk messing up future hoods. Clean up that lot!

Select your lot file and rename it to the cx_00000000.package format. You can use any numbers but it must be in that format and have 8 digits. The number denotes the order so get creative with your categories. (ex: lots cx_00000100-150: modern houses / cx_00000200-250: beachy, etc.). You can use any bulk renamer to rename files in order without having to manually number each one.

Pick an Expansion for your files. Mansion and Garden comes first in the lot bin, Base Game last. The expansion you select will denote the location of your lots within the catalog. The file location is the same in every expansion, so you can even spread your lots around for max organization.

Move your cx_#.package lot file to Program Files > The Sims 2 > [expansion of your choice (ex. Nightlife)] > TSData > Res > UserData > LotCatalog. You will already see some files here. These are the maxis lots that fill the lot bin every new game. You can delete them if you really want to, or just change the extension to something else to make them go away. (Catherine has a backup if you need them back.)

Done! Now your custom lots will prefill the lot bin every time you generate a new The Sims 2 save file in your documents!

This will not pre-fill existing games. If you want to put your new clean lots into your current file, rename your main The Sims 2 save file (in your Documents folder) something else. Launch Sims 2 so it regenerates a clean copy. Create a new Hood, let the game load, and check out the LotCatalog. It will be now filled with your brand-new lots. Copy them over to your main file's LotCatalog. [Check your main LotCatalog in game to make sure you won't be deleting/overwriting anything you want to keep (make a backup just in case!) Check it again with CleanInstaller. Do not delete/overwrite occupied homes! And delete your old and crusty lots in game if you want to be extra safe.]

Part 3: Relocation Time... 2! *SPECIALTY LOT BIN*

You cleaned up your lot, right? No sim references left? Don't skip this step or you risk messing up future hoods. Clean up that lot.

We will now populate the second tab in the lot catalog, the Specialty lot bin that holds Hotels and Apartments. You can put whatever you want in here; it doesn't have to be hotels or apts. You can move lots from the main catalog to this one, if you want. These lots do not appear in the LotCatalog of your main save file, in case you try to look for them there later. They only exist in the program files.

Rename your files. Unlike the previous lots, you can name these lots anything you want, as long as it ends in _Permanent.package. stinky_Permanent.package is perfectly fine. Name it something descriptive.

Pick an Expansion for your files. You can put them in any Expansion folder, but personally I keep my apts in Apartment Life to stay organized.

Move your files. Take your stinky_Permanent.package and move it to Program Files > The Sims 2 > [expansion of your choice (ex. Nightlife)] > TSData > Res > LotTemplates. You'll see some other files here already. These are blank lots and hotels/apts (if you're in Apt Life or Bon Voyage). Don't touch the blank lots, but you can remove the hotels/apartments if you don't want them. (You can move them to the main lot bin by renaming the files to the cx_# format and moving to the location in part 2). You can open them in SimPe to check what they are, but Catherine has a visual list here.

Done! These lots will appear in the Specialty lot bin every time you boot up the game, even in your current saved game.

Have fun and enjoy organizing!

[PS: did you know you can not only delete or relocate existing bin lots, but replace them with better, and cooler lots by simply overwriting the existing cx_0000000 files in your UserData > LotCatalog folders? Catherine has a visual guide which file is which, if you want to reinvent them all. The lot bin is your oyster!]

credits: CatherineTCJD for the Lot Refresh project that made me learn this. Bluerubberbear for the majority of the lots in my thumbnails and the lot in the psd file. Plumbtales for the other lots in the thumbnails and for the beautiful lot makeovers that I replaced maxis's community lots with.

[n01likeu]

Everything.

MINOR DO NOT INTERACT.

Paring: Choi San x Reader Word count: 6k Genre: Exploring themes of longing, control, and explicit intimacy within a relationship facing external familial conflict. Dom!reader, softdom!san, sub!san. Beg beg beg. Please note: This content is for mature audiences due to explicit sexual themes. It contains elements of emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, and power dynamics, as well as descriptions of crying, anxiety, and self-esteem issues. There are also mentions of consensual, safe, and aftercare. Self-indulgent. Reader discretion is advised. Author note: Please, lovies. Give me a heads up if I forgot to mention something that I needed to add, or if there’s any errors. I am new to this, and it’s my first time uploading my work here. I didn’t fully checked my work, do expect some errors, lovies. English is not my first language, bear with me. Happy reading.

You hate him so much. You despise him. Your coping mechanism is to hate your ex, even though you both ended on good terms. All you can think of are the things he did that made you frown—ick, rather. You loathe San. Oh, not really. You ended things with him because of your grandparents. They wanted you to focus on your future by studying business management to take over their company. You’re sick of this. Your parents can’t even protest; they obey as well. They love San, and they want him for you. Too bad, because they also want a “better future” for you.

It’s almost been a month since you last saw him face-to-face. You’ve done everything you could: visiting different cafes with your friends, going out to a park with your dog, isolating yourself in a library, and trying new recipes for pastries within that month. But in the end, San is still in your mind. You keep thinking that he’s supposed to be with you, visiting those new cafes, playing with your dog out in the park, reading books together in a library (but he’d be looking at you, not even a single glance at the upside-down book he’s holding), and baking with you using his passed-down recipes from his great-grandmother. It pisses you off so bad that every time you think of doing something, there’s always a reserved space for him. You hate him because there’s no other thing that could help you forget him since you did it all with him for over six years. You’re in your second year of college, all fucked up, rotting in your bed. Your best friend Ningning had visited your apartment just a few hours ago to lighten you up, knowing you’re not fully okay after finals and your endless reminiscing of San. You felt sorry for your best friend, but she reassured you it was all fine. Satan must be having fun... fucking my life in every way, you thought to yourself.

You’re staring at your ceiling, and now you’re thinking of your ex. You miss how he used to trace imaginary patterns on your arm when you were lying next to him, how his laugh would fill your apartment, making even the emptiest days feel vibrant. You miss the way he’d pull you into unexpected hugs, smelling faintly of the coffee shop he worked at and his subtle, comforting cologne. You miss his endless patience when you were struggling with an assignment, sitting quietly beside you, offering a reassuring squeeze of your hand every now and then. You even miss his annoying habit of leaving his socks by the bed, because at least then you knew he was there. A sharp pang echoes in your chest. It’s not just the absence of him, but the gaping hole where your shared future used to be. Every dream you ever spun, every “what if” scenario, every plan for five, ten, even twenty years down the line, had his face in it. Now, it’s just a blurry, undefined expanse, shadowed by your grandparents’ “better future” and the weight of their company. You clench your jaw, a bitter taste filling your mouth. This isn’t your future; it’s theirs. And you resent it. You resent them. But most of all, you resent San for being so unforgettable, for being so intrinsically woven into the fabric of your life that even tearing him out leaves a ragged, bleeding edge. You close your eyes, wishing for sleep, for oblivion, for anything that could silence the unwavering echo of his memory. But even in the darkness, you can still feel the ghost of his hand in yours, a phantom warmth that refuses to fade.

The city lights hummed around you, a stark contrast to the quiet ache in your chest. You’d decided to brave one of your old haunts tonight—a small, dimly lit bar with good music and even better cocktails, hoping to drown out the persistent thoughts of San. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and faint perfume as you nursed your drink, tracing patterns on the condensation of your glass. Suddenly, a shift in the ambient noise, a subtle change in the energy of the room, snagged your attention. You didn’t even have to look up. You felt him. Every nerve ending in your body tingled with an electric awareness. Your breath hitched. He was here. Your eyes finally lifted, drawn across the smoky room as if by an invisible string. And there he was. San. He was standing by the bar, talking to the bartender, but his gaze, hot and familiar, was already locked onto yours. The casual hum of conversations, the clinking of glasses, the music—it all faded into a distant murmur. There was only him. And you.

He started to move, not directly towards you, but as if on a circuit, heading towards the restrooms, a path that would take him directly past your table. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that now enveloped you. As he approached, his eyes never left yours, a silent, potent conversation passing between you. There was no awkward smile, no forced pleasantry. Just a raw, undeniable hunger in his gaze that mirrored your own. As he drew level with your seat, his pace barely faltered. His hand, warm and calloused, brushed against your lower back, a deliberate, lingering touch that sent a searing current through you. It was a familiar ghost, a memory of countless other touches that had promised so much more. He didn’t stop, didn’t speak, but the brief contact was an explosion of suppressed desire, an unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. You watched his retreating back, your skin still humming from his touch. You knew exactly what that meant. And you knew, with a terrifying certainty, that you were going to follow.

As San moved past, the spot on your lower back where his hand had lingered burned like a brand. The air around you crackled with unspoken tension. Your breath felt shallow, caught somewhere in your throat. You watched the line of his shoulders beneath the dark jacket, the way his dark hair caught the dim light. It had been almost a month, but the sight of him, that look in his eyes, the brief, deliberate touch—it had ripped through your carefully constructed walls of indifference. Your mind raced, a chaotic jumble of longing, resentment, and that undeniable, insistent pull of physical attraction. You hated him for doing this to you, for disrupting the fragile peace you’d been trying to build. But a louder voice, a more primal instinct, was screaming something completely different.

Without conscious thought, you pushed yourself to your feet, your chair scraping slightly against the wooden floor. The sound seemed amplified in the sudden quiet that had descended around you. You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a sliver of your rational mind screaming at you to sit back down, to ignore the magnetic force drawing you in. But the memory of his touch, the intensity in his eyes that mirrored your own buried desires, was too strong to resist. You took a step, then another, your gaze fixed on San’s broad back as he disappeared through the door marked “Restroom.” You knew he hadn’t actually needed to use them. This was a silent invitation, a pretense.

Taking a deep breath, the humid night air clinging to your skin as the bar door briefly opened and closed, you followed. The dimly lit hallway leading to the restrooms felt thick with anticipation. The sounds of the bar faded behind you, replaced by a low hum of the air conditioning. You knew what you were about to do. And despite the turmoil in your heart, a part of you, a deeply buried, fiercely yearning part, couldn’t deny the electric thrill of it.

You reached the restroom door and paused, your hand hovering over the cool metal handle. The low murmur of male voices could be heard from within. Taking one last shaky breath, you pushed the door open and stepped inside. San was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, his gaze already on you, that same intense, knowing look still blazing in his eyes. The air crackled. The game had begun again.

He was still leaning against the sink, his arms crossed over the glossy texture of his jacket, the silver chain around his neck catching the faint light from the overhead fixture. His dark hair, slightly disheveled, framed a face that was both impossibly familiar and unnervingly alluring in the muted light. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, devoured you. There was no casual greeting, no “fancy meeting you here.” His gaze alone was a physical touch, tracing every curve, every shadow. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, yet vibrating with an unspoken language only the two of you understood. It was the language of six years of shared history, of bodies that knew each other intimately, of a passion that had never truly died, only been forcibly buried. You felt your cheeks flush, a wave of heat spreading through you that had nothing to do with the humid night. You wanted to look away or flee, to break the potent spell, but you couldn't. You were a moth to his flame, drawn in by the sheer magnetic force of his presence.

He pushed off the sink, taking one slow, deliberate step towards you. Then another. The small space of the restroom felt even smaller, every inch of it shrinking until it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. The faint scent of stale cigarette smoke and generic air freshener was obliterated by the clean, distinct scent of him—something woody and slightly musky, utterly San. His hand rose, slowly, as if in a dream, and he reached out. His fingers didn’t go for your face or your hair. Instead, they settled on the sensitive skin of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly over your pulse point. The contact was electric, sending shivers down your spine and igniting a fire in your core. It was a possessive gesture, a silent claim.

“You followed,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rasp that sent another jolt through you. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, laced with triumph and a raw, carnal anticipation. His eyes dropped from yours, trailing slowly down your face, lingering on your lips. Your breath hitched. Your body was already betraying you, aching for his touch. The fight you’d been putting up for the past month dissolved like smoke. All the reasons you shouldn’t, all the ‘what-ifs’ about your grandparents and your future, vanished. There was only this moment, this man, and the undeniable truth of your shared, burning desire.

“Of course, I did,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible, a confession, a surrender. “Why wouldn’t I?” You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing for a brief moment as his thumb continued its maddening rhythm on your neck. The next move, you knew, would be yours to make, or his. And it wouldn’t involve talking. You snaked your arms on the back of his neck and pressed your lips against him, closing the gap between you and San. His fingers squeeze the side of your neck—enough to make you breathe, even. San’s other hand traveled down on your ass, squeezing it, pulling you closer until you felt his hard, clothed cock. You started to grind your body against him. San let out a low groan against your mouth, a sound of pure pleasure that vibrated through your entire body. He deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a passionate dance. The pressure on your neck eased slightly, allowing for more comfortable breathing, but his grip on your ass remained firm, keeping your bodies tightly pressed together. You could feel the undeniable heat radiating from him, mirroring the inferno building within you. Every grind of your hips against his was met with an eager pushback, a silent language of escalating desire. The air around you crackled with an unspoken urgency, a shared need that threatened to consume you both. You felt yourself getting dizzy, not from lack of air, but from the intoxicating rush of his presence, the raw intensity of the moment. The world outside of his embrace faded into a blurry background, and all that existed was the pounding of your hearts, the delicious friction of your bodies, and the promise of what was yet to come.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his. His eyes, dark with desire, met yours. “God, you drive me insane,” he breathed, his voice thick and rough. His thumb, still on your neck, traced the line of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine.

“Oh, really?” You purred back, a mischievous glint in your eyes, a slight smirk playing on your lips. You could feel the frantic beat of your heart against his chest. His grip on your ass didn’t lessen, keeping you flush against him, making the undeniable evidence of his arousal all the more present. Your fingers, still laced in his hair, gave a gentle, possessive tug. He chuckled, a low, husky sound that sent another wave of heat through you.

“Is it now?” He murmured, his gaze utterly devoted. “Because I feel like I’m the one about to lose my mind here... if you’d allow it.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, filled with an almost desperate plea. “What kind of spell are you doing to me, beautiful?”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “What do you want me to do?” You challenged softly, a hint of steel beneath the teasing sweetness in your voice. You felt him tense beneath your touch, a clear sign of his hunger and his readiness to submit. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, a serious intensity replacing the playful glint in his eyes, now mixed with a deep, consuming adoration.

“Everything,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl, a tone of absolute surrender. “I want you to do everything.” He squeezed your ass again, pulling you impossibly closer, his body vibrating with controlled anticipation. “And I want to do everything for you, to you, as you wish.”

You let out a soft, knowing laugh, a sound that held a hint of delicious victory. “Are you willing to do such thing, San?” You murmured, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer until your lips were almost touching again. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, watching the worship intensify.

“Please, love. Let me feel you. Let me fuck you right here, please.” Your hand moved from his neck, trailing slowly down his chest, resting over his heart, which was pounding a frantic rhythm. You felt his sharp intake of breath, a subtle shiver that ran through him. You could feel the undeniable strength of his body, the hard planes of his muscles, yet he was utterly still beneath your touch, waiting.

“Begging already?” you whispered, your voice dropping to a seductive husk. “Then you’ll have to earn it, won’t you?" Tilting your head slightly, a clear signal of your will. “You hear me, San?” The words hung in the air, a silken thread of absolute will.

“Yes. Please, let me touch you…” He spoke in a low tone, grinding on your thighs. Sweating gathered on his forehead and fell down to his jaw as he breathed heavily.

“Fucking insane. I didn’t order you to grind like a dog on me,” you spat. “Kneel.” A last word that followed out of your mouth. San immediately fell to his knees, hands on his lap. Looking at you as a vulnerable piece. The dim light of the restroom played across the silk black dress, highlighting the curve of your back, the enticing hint of your thong visible as you leaned against the sink, supporting your weight.

“Eat me out. Devour me like you own me.” You looked down to San, who was reaching for your ankles, massaging them as his hands traveled up to your legs, kissing them inch by inch, worshipping your body, parting your legs as he went up to your thighs, leaving a mark, and licking them after. His eyes, dark with fervent desire, remained fixed on you as he slowly, deliberately, brought his face closer to your waiting heat. You could feel his warm breath ghosting over your most sensitive skin, sending shivers through you that were a delicious mix of anticipation and absolute control. He paused, just for a moment, a silent question in his gaze, seeking your final, unspoken approval, even as his body trembled with eagerness. You watched him, your own breath catching in your throat, the thrill of his utter devotion a potent potion. Without a verbal cue, but with a subtle shift in your weight and a slight parting of your lips, you granted him permission. His dark head dipped, and then his tongue, hot and wet, made first contact. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers instinctively gripping the cool edge of the sink behind you.

He was everything you remembered, everything you craved, and more. His movements were precise, deliberate, a worshipful exploration that left no inch of you untouched. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, was designed to push you closer and closer to the edge, a master of his craft, completely consumed by the act of pleasing you. You felt the warmth spread, fire igniting in your core, and the world outside the small restroom dissolved into a blissful haze of sensation. His hands moved to cup your buttocks, lifting you slightly, pressing you more firmly against his mouth. The silk dress rode up, revealing even more of your thong-clad rear. You arched your back, a low moan escaping your lips as the intensity built. You could feel his hot breaths, hear his soft groans of pleasure, mingling with your own. He was truly devouring you, just as you’d commanded, lost in a single-minded pursuit of your satisfaction. The thought of your grandparents, your future, and the entire world outside was utterly obliterated by the exquisite reality of San at your feet, making you burn. As he continued his movements, you found yourself twisting, unable to keep still, your fingers digging into the cool porcelain of the sink. Each stroke of his tongue, each gentle pull, was a direct shot of pleasure, spiraling through you. He paused for a moment, just long enough for you to let out a frustrated whimper, before resuming with renewed intensity, as if punishing you for your impatience, yet simultaneously rewarding you with deeper sensations.

“San,” you gasped, your voice strained, barely recognizable even to your own ears. Your head fell back against the mirror, your eyes squeezed shut, the world now nothing but the rhythmic, insistent pleasure he was eliciting. He didn’t answer verbally, but the way his tongue moved and the increased pressure of his mouth told you he heard your plea and was only going to push you further. He shifted, bringing one hand to cup your mound, his thumb sweeping over your already swollen clit, while his mouth worked wonders. The combination was almost unbearable, pushing you right to the edge. You felt a soft trembling start deep within you, growing, consuming.

“Please,” you whimpered again, the word barely a breath. “San... please…” You weren’t sure what you were begging for—was it for him to stop, for him to continue, for release, for more, or for less? It was just a desperate, animalistic sound of pure need. He lifted his head for a second; his eyes, dark and glazed with his own rising passion, met yours. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his lips glistening.

“Beg for it, doll,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble against your skin, just before his mouth closed over you again, sending a jolt that made your toes curl.

A whimper tore through you. “San, I—I need—” Your words broke off into a choked cry as he intensified his service, driving you closer to the edge than you thought possible. “Please... please, I’m almost there…”

He pulled back again, just a fraction, the sudden withdrawal almost painful. You whimpered, reaching out blindly, your fingers tangling in his dark hair. “Don’t stop, San. Please, don’t stop. I need you, fuck.” Your voice was raw, stripped bare of any pretense of control. “Please, baby, don’t stop, I beg you.”

His eyes burned into yours, a successful glint mixing with the absolute adoration. “Say my name,” he rasped, his breath hot against your thigh. “Say you need me.”

“San, baby. Oh god, San, I need you. Make me cum. Please, baby.” Your hips bucked instinctively against his face, a desperate plea for release. You let out a loud moan; you didn’t realized how loud you are. He watched you, a slow, sensual smile spreading on his lips as your desperation grew. He was enjoying every single second of your unraveling, your complete surrender to the sensations he was orchestrating.

“Such a good girl. Begging for me just to fuck her stupid using my mouth,” he purred, the words sending another shiver through you. And then, with a final, deep dive, he pushed you over the edge. A strangled cry ripped from your throat as your body convulsed, pleasure exploding through every nerve ending. You clutched his hair, your nails digging lightly into his scalp as your knees threatened to buckle. He held you steady, his mouth still working, catching every last tremor of your climax, devouring you completely. When the last movements ended and your breathing evened out, he finally pulled away, his face slick with your mutual pleasure. He looked up at you, his eyes still dark with a simmering desire, but now also filled with a profound, almost reverent satisfaction. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a tear from the corner of your eye that you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“All for you, sweet,” he breathed, his voice soft, utterly devoted. He then leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your now-sensitive skin, a lingering, possessive touch. “Always.”

It took a few shaky moments for you to regain your composure, to find your footing again as the waves of pleasure receded, leaving you delightfully weak. San rose from his kneeling position, his movements fluid and unhurried. He didn’t speak, but his gaze, hot and possessive, lingered on your face, reading every lingering trace of your climax. He reached out, his hand gently settling on the small of your back, a silent anchor.

“We can’t stay here,” you murmured, your voice still a little breathless, the words feeling foreign and heavy in the aftermath. The fluorescent lights of the restroom, the lingering scent of disinfectant, suddenly felt stark and unwelcome after the intimate intensity of the past few minutes. San merely hummed in agreement, his thumb stroking your skin. He didn’t need words. He knew exactly what you meant, what you wanted. Your apartment. Your bed. The place where inhibitions could truly melt away. He turned, guiding you gently with his hand on your back, leading you out of the restroom and back into the muffled hum of the bar.

The transition felt surreal. The conversations and laughter of strangers seemed distant, a mere backdrop to the vibrant thrumming between you and San. You didn’t speak a word as you walked past the main bar area, past curious glances, out into the humid night. The air was thick and warm, clinging to your skin, a stark contrast to the cool air-conditioned interior of the bar. He hailed a taxi with practiced ease, opening the door for you before sliding in beside you. The ride to your apartment was a silent symphony of anticipation. Your hand found him in the darkness of the backseat, fingers intertwining, a silent promise exchanged. His thumb drew lazy circles on your knuckles, a comforting rhythm that spoke volumes. The earlier resentment, the carefully constructed walls of hatred, felt like a distant, irrelevant memory. All that mattered was the warmth of his hand, the shared heat in the small space, and the electric hum of what was coming next.

Soon enough, the taxi pulled up to your apartment building. You fumbled for your keys, your hands still trembling slightly, a small laugh escaping your lips. San took them from you, his fingers brushing yours, and effortlessly unlocked the door. He let you enter first, a silent deference that made your stomach clench in a delicious way. The apartment was dark and quiet, save for the faint glow of city lights filtering through the blinds. You kicked off your shoes, letting them fall unceremoniously to the floor. San closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the stillness, severing you from the outside world.

He didn’t turn on any lights. The dimness felt right, adding to the illicit intimacy of the moment. You turned to face him, the faint light catching the contours of his face, the intensity in his eyes. He reached for you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

“My love,” he whispered, his voice a low, rough reverence that sent shivers down your spine. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your eyelids, then tracing the curve of your jaw with his lips before finally finding yours. This kiss was slower, deeper than before, a lingering promise. His tongue traced your lips, asking for entry, and you readily granted it, your body already arching into his. San’s hands moved from your face, trailing down your neck, over your shoulders, and then found the hem of your black silk dress. He slowly, deliberately, began to pull it up, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for any sign, any hint of resistance. There was none. The silk glided upwards, revealing more of your legs, the smooth curve of your hips, until the thong beneath was fully exposed. San took a moment, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin, a low groan rumbling in his chest. You reached for him too, your fingers fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, then the snaps of his shirt. He stood still, a statue of patient devotion, allowing you to undress him. The leather jacket came off first, then his shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the taut muscles of his abdomen. You traced the lines of his body with your fingertips, feeling the heat radiate from him, the faint tremor that ran through him as your skin met his. San stepped back slightly and took your hand, leading you deeper into the apartment, as if he lived there, to the bedroom. The soft rug underfoot felt luxurious against your bare soles. In the dim light, your bed looked like an island, an irresistible haven. He paused at the edge, his gaze searching yours.

“May I?” he murmured, a silent question asking permission to continue, even though every fiber of your being screamed yes. You nodded, a shaky breath escaping your lips. He reached for the strap of your dress at your shoulder, slowly sliding it down, allowing the silk to pool at your feet. You stepped out of it, the black fabric a discarded puddle. He then lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist as he lowered you onto the soft mattress. He hovered over you, supporting himself on his elbows, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick with adoration. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me and mine only.” His hand found the waistband of your thong, his fingers slipping underneath. He slowly, agonizingly slowly, peeled it down your legs until you were completely bare beneath him. He didn’t rush, savoring each moment, each inch of exposed skin. You reached for the waistband of his pants, pulling at them impatiently. He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound, and helped you, shucking off his pants and boxers until he too was naked, his hard form pressing against your bare thighs. He settled between your legs, his weight a delicious pressure. He leaned down, burying his face in your neck, inhaling your scent, leaving a trail of hot kisses along your collarbone.

“You have no idea how long I have dreamt of this,” he whispered against your skin, his voice raw with a desperate longing that mirrored your own. "Of being here again, with you, like this.” You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling his head back slightly so you could meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, almost black, brimming with an overwhelming emotion that captivated you.

“Show me, San,” you whispered, your voice a soft invitation, your hips unconsciously tilting up, pleading. “Show me everything.” He met your gaze, a powerful mixture of adoration and barely contained hunger in his eyes. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, a deep, consuming kiss that stole your breath away. This was not just desire; it was a profound connection, a reunion of souls that had been torn apart, now finding their way back to their inevitable convergence. His body moved, pressing deeper, finding that familiar, perfect fit. You gasped against his mouth, a sound of pure, unmixed relief and escalating pleasure. He groaned against your lips, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire being as he began to move. Slowly at first, a deliberate testing of the waters, a teasing rhythm that built the excitement. You responded immediately, your hips instinctively meeting him, pushing back, craving the full immersion. His hands found your waist, gripping you firmly, lifting you slightly to deepen the angle, to ensure every friction was maximized.

“My love,” he breathed, the words muffled against your mouth as he broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your jaw to your ear. “You feel so good. So good.” His breath hitched as you arched into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. The pace quickened, a primal dance that spoke volumes without a single word. The bed beneath you became a tempest, the soft mattress sinking with each powerful thrust. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in closer, urging him deeper. Your nails lightly scraped against his back as you clung to him, lost in the escalating storm of sensation. His muscles flexed under your touch, a testament to the raw strength he held in check for you. He was a force, yet utterly devoted to your pleasure, watching your face for every sign, every gasp, every subtle shift in your expression. He leaned down, catching your lips in a passionate kiss again, swallowing your moans, mingling your breaths until there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the scent of aroused bodies and desperate need. The sounds of your apartment, usually so familiar, were now just the frantic pounding of your hearts and the soft gasps and moans that filled the space. The thought of anything beyond this moment, beyond the exquisite friction and the intoxicating scent of San, completely vanished. This was your true future, the one you truly desired, unraveling beneath you in a tangle of limbs and breathless whispers. He pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark and dilated, filled with a burning intensity.

“Look at me,” he rasped, his voice strained, raw with his own approaching climax. “Look at me, doll.” You met his gaze, completely consumed, your body trembling on the brink. You could feel the building pressure deep inside, the undeniable ascent towards another peak. His eyes, fixed on yours, were the only anchor in the swirling of sensation.

“San,” you whimpered, his name a desperate plea, a worshipful prayer on your lips. With a final, powerful thrust, he drove into you, a deep, all-consuming connection that sent you spiraling over the edge once more. A guttural cry escaped you as your body shook uncontrollably around him, clutching him tighter. He groaned, a primal sound of release, as he followed you, collapsing onto you, his body heavy and satiated. The aftermath was a symphony of heavy breaths and pounding hearts, bodies slick with sweat, entangled in the peaceful silence that followed the storm. He buried his face in your neck, pressing kisses to your damp skin, utterly spent, yet still holding you impossibly close, as if afraid to let you go. He lay heavy on you, his chest rising and falling against yours, the scent of him—a mix of sweat, sex, and his familiar cologne—filling your senses. Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, gently stroked the nape of his neck. The frantic rhythm of your heart gradually slowed, syncing with the steady beat of his. The silence in the room was profound, punctuated only by your soft breaths and the lingering hum of satisfaction that resonated deep within your bones.

After a long moment, he shifted, lifting his head from your neck and propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His eyes, still clouded with the afterglow, held a tenderness that made your own heartache in the best way possible. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

“Are you... Alright, my love?” he whispered, his voice a little rough, a hint of concern in his gaze. He always checked. He always made sure you were okay, even when he was completely lost in the moment. It was a subtle, natural care that had always been one of the things you loved most about him and something you had desperately missed.

You smiled, a soft, content smile. “More than alright, San,” you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek, feeling the slight stubble beneath your palm. “Perfect rather.”

A relieved sigh escaped him, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he breathed, the word filled with sincere relief. He rolled off you, but only to lie beside you, pulling you immediately into his side. Your head rested on his shoulder, your leg thrown over his, your bodies still connected by the lingering warmth and the unspoken intimacy.

The city lights still filtered through the blinds, casting faint, shifting shadows on the ceiling. You were both quiet, simply existing in the shared space, in the aftermath of something raw and powerful. You felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you—the lingering resentment for the life your grandparents had dictated, the sharp pang of regret for the time lost, and an overwhelming surge of pure, unadulterated contentment in his arms.

“I missed this,” you whispered, the words barely audible, a confession that tasted like freedom on your tongue. “I missed you.”

He tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer. His lips brushed your hair. “I missed you too, more than words can say,” he murmured back, his voice thick with emotion. “Every single day; It was hell without you—even though I can sense that you hated me to death. I know you.”

You sighed, burying your face deeper into his shoulder. The fragile peace was here, in this bed, with him. The outside world, the demands of your family, the future they had planned—it all felt distant, a problem for another day. For now, there was just this. Just San. And the undeniable, aching truth that you were exactly where you belonged. You felt his breathing even out, a soft snore starting to rumble in his chest. He was falling asleep, utterly relaxed in your embrace. You closed your eyes, letting the exhaustion and the profound contentment wash over you. For the first time in a long time, the insistent echoes of his memory were not tormenting you but lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Their little sunshine p.3

Heyy guys, I didn't forget about this story; I just didn't know how to continue, so let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy this Alex x reader x Lily story. Here's part 1 and part 2.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Breakfast with Alex and Lily was always a guaranteed good time, filled with laughter, gentle teasing, and your soft but relentless bullying of Alex to make sure he drank enough water and didn’t sneak extra pastries before a long day in the car.

But eventually, duty called.

Alex, ever the responsible driver, checked his watch and groaned. "I have to get back before the engineers come looking for me."

You and Lily pouted dramatically in sync.

"Bye, birthday boy," you teased, poking his side as he stood.

"Not yet!" he grumbled, but you caught the tiny smile tugging at his lips. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Lily’s hair and gave your shoulder a playful squeeze before disappearing into the swirl of the paddock crowd.

Once he was gone, Lily looped her arm through yours, her eyes sparkling. "Come on. Let’s walk. I need to stretch my legs and you’re the perfect partner in crime."

"Am I being kidnapped?" you asked, giggling as she tugged you along.

"Absolutely. No work for you until I’m done with you," she declared.

You strolled lazily through the paddock, exchanging polite nods with mechanics and press officers, admiring the bustle of team staff and drivers darting between garages. It felt nice to just… be. No stopwatch. No muscle knots to chase. Just sunshine and the easy warmth of Lily’s chatter about outfits, future travel plans, and whether she should dye Alex’s hair in his sleep for fun.

You rounded a corner and immediately spotted a familiar little furball trotting on a lead, his fluffy ears bouncing with each step.

"Alexandra!" Lily squealed first.

Sure enough, Charles’ girlfriend Alex (the other Alex, as you’d come to call her to keep things less confusing) was standing just a few feet away, looking effortlessly chic in a sundress and sneakers as Leo dragged her closer to you both.

Leo spotted you and nearly lost his mind—his tail wagging so fast you wondered if he’d lift off the ground.

"Hi, handsome!" you laughed, crouching just in time for him to leap at your legs, tiny paws scrabbling for your attention. You ruffled his fluffy fur, giggling as he smothered you with kisses.

Alex winced apologetically. "I’m so sorry—he gets overexcited sometimes—"

Lily waved it off with a grin. "Don’t worry—she has that effect on everyone."

You stuck out your tongue at Lily but kept cooing at Leo, scratching behind his ears. "He’s perfect. Aren’t you, baby? Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy!"

Leo responded by trying to climb fully into your lap, ignoring the fact that you were still crouched awkwardly in the middle of the paddock walkway.

Alex laughed, gently tugging his lead. "He’s going to follow you home if you keep that up."

"Tempting," you joked, reluctantly letting Leo drop back to the ground.

When you finally stood, brushing fur from your leggings, Lily leaned closer to Alex. "Hey, by the way—we finally convinced my Alex to let us do a little dinner for his birthday. Very low-key. You two have to come."

Alex’s face lit up. "Yes, please! Charles would love that. He’s always saying he needs more normal evenings with friends. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t forget."

"Perfect!" Lily said, clapping her hands. "I’ll text you tonight. And you," she pointed at you, "are in charge of decorations. No excuses."

You gave her a mock salute. "Pink balloons everywhere. Even in the engineers’ office."

"Don’t tempt me," Lily giggled.

After a bit more chatting—and a final round of goodbye belly rubs for Leo—you and Lily finally peeled yourselves away and headed back toward the Williams motorhome.

Back at the Williams motorhome, you and Lily barely paused to catch your breath before she nudged you with her elbow.

“Come on. Let’s go see our boy before he disappears into the garage forever.”

You laughed, falling into step beside her. “You mean before he hides behind the engineers and pretends he can’t hear us yelling at him?”

“Exactly,” Lily said, eyes twinkling.

You found Alex in his side of the garage, helmet in hand, chatting with one of the mechanics. He looked up as soon as he heard the unmistakable squeal of Lily greeting him.

“There’s my troublemakers,” he drawled, already bracing himself as both of you practically pounced.

“Pre-race hug for luck!” you declared, looping your arms around his torso from one side while Lily hugged him from the other.

Alex, half-suffocated in your affectionate ambush, laughed into the top of Lily’s hair. “You two are going to mess up my suit.”

“You love it,” Lily teased, leaning back to straighten the collar of his race suit.

“You’re welcome for the extra luck, birthday boy,” you said, poking his chest lightly.

Alex rolled his eyes, but there was no hiding the way he relaxed under both your hands fussing over him. “I’m never living down this nickname, am I?”

“Not a chance,” you grinned.

When Lily finally stepped back, still holding Alex’s hand, you checked the time and smiled. “Alright, I’m going to go find Carlos and annoy him with a good luck speech.”

Alex laughed. “Give him my condolences in advance.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, blew Lily a quick kiss, and bounced away toward the other end of the paddock.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Alex turned back to Lily, who was still watching you skip down the pit lane like a walking daydream in sneakers and a Williams jacket two sizes too big.

“You know,” Lily murmured, squeezing Alex’s gloved hand gently, “I really love her.”

Alex’s expression softened. He squeezed back, following your figure weaving between mechanics and other drivers.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, a tiny, fond smile curving his lips. “She’s… good for everyone. Makes things feel lighter, even when it’s all a bit much.”

Lily looked up at him knowingly. “She makes you feel lighter, too.”

Alex didn’t argue—didn’t need to. Instead, he let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head.

“She’s like a human lucky charm.”

Lily nudged him playfully. “You better appreciate her forever. Or else.”

He leaned down, kissing her forehead. “I do. And I always will.”

Then, with one last glance at where you were chatting animatedly with Carlos, both of them smiled—grateful for the little pink hurricane that had crashed so perfectly into their life.

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter four || blow ups - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝ Kamo “Choso,” a guarded boxer, meets a soft-spoken baker when he starts daily visits after training. Their connection grows slowly—social media follow, sweet diner dates, shared springtime moments—but love comes through quiet acts: tending wounds, pearl necklaces, building a home together. Challenges follow—a big match, media attention, and legal fights,—yet their bond deepens through intimacy, honest conversations under starry nights, and passionate reunions after weeks apart. As they balance family, business, and future plans, Choso sheds his tough exterior and the baker learns to trust in love worth fighting for.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

Uploads every Tuesday

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised him. It shouldn’t have been. Choso wasn’t used to easy. He was used to long silences that felt sharp instead of comfortable, to conversations where people waited for him to say the wrong thing, to the quiet judgment that came with the scars on his knuckles and the bruises that never really healed. But here — in your small, warm apartment with the smell of garlic and tomatoes lingering in the air, with the soft light of the old lamp casting a glow over your hair — it felt different.

He ate slowly, more for the company than the food, watching the way you talked with your hands, the way your laugh curled at the edges when you told stories about bakery disasters — dough that didn’t rise, burnt croissants, the one time you locked yourself in the walk-in freezer for an hour before your brother found you. Choso didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. You filled the space without crowding it, and every so often, when you laughed a little too hard or smiled a little too big, he caught himself smiling too.

After dinner, you carried the plates to the sink, and Choso followed you, leaning his hip against the counter as you rinsed them, the water running quietly between you. "You know," you said, glancing up at him with a small smile, "you're allowed to relax." He snorted softly. "Don't know how." You bumped his arm with your shoulder, teasing but gentle. "You're learning." He watched you for a moment longer, heart heavy in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the way you looked at him — like you saw him. Like you weren't trying to fix him or change him or run from the sharp edges. You just saw him, and somehow, you still stayed.

He opened his mouth to say something — he wasn’t even sure what — when his phone buzzed on the counter. Choso frowned, leaning over to check the screen. His manager’s name flashed across the display: Kenji. He let it buzz once. Twice. You glanced at him, a question in your eyes, but didn’t push. With a grunt, Choso picked it up and answered, pressing it to his ear.

“Yeah.”

Your back was to him now as you wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, but he could feel the way the air shifted around you — quieter, more alert. Choso’s face hardened as he listened, jaw tightening. “No,” he said sharply. “I already told you — not interested.” There was a pause — Kenji’s voice, fast and insistent, bleeding through the small apartment. Choso’s fingers drummed against the counter, the tight, agitated rhythm giving away more than his voice did.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, turning away from you, pacing a few steps toward the window like he could outwalk the conversation. Kenji kept talking — louder, more aggressive — and Choso’s shoulders tensed, the muscles under his hoodie bunching tight. “What the fuck does Gucci need me for?” he snapped, his voice rising, sharp in the quiet of the apartment. “I’m not a model. I’m not some pretty face they can slap on a billboard.” You stopped wiping the counter, watching him now, still and careful. Another pause. Another insistent argument through the phone.

Choso raked a hand through his hair, the tie snapping loose, strands falling around his face in a messy halo.

“They don’t give a shit about me,” he said, voice rough. “They don’t care who I am. They just want a look. A story.”

He paced, breathing harder now, phone still pressed tight to his ear. “I said no. What part of no—”

He broke off, jaw tight, listening to whatever Kenji was saying on the other end. His hand dropped to his side, clenching into a fist, the other scrubbing hard over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but no less bitter. “It’s in the contract,” he muttered. “Of course it is.”

He hung up then, without a word, the phone hitting the counter with a dull, angry thud. He stood there, breathing hard, back tense, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His fists were clenched at his sides, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. You could feel the anger radiating off him — not the reckless, dangerous kind. The kind that came from helplessness. From being trapped, and even though your chest tightened, even though every instinct told you to tread carefully, you didn’t flinch.

You crossed the room quietly, your socks silent on the wood floor, and stopped just behind him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t ask. You just wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek lightly to his back, and held him.

Choso stood there, breathing slow and ragged, your arms wrapped tight around his waist, your body pressed gently to his back. The fight had drained out of him — not all at once, not dramatically — but in pieces. The sharp edges dulled, the anger softened, the weight of everything he carried shifting just enough that he could feel the warmth of you behind him. He didn’t move for a long time, his hands resting heavy over yours, his fingers brushing absently across your knuckles like he didn’t know what else to do with them, like he was afraid to break the moment by holding on too tight.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of his breathing, yours quieter still, the slow thud of your hearts filling up the small space. Outside, the city moved on — cars in the distance, the occasional echo of voices on the street — but up here, it was just you and him, suspended in something that felt fragile but real. You didn’t speak, didn’t press him to turn around, to look at you. You just stayed, steady and sure, your arms tightening slightly around him every time his breathing hitched, every time his muscles tensed like he might pull away. You wanted him to know he didn’t have to. That he could stay. That it was safe here.

It took a while — longer than you thought it might — but slowly, slowly, Choso shifted. He lifted one of your hands from his stomach, his fingers lacing through yours with a care so unfamiliar, so clumsy and deliberate, it made your chest ache. He turned, slow and heavy, and you let your arms fall back, giving him space. When he faced you, he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell the clean soap clinging to his hoodie, the faint coppery scent of the gym still lingering underneath. His hair was messy, falling loose around his face, strands brushing his cheekbones. His dark eyes — so often hooded and guarded — were open now, raw and vulnerable in a way that made your breath catch.

Choso didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real. His gaze dropped, slowly, dragging over your face — the curve of your mouth, the soft flush still high on your cheeks, the loose, messy fall of your hair. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking, like there were words caught somewhere between his ribs that he didn’t know how to free. You didn’t rush him.

You stood there, open and waiting, your hands loosely folded in front of you, giving him the choice to reach, to stay, to leave — whatever he needed, and maybe it was that — the not asking, the not pushing — that finally broke through.

Choso stepped closer, slow and heavy, the toes of his boots brushing yours. His hand lifted, hesitant, pausing halfway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. You met him halfway, tilting your chin up, letting your gaze hold his, steady and soft. He touched your cheek, finally, the backs of his fingers rough against your skin. Not a caress — just a touch, like he needed to make sure you were real, that you weren’t going to dissolve if he pressed too hard. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, feather-light, and you leaned into it, just slightly, a soft breath escaping you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, voice low and rough, the words heavy with disbelief and something that sounded almost like awe. You shook your head slowly, the movement brushing your cheek against his hand. “No.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow, in awe. “I should scare you,” he said, even softer, like he hated admitting it.

“You don’t,” you whispered, and you saw the way his throat worked, the way his hand trembled just slightly against your skin. Choso lowered his head, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and you felt the breath he exhaled — shaky, uneven — fan across your lips. He didn’t kiss you right away. He just breathed you in, his forehead pressing lightly to yours, his hand moving to cup your jaw fully now, rough palm cradling you like you were something breakable. His other hand hovered at your waist, fingers twitching like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare. You could have closed the distance. Could have leaned up on your toes and pressed your mouth to his, simple and easy.

But you waited.

You let him choose.

And he did.

Slow, careful, like he was afraid he’d ruin it if he moved too fast, Choso closed the last inch between you, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was more breath than contact at first. A hesitation. A question. You answered by tilting your chin up, pressing just a little closer, your fingers finding the hem of his hoodie, clutching lightly. The kiss deepened slowly — not frantic, not demanding — but steady, building in quiet layers. His lips were soft, warm, a little chapped, moving against yours like he was learning you in pieces, savoring the way you fit against him. When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, his forehead still resting against yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, the words so raw they almost didn’t sound like him. You smiled, small and sure, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re wrong,” you whispered. He exhaled shakily, his thumb stroking slow circles against your jaw. For a moment, neither of you moved, and even though there was still a heaviness in his shoulders, still a sadness in the way he held you — it wasn’t hopeless.

It was something quieter. Something that felt a lot like hope. You stood there together in the quiet, in the soft lamplight, in the stillness of a world you’d made just for each other — a world that, for once, he didn’t feel the need to fight against. For the first time in a long, long time, Choso thought maybe he didn’t have to be afraid of being seen.

Not when it was you doing the looking.

The night of the fight, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You stood in the line winding around the side of the old arena, the low buzz of voices, the smell of cheap food and sweat filling the air. The crowd was restless — buzzing with anticipation, thick with the kind of energy that made your skin crawl. Men in leather jackets and steel-toed boots, women with loud laughs and sharper smiles. It wasn’t your world. Not even close.

But you were here anyway. For him.

Inside, the arena was even worse — too loud, too bright, the sharp metallic tang of blood and old adrenaline saturating the air. You found your seat toward the front — not too close, but close enough that you could see the cage, the gleaming metal bars catching the harsh overhead lights. You sat, hands tight in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs. Choso was already in the ring. He stood in one corner, shoulders loose, head down, hoodie half-zipped, hands taped tight. His team fussed around him — shouting last-minute instructions, slapping his back — but he barely reacted. He stood still, heavy and coiled like a spring, his dark hair tied back, face blank. Not the Choso you knew.

No — this was someone else. Someone harder. Sharper.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, the crowd roaring in response, but it all blurred together for you.

When Choso stepped forward, shrugging out of his hoodie, the tattoos on his arms gleamed under the lights, black and brutal. His body was a map of old scars and new bruises, and even from where you sat, you could see how tight his jaw was, how hard his eyes had gone. You barely breathed as the fight started.

It was fast — brutal — a blur of fists and elbows, bodies colliding against the cage. Choso was a machine, all sharp edges and ruthless precision. He moved like he was built for this — like violence lived under his skin, coiled tight and waiting. You flinched every time his fist connected — sharp, wet impacts that echoed across the arena. His opponent was fast, good, but Choso was better — relentless, grinding him down with every blow, every ruthless advance. There was no mercy in it. No hesitation. Just Choso, cold and brutal, doing what he had to do.

It didn’t take long. The final blow was vicious — a sharp left hook that sent the other man crumpling to the mat, blood splattering across the canvas. The crowd roared. You stayed frozen, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Choso stood over his opponent for a beat longer, chest heaving, face still blank. Then he stepped back, lifting his bruised fists mechanically when the ref grabbed his arm and declared him the winner. The announcer shouted, the crowd screamed, but Choso barely reacted. No smile. No raised fists. No celebration. Just that same blank stare.

You saw it then — clearer than you ever had before. He hated this. Even with the win, even with the cheers, Choso stood there like he couldn’t feel a thing. Like he was just a body in a cage, doing what he had to do to survive. Obligation. Not passion.

You sat frozen as he left the ring, his team swarming him — pats on the back, towels thrown over his shoulders. He moved through them like a ghost, not really seeing any of it. When his dark eyes found yours in the crowd, the smallest crack broke across his face — something soft and fleeting — and then it was gone.

You didn’t say much when you met him outside the arena. He was quiet, hoodie pulled low over his face, duffel slung over one shoulder. His hands were taped still, knuckles split and raw, dried blood crusted at the edges. He didn’t speak, and neither did you — just slid into the passenger seat of your car, slumping low. You drove back to the apartment in silence. When you got home, you unlocked the door, flipping on the lamp, letting the soft, warm light spill across the space. Choso stood in the doorway for a second, heavy and still, then toed off his boots and stepped inside.

“Go shower,” you said, voice soft but certain. He hesitated, jaw ticking — like he didn’t know how to accept something so small — and then nodded, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom. You moved around the apartment quietly while he was gone — fetching the small first aid kit from under the sink, filling a glass of water, pulling a clean towel from the closet. When Choso came back, hair damp and curling at the ends, fresh hoodie pulled over his broad shoulders, he looked... smaller, somehow. Calmer. But still distant, still too quiet. You sat on the couch, patting the spot next to you.

“Come here.” He hesitated again, then crossed the room slowly, sitting down with a grunt. His legs spread wide, shoulders hunched slightly, like he was trying to make himself smaller and failing. You reached for his hands, gently pulling one into your lap. His knuckles were bruised and raw, the skin split in places, crusted blood staining the tape. He watched you quietly as you peeled it away, careful not to pull too hard. You worked slowly, dabbing antiseptic against the cuts, smoothing bandages over the worst of them. Choso didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe hard. Just sat there, letting you take care of him like he didn’t know what to do with it. When you finished, you set the first aid kit aside and curled your fingers lightly around his wrist, thumb brushing over the thick pulse there.

He was still watching you — quiet, unreadable.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and spoke — soft, but sure. “I hated watching that,” you admitted, voice low. “Not because you’re bad at it. You’re good — too good.” Choso’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. “I hated it because I could see it in your face. You don’t love it.” You swallowed, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles against his skin. “You do it because you have to.” His jaw tightened, throat working around words he couldn’t seem to say.

“You fight because you feel like you don’t have a choice,” you said, softer now. “Because it’s the only thing the world’s ever let you be good at.” You shifted closer, your knee brushing his. “But that’s not all you are, Choso.”

His hand flexed under yours, rough fingers twitching like he wanted to grab you but wasn’t sure how. “You’re more than fists and fights and bruises. You’re more than what they want to make you into.” You let the words settle between you, your heart hammering in your chest. When he still didn’t speak, you moved carefully, sliding your hand up from his wrist, along the rough line of his forearm, until you reached his jaw. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a soft breath leaving him. “I have feelings for you,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper now. “I don’t care about the fights. I don’t care about the noise. I just... I care about you.”

His eyes opened, dark and shining, the weight of them settling heavy on you. Slowly, carefully, he turned his face into your palm, pressing a rough kiss to the center of it. You felt it like a brand — warm, aching, real. When he looked at you again, the hardness in his face had cracked wide open, and what you saw there made your chest ache — a softness he tried so hard to hide, a hunger for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Choso didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you stayed like that — quiet, steady, together — as the world outside spun on without you.

The park was warm with the promise of spring. The grass was a deep, lush green, thick and soft underfoot, dotted with little patches of wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. The air smelled clean — fresh-cut grass, distant lilacs, the faintest trace of earth still damp from the morning dew. The sun hung high in a clear blue sky, casting long, lazy shadows that danced over the paths and picnic blankets scattered across the open lawns.

You tugged the edges of your light, flowing maxi dress as you walked beside Choso, the hem brushing against your ankles, catching on the occasional blade of grass. It was the kind of dress that felt like spring itself — soft fabric in muted florals, fitted at the waist and loose around your hips, swishing with every step. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, catching the light, and your cheeks were already pink from the sun.

Choso walked next to you, quiet as usual, but different now. Softer. Calmer. He wore a plain white t-shirt that clung slightly to the strong lines of his chest and arms, the sleeves tight around his biceps, a pair of worn black jeans that sat low on his hips. His boots were scuffed, and his hair was loose today, falling in soft, messy strands around his face, brushing his jaw whenever the breeze picked up. You found a spot under a pecan tree — a little quieter, a little more private — and Choso dropped down onto the grass without hesitation, leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. You sank down beside him, tucking your legs under you, smoothing your dress as you sat.

For a while, you didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. You just sat there, letting the warmth of the afternoon settle into your bones, letting the soft sounds of the park — the distant laughter of kids, the occasional bark of a dog, the low hum of conversation — fill the space between you. Choso shifted slightly, one arm brushing against yours, and you turned to look at him. He was already watching you — not in the heavy, guarded way he had when you first met, but in that slow, steady way he did now, like he was memorizing the way the light played on your hair, the way your cheeks flushed pink, the way your dress pooled around you like you belonged there.

“Got something for you,” he said, voice low. You blinked, surprised, as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small box — not flashy, not fancy, just simple black velvet. He turned it over in his palm once, like he was second-guessing himself, then held it out to you. You took it carefully, heart already racing. Inside, nestled against the dark velvet, was a delicate necklace — a single, small pearl on a fine gold chain, simple and elegant.

You stared at it, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. “It’s not much,” Choso said, voice rougher now, like he was fighting the urge to pull back, to take it away before you could say anything. “But... made me think of you.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. “It’s beautiful,” you said softly, fingers brushing lightly over the pearl. Choso shifted, sitting up straighter, his knees brushing yours. He looked nervous — that quiet kind of nervous he always got when he was about to say something real. He reached out, took the necklace from the box, the chain glinting in the sunlight as he let it drape across his knuckles. “Turn around,” he said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, lifting your hair away from your neck as he moved behind you. His fingers were warm and careful as he clasped the chain, letting the pearl rest just at the hollow of your throat. When you turned back to face him, his hand lingered for a moment, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He sat back, hands resting on his thighs, and stared at you.

“Looks good on you,” he murmured. You smiled — wide and real, cheeks burning — and tucked the pearl lightly between your fingers, feeling the weight of it, small and perfect. Choso shifted again, like he was gathering himself, and then — finally — he spoke. “I been thinkin’ about this for a while,” he said, voice low but steady now. “About you. About us.” You blinked, heart pounding, but stayed quiet. “I don’t do this kinda thing,” he continued, frowning slightly, like he hated how clumsy the words felt in his mouth. “Never really saw the point before.” He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes — something soft, something steady — that made your chest ache.

“But I don’t wanna keep actin’ like you’re just... someone I see sometimes. You’re more than that.” Your breath caught.

He shifted closer, his hand brushing lightly against your knee. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he said, voice low but firm. “If you’ll have me.” You stared at him, heart thudding so hard you thought he might hear it. For a moment, you couldn’t speak — couldn’t even breathe, and then you smiled — big and blushing, eyes bright — and nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’d love to.”

Something in Choso’s face cracked wide open at your words — a slow, soft smile breaking across his mouth, small but real, the kind of smile you’d only ever seen on him when he was truly at peace. You pulled your phone out, grinning as you leaned into him, lifting it up for a selfie. Choso shifted closer without hesitation, one arm slinging loosely around your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip. You snapped the photo — you with your wide, bright smile, cheeks flushed pink, hair tumbling over your shoulders, the delicate pearl at your throat catching the light — and Choso beside you, leaning in close, a soft, rare smile on his face, his dark eyes warm.

You stared at the photo for a moment after, heart full. It wasn’t perfect — the light was a little too harsh, the breeze caught a few strands of your hair across your face — but it didn’t matter. It was real. You turned to him, sliding your phone into your lap, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. Choso turned his head slightly, catching your eyes, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t have to. The world kept spinning, the sun kept shining, but for you — for him — it was enough just to be. Here. Together.

After a while, the buzz of the park faded into the background — the laughter of children chasing soccer balls, the distant bark of a dog, the quiet hum of conversations drifting on the breeze. You shifted, tugging gently on Choso’s hand, and he followed you down without protest, both of you sprawling back onto the grass. The sun was warm overhead, filtering through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows across your skin and the light fabric of your dress. Choso lied beside you, one hand tucked under his head, the other tangled loosely with yours, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your palm. His white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, the cotton thin enough that you could see the faint outlines of old scars and muscle underneath. He looked more at ease here than he ever did anywhere else — the tension gone from his shoulders, the sharp lines of his face softened by the way he watched the sky. You turned your head to look at him, chin tilted slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, voice low, carrying easily in the quiet. Choso huffed a breath — not a laugh, but close — and turned his head to meet your gaze. “You,” he said simply. You smiled, shy but sure, the kind of smile you didn’t have to hide with him anymore. He stared at you for a moment longer, dark eyes steady, and then his thumb brushed higher, skimming the delicate chain of the necklace he’d given you, the pearl catching the sunlight.

“You’re good for me,” he said, voice rough, almost like it hurt him to admit it. You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles where the bruises were already beginning to darken. “You’re good for me too,” you murmured. You lied there a while longer, hands tangled, the quiet wrapping around you like something sacred, something real.

It was perfect.

Until your phone buzzed.

You startled slightly, blinking as you fished it out of the folds of your dress. Choso watched you, curious but unconcerned, as you squinted at the screen.

Dad.

Your heart skipped — not in fear, but that strange, familiar flutter of oh no, what does he know?. You bit your lip, glancing at Choso, and sat up, brushing grass from your dress as you answered. “Hey, Dad.” Choso stayed lying back in the grass, one hand behind his head, but his eyes flicked to you, sharp and attentive now. “Hey, sweetheart,” your father’s voice came through, warm but firm. “What are you up to?” You smiled, glancing down at Choso. “I’m at the park.” There was a pause — not long, but long enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Your brothers came by the house yesterday,” your dad said, voice casual in a way that wasn’t really casual at all. “Told your mother and me a little about this guy you’ve been spending time with.” You winced, heart dropping slightly.

“They’re just worried,” you said quickly, picking at the hem of your dress. “But it’s not what they think. He’s... he’s really good to me.” There was another pause. You could picture your dad sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, frowning thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, slower now. “If you’re serious about him, I think it’s about time your mother and I meet him.” You swallowed, glancing nervously at Choso. He was still watching you — not tense, not worried, just waiting.

“I think that’s fair,” you said carefully. “I can talk to him.”

“Good,” your dad said, voice softening a little. “We just want to know the man our daughter’s spending so much time with. You know how we are.” You smiled, feeling the tightness in your chest ease a little. “Yeah. I know.”

“Alright. You set it up. Let me know when.”

“I will.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

You hung up, setting the phone carefully in your lap, exhaling slowly. Choso sat up then, brushing grass from his jeans, brows lifted in silent question. You smiled, soft but a little nervous. “So,” you said, voice light. “That was my dad.” Choso smirked faintly, nudging your knee with his. “Yeah? What’s he want?” You bit your lip, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He wants to meet you.” Choso blinked, the smirk dropping from his face. You rushed to fill the space, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly over his hand.

“You don’t have to say yes right now. I can talk to them, set something up later. They’re just... protective.” Choso stared at you for a moment, expression unreadable, and you felt your stomach twist, afraid maybe it was too much too soon. But then he sighed, slow and deep, and turned his hand over, linking his fingers with yours again. “They should know who’s takin’ care of their daughter,” he said, voice low but sure. You smiled, heart tight and full all at once. Choso squeezed your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Set it up,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

And just like that — in the warm spring afternoon, with the grass cool beneath you and the sky wide and endless overhead — you realized you weren’t scared anymore. Not of the future. Not with him. Not together.

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Riddle Rosehearts - Apprentice Chef Vignette

"Master Chef"

[Kitchen]

Master Chef ― Riddle Version ～Let’s Make Cabbage Rolls 1～

Riddle: Peel off the outer leaves of the cabbage and cut off the stems… Alright, I've finished the recipe up to this point.

Riddle: Next is parboiling. Once that is completed, I take the cabbage leaves and roll the meat up inside.

Riddle: There is nothing on the recipe stating what size leaf to use…

Riddle: Should I cut them into handkerchief-sized square with scissors?

Riddle: No, wait. If I were to take into account the different thickness of the leaves, it may be more prudent for uniformity to align them by their weight in grams...

Ghost Chef: Riddle-kun, what's the matter?

Riddle: Chef. Perfect timing, there is something I hope you could help me with.

Riddle: Should the cabbage leaves be of uniform shape and weight?

Ghost Chef: There's no need to align them perfectly. You can adjust when you're rolling them.

Riddle: I see. Then, I shall leave the cabbage leaves as is. May I ask another question?

Ghost Chef: Of course! What is it?

Riddle: I would like to know the volume of water necessary to parboil. This also is not specified in the recipe.

Ghost Chef: You just want enough to cover the cabbage leaves. There's no need to measure it out too precisely.

Ghost Chef: Now, go ahead and start the next step in the process while waiting for the pot to boil!

Riddle: Yes, sir.

Ghost Chef: Now then, time to make the meat filling. First, we'll mince some onions!

Riddle: Mince the onions… If I recall, that should result in 1-2 millimeter squares. Alright, I'll measure the size with a ruler…

Ghost Chef: STOOOOOOP!

Riddle: ? What is it, Chef?

Ghost Chef: It'll be OK just as long as they're fairly small in size. You don't need a ruler. Besides, they'll change shape as it cooks, anyway.

Riddle: I-Is that right? But the sizes should be as uniform as possible…

Ghost Chef: You were measuring everything down to the milliliter. Riddle-kun, you're a very cautious fellow, aren't you～?

Ghost Chef: By the way, why did you decide to take this Master Chef course?

Riddle: I believed that, as a Housewarden, I should be the best at not only academics, but also cooking.

Riddle: Also…

Riddle: In order to become more independent… I thought it would be best to start gaining experience in earning a paycheck.

Ghost Chef: Mhmm. Looking to the future is always a good motive!

Ghost Chef: Then Silver-kun, what about you?

Silver: Why did I sign up for Master Chef? Riddle invited me.

Silver: "Cooking requires concentration. This could be good practice to help you keep from dozing off."

Silver: …Is what he said, and so far, it seems he was spot on. Moreover, I had always been considering improving my cooking skills.

Ghost Chef: But it looked like you have some experience cooking, yes? You didn't seem to have any issues using the cooking equipment.

Silver: I do not know if I can state to have experience.

Silver: I do very basic cooking; simply cook with salt and pepper… That is why I would like to increase my repertoire.

Silver: I would like to provide more delicious meals to my father in return for him raising me.

Silver: In addition, similar to Riddle, I also was drawn to the premise of the paycheck.

Silver: If I can start saving up money, I would be less of a burden on my father in the future.

Ghost Chef: Sniffle… Silver-kun, you are such a devoted child!

Riddle: …Uuuu…

Silver: Hm? What is it, Riddle?

Riddle: Krk… Weeh!! I-I can't stop crying…

Ghost Chef: Ah! Riddle-kun… Did Silver-kun's story just now move you to tears!?

Ghost Chef: Yes, yes, I understand! I completely understand! I also could feel the tears start to well up…

Riddle: N-No, sir. That isn't it! Yes, it was a touching story, but that isn't the reason for these tears…

Riddle: The…

Silver/Ghost Chef: The?

Riddle: The onions are hurting my eyes～～～!!!

Ghost Chef: Wait, that's why you were crying!? That was so misleading!!

Silver: I've had the same thing happen to me before. Are you alright, Riddle?

Riddle: I-I'm not alright! What can I do to stop this from happening!?

Silver: Ah, wait, Riddle. You shouldn’t rub your eyes…

Riddle: Wah! It got even worse… I-It stings～～～～!!!

Ghost Chef: Oh, Riddle-kun! Your meat filling is looking good.

Ghost Chef: Er, I was worried when you started crying earlier, but it looks like you've made it to this point with no other issues.

Ghost Chef: Okay! Time for the next step where we roll the meat into the cabbage leaves.

Riddle: Ah, no, I haven't finished adjusting the sizes of the four meat portions yet! I just need to adjust them a little more…

Ghost Chef: It'll be fine! Once you wrap them in the cabbage, you won't even notice it.

Ghost Chef: Besides, the longer you take, the less fresh your ingredients will be.

Riddle: Hmm. It does rub me the wrong way, but… I understand. I shall do as you say, Chef.

Riddle: Now I wrap the boiled cabbage around the meat filling. The recipe said to "wrap it tightly," so…

[rip]

Riddle: Aaah! I pulled it a little too much and the cabbage ripped!

Ghost Chef: Oh dear, now the filling will spill out from the seam.

Ghost Chef: Here you go, try again with another cabbage leaf.

Riddle: Urgh…! I'll definitely wrap it up well this next time!

[Kitchen]

Master Chef ― Riddle Version ～Let’s Make Cabbage Rolls 2～

Riddle: The next step says… "Cook the cabbage rolls for 20 minutes"

Riddle: I'll place the cabbage rolls in the pan, add water, consommé, salt, and pepper, then turn the heat on…

Riddle: Alright, done.

Ghost Chef: As long as you remember to skim off the excess oil from time to time, this shouldn't be too difficult a step.

Ghost Chef: Now then, Riddle-kun. While we watch the pan, how about we discuss your day?

Ghost Chef: How was taking the Master Chef course?

Riddle: Let me think… Compared to how I saw Silver cooking beside me, I could tell that I still have much to learn.

Riddle: In addition, despite having perfectly memorized the recipe, there were still some difficulties when I attempted to put the process into action.

Ghost Chef: Ah, yes, there's definitely minute details or measurements that tend to be left out of the instructions, that's true～

Riddle: Right. That drove home even harder the realization that proper understanding only comes through experience.

Silver: I suppose that means that even someone who excels in his studies, like you, still requires extensive training in order to complete the Master Chef course.

Riddle: That's right. There are still many things out there that I do not have the know-how, or have never done, in addition to cooking.

Riddle: Today was a good opportunity to come to that realization.

Ghost Chef: Aaah, I never grow tired of seeing young ones like you strive to improve yourselves!

Ghost Chef: Riddle-kun, I will be looking forward to seeing you continue growing!

Ghost Chef: Now, your cabbage rolls should be nearing completion. We should bring them out to the judge to try.

Riddle: Yes, sir!

[Cafeteria – Judging Venue]

Riddle: Alright, time for me to bring my finished cabbage rolls to the judge's table.

Riddle: The assigned judge to taste my dish is…

Riddle: Wait, Malleus-senpai!?

Malleus: Ah, Rosehearts. I see, you are cooking today.

Riddle: Y-Yes.

Riddle: I present the cabbage rolls that I made. Please give me your honest critique.

Malleus: …Well, well. These cabbage rolls seem to differ in size by quite a bit.

Malleus: You could imagine they are parent and child sized rolls, from the way they look side-by-side.

Riddle: Urgh… That's… completely true…

Malleus: Well then, I shall give them a taste.

[bite, chew, chew…]

Riddle: (I measured the ingredients out just as the recipe stated. Looks aside, I cannot imagine that there is any errors with the flavor…)

Riddle: …How fares it?

Malleus: It is not inedible. However…

Malleus: This dish was made by someone, namely you, who constantly achieves the highest marks of all sophomores.

Malleus: I must admit, I was ecstatic to see what sort of fantastic creation would be served…

Malleus: Yet both the flavor and plating are mediocre. Perhaps my expectations were a tad too high.

Riddle: …!

Riddle: …Thank you for your honest feedback.

Riddle: …......

Ghost Chef: Now, now! You did great for your first Master Chef!

Ghost Chef: Riddle-kun, if you want to get better, I'll be happy to teach you anytime.

Ghost Chef: Please, come try this course again sometime!

Riddle: …Yes, Chef. Thank you for coaching me today.

Riddle: …It seems I still have much to learn before I can hold my head high as a chef.

Riddle: However, I can't just quit here simply because I've hit a roadblock.

Riddle: One day I, Riddle Rosehearts, will also be the best chef in this academy!

Requested by Anonymous.

[shizuturnspages]

y'know those really fancy Victorian dresses?

yan Diluc seems like the type to dress his darling in the most extravagant luxury dresses he can find, dresses with ridiculously long tails adorned with the softest silks and velvets. Dresses that are near impossible to work in. He'd fill your closet with them, there's not a single dress would be suitable for going out. Why? To subtly discourage his darling to leave dawn winery. Oh, you want to go out in that dress? It's so long, you could trip, it could tear, you shouldn't be walking about in that (where monsters could attack you). I'll fetch a carriage and we'll go out on a ride in it together around mondstadt with my claymore right next to me incase anything tries to attack you like on my 18th birthday

I also imagine he'd sprinkle in some super fancy wedding dresses, he'd never refer to them as wedding dresses, he'd assure that they're just normal dresses totally not designed to be worn to a wedding. Why? Honestly it's just fanservice for him- NOT the sexual kind, he just likes seeing his darling in wedding dresses so he can fantasize picture your future potential wedding

Velvet Chains & Wedding Lace

Synopsis: You don’t notice the cage at first. It’s beautiful. Velvet-lined. Gold-trimmed. A wardrobe filled with gowns fit for royalty, each more delicate than the last. At first, it feels like love—until you realise every lace-threaded hem was a chain, every stitched corset a quiet reminder: you are adored, but you are kept. And no one keeps you better than him. Pairing: Yandere Diluc x Reader

You’d never worn a dress so heavy it made breathing a chore until you came to Dawn Winery.

At first, it was endearing. A lavish welcome gift—a gown of crushed crimson velvet trimmed in golden lace, delicate as spiderwebs, wrapped in a black satin bow. The tail dragged nearly two feet behind you. When you gasped softly and whispered, “This looks like a wedding dress…”, Diluc had only smiled.

“Don’t be silly,” he murmured. “It’s just… formal. For you. To match the manor.”

Your room’s closet doubled in size within days. Floor-length mirrors were brought in. Velvet-lined boxes stacked in neat towers. Each dress more elaborate than the last—corsets you couldn’t lace yourself, heels too dainty for Mondstadt’s cobbled streets, skirts too wide to fit through most doorways without turning sideways.

“Try this one next,” he’d murmur, his hand ghosting over your shoulder. “The blue brings out your eyes.”

You never wore pants again. Not even inside. They disappeared. Replaced with layers upon layers of silks, ruffles, laces, gold thread. Even your nightwear—nightwear, mind you—carried intricate stitching and imported Sumeran lace.

The day you tried to leave the estate for a stroll, Diluc appeared at the door before your hand even touched the handle. His expression unreadable, voice calm but firm.

“In that?” he asked, gesturing to your dress.

You looked down—white with scarlet embroidery across the hem. Train dragging like a bridal veil. “I thought it’d be okay—”

“You’ll trip. Or tear the hem. Or worse—be spotted by something.” He brushed a stray curl from your face. “No. Wait inside. I’ll have the carriage prepared.”

You never walked through Mondstadt again. You rode beside him—always beside him, in a padded velvet interior, with a heavy claymore on his back and his gloved hand resting near your knee, casual in appearance but weighted like a promise.

“Wouldn’t want anything happening to you,” he’d say softly.

As if he weren’t the most dangerous thing in the carriage.

Then… there are the white ones.

Soft ivory. Cream. Porcelain lace and diamond-pinned veils.

He never refers to them as what they are. When you ask, “Isn’t this… a wedding dress?”

He tilts his head, feigning innocent confusion. “Is it?” he murmurs. “I thought it was simply… ceremonial. A design I found captivating.”

But he watches you in those dresses. With a look in his eyes so heavy with reverence, you feel like a holy thing.

And when you twirl before the mirror, laughing nervously at how ridiculously elegant it is, he smiles. A slow, fond smile.

His mind is already far, far ahead.

He’s picturing the altar. The candles. The moment he’ll say, “I do.”

He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear and says, “You look as if you’ve always belonged in something like this.”

He doesn’t need chains. He’ll bind you with lace, silk, and devotion that makes even the prettiest dresses feel like prison bars made of tulle.

[dudewheresmynug]

Rook's Hobbies

I've been tagged in so many amazing Rook games that I decided to make one!!

For this, I'm going to tag @rooks-dagger @dancing--lights @trashwithvariety @justanecho94 @herald-divine-hell @razzberrydazz and @zombiefishgirl. No pressure! I would love to learn more about what your Rooks enjoy 🥰

Obviously, the tag is also open to anyone else who would like to try it! Please let me know if you do!

Rules: Post a few of your Rook's hobbies and write an explanation (however long you'd like) describing why they enjoy them. Then, tag some other people to play!

Lydia Thorne

Reading

A lifelong hobby of hers, Lydia enjoys nothing more than getting into a good book. Surprisingly, she mostly engages with historical or magical texts. She's always looking to advance her magic, or learn something new, or understand something that unsettles her. It's uncommon for Lydia to fall into a storybook, but not unheard of. When she does find herself getting engrossed in a story, it's usually the sappiest romance she can find. Or, it's something action-packed and high-stakes. Reading is the only hobby Lydia has that she would hate to have interrupted. Honestly, she'll ignore the culprit at best, and throw something at worst. Her favorite book of all time is The History of the Grey, which, as the title suggests, is about the history of the Grey Wardens. She first read the book when she was a kid, and she ended up stealing it from the Circle library when the tower fell. She keeps it with her even at the lighthouse.

Writing Poetry

Lydia keeps a few secret journals for poetry. This isn't a hobby she tends to share freely; instead, she's a bit embarrassed by it. That being said, she goes to lengths to keep this part of herself hidden. Lydia bought her first journal for her 24th birthday, her first birthday after joining the Order. She initially bought the journal because its design caught her eye, and she put it to good use! She would make bullet point lists about how she was doing, or what she was thinking (much like regular journaling). These eventually turned into lists about her surroundings, or recent events, and how they made her feel, and what they made her think and remember. She would also write about things she wanted to be able to reflect on in the future. From there, she slipped into the habit of writing poetry whenever she needed to process something. It was a great coping mechanism while she dealt with deep depression in the Order. Lydia will also write about her magic use or about her friends. Then, when she starts crushing on Neve, she writes about Neve. A lot. Likeee a lot a lot. And Davrin, a lot, after he dies.

Nature Walks/ Running

Lydia needs to be outdoors a LOT. Years of growing up in the circle made her less than a fan of being in enclosed spaces, especially for long periods. During those 7 years she spent living at home with her parents, after the Circle and before the Order, Lydia could often be found outside. She would hang around the farm, but she also had her little areas around Crestwood, which would be her refuge. She also enjoyed sleeping outside, which she would do as much as possible (as weather and parents allowed). Being in the Fade is...weird? It looks outsideish enough for Lydia to feel comfortable, but she still prefers not to sleep in her own room. She spends a LOT of time in Harding's room, actually. Davrin's "touching grass" trips are super helpful for her. In that same vein, Lydia really enjoys running. She's fast and has great stamina. She loves the rush she gets during and after a good run and loves the feeling of fresh air filling her lungs. She'd definitely be the type to sign up for multiple marathons a year. Lydia has definitely also challenged some (all) of her friends to races. Neve smokes her every damn time (seriously have you ever panned the camera up while running around with Neve in game? She's fast as fuck).

Baking Bread

This is a lesser-known hobby of Lydia's because she doesn't get to do it very often. Her father grew up working for his family's bakery (more of a flour mill that also baked and sold bread), so he's an expert at baking bread. Her mother has the skill, too. Baking bread was one of the ways Lydia's parents bonded with her when she came home from the Circle. It was a calm task with enough personal care put into it that Lydia could handle it without becoming overwhelmed. Lydia doesn't talk about this hobby because it reminds her of her parents, and she doesn't like to think about them. Baking bread becomes a happier hobby once she finally reunites with them. By extension, Lydia also enjoys cooking. Nothing is better than a hot and hearty dish, though she can slap a suitable meal together with whatever's lying around. She doesn't get much kitchen time, though, because Lucanis tends to cook nearly every day.

A Nice Game of (Drunk) Darts

Another one of Lydia's lesser-known hobbies, Lydia enjoys a nice competitive game of darts. As the section title suggests, it's even more fun for Lydia if she's had a few drinks. Lydia started playing darts during her time in the Order -- it was one of the games she and the other recruits would play to bond. Lydia is an alright shot on the regular. Drunk Lydia is either phenomenal or horrible, depending on the night. She's been known to throw the darts too hard or insist on getting an extra turn if she misses. She has also, on several occasions, gotten worked up enough over being heckled by other players that her magic has sparked. Unfortunately, my girl is competitive as all hell. She'll create extra challenges or rewards/punishments to make the game more interesting. She's not always a sore loser, but she can be! When she is, she's getting into shouting matches, or talking shit, or storming off in a huff. Still, she claims that the game relaxes her! Losing her favorite elemental orb in a match once has also taught her not to gamble.

Thank you for reading this (not so short) post! Can't wait to see what your Rooks enjoy <3

[imflyingfish]

hhhhhrrrrngggggggg

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

please draw werewolf doc when u have the chance

stick to physics, doc

transcript, bc my handwriting is shoddy but i'm too lazy to fix it:

DOC: duhuhhhh- Marty! MARTY: Yeah Doc what's up? DOC: You know that thing I was working on with Einstein? MARTY: Yeah, what about it? DOC: Well, uhhhh. How do I put this- MARTY: Oh my god, Einstein! MARTY: He's not- DOC: No, no, Einstein's perfectly alright, don't worry. It's just- DOC: There's been a... recent development. As you can see. MARTY: MARTY: (the floor calls to him.) DOC: Marty-

bonus doodles:

[souenkun]

Judging from these panels, would it mean that there's no other yorishima exorcist that's still alive (since natori said that the yorishima family "was once" a big name, past tense) in the canon timeline, and that the yorishima we know probably ended his family's exorcism business for good by retiring himself? If so, was the reason tied to the youkai living in his left arm, or is there another cause? And when exactly did he retire— was it before or during seiji and shuuichi's high school days, which was why his left arm appeared with the thick bandages when he gave them the loquats in the anime, but he still lived in the estate during that time, or was it after the two became legal adults, which lined up somewhat with him moving into his forest home, abandoning his family estate in favor of living in isolation?

And, speaking of retirement, I wonder if we'll ever know why midorikawa told us that the takis were "famous" (which presumedly meant they were strong enough to be well-known) as occult diviners, since tooru herself only ever mentioned what their previous family business entails, and never about their status in the exorcism community? We don't really need this extra bit if she wanted to further establish how tooru has an aptitude for spell-casting, either. Again, there's another "strong" family (whose members are still alive in canon) that went into retirement, but did the taki family lost their power because the ability to see (if they were needed for diviners) disappeared for at least the last three generations (if we assumed that tooru and isamu's parents couldn't see youkai too), or was it due to another reason? How close was shinichiro (tooru and isamu's grandpa) to the matobas that even the current clan head came to pay his respects during his sixth death anniversary; was his relationship with seiji's father strictly resolved around exorcism business, or was anything else involved? Does tooru herself doesn't fully understand the prowess her family once had, hence why seiji was the one who told takashi (and us readers) about it? What would this tiny bit of lore mean for tooru with it revealed this late into the manga, when tooru herself only talked sparsely about her ancestors in previous chapters?

[fallout-lou-begas]

sometimes i think the jokes about the immortal humor and heavily trans playerbase of team fortress 2 are exaggerated but i just spent the hours of 11:00 PM - 1:00 AM with no more than four other players on one map just goofing off with killbinds and taunts and also talking in the chatbox about different estrogen methods

[necromycologist]

random thought + i don’t know enough about classic fantasy to make a real point abt this but it’s kinda interesting how much fantasy (portal fantasy just by consequence of the genres implications ofc but more classic high fantasy too) is absolutely goddamn SUFFUSED with nostalgia and this bitter longing for childhood/a more innocent past/to Go Back. both lotr and narnia play heavily on this idea that you can’t go back to the world you used to know, and how much that hurts. (i wonder very much if it’s related to christian ideas of original sin and leaving the garden (and quite possibly also the trauma of the war) but that’s neither here nor there.) it’s a very pervasive message, and a very tempting one in some ways, but it’s always rankled me even when reading these books for the first time— prince caspian, for example, is a wonderful yarn, but i’ve never found it an enjoyable read. the horror of a narnia changed is so palpable both for the characters and for the reader it’s hard to really enjoy the bright moments. it simply robs so much agency and joy from all involved. your life will be beautiful, and then it will be gone, and you will never be able to return to it (until you die and reach heaven, which even then is a stopgap to the return you really want). not that our fantasy needs to be moral, but i don’t think that’s a particularly healthy or satisfying story to be telling ourselves! i like his dark materials’s take on this a lot better, i think; we can’t go backwards, of course we can’t, but we CAN go forward. that’s the only choice we can make. there’s nothing waiting for us.

[authenticcadence18]

new girl has given me so much of my joy back i feel like my old self again

[abernathyvalois]

Hm

[secondpersonpoetry]

you’ve probably already read it before, but the poem Party by Kim Addonizio really got me tonight. first thought was “oh man. yeah” and then my second thought was “how can i make this about my hockey guys somehow………..”anyway! have a good one! 

oh. oh.

​

[akkivee]

kuukou encourages and believes in jyushi’s strength while firmly believing that he’s a weak person. if kuukou is having a bit of a rough time forgiving himself for past mistakes while telling hitoya that he needs to move on from his past weighing him down in harmonious cooperation, then i hope with every fibre of my being that this is going to be something jyushi and hitoya are actively saving kuukou from (from himself lol)