#constructive criticism requested

[mere-vanilla]

Here it is! I made a very rough first try at the Silver Crystal pendant from the Sailor Moon manga. I used a multi-tool pair of pliers, due to my other tools being in storage.

Image description: three cell phone photos of a glass prism pendant attached to a station chain. The necklace is overlaid on pages of the Sailor Moon manga where the Silver Crystal pendant is most visible, so as to see the similarities and differences in each. End image description.

[inkedtension]

Hypothesis: You’re Mine

requested. Nerd Gojo x reader (smut)

***********************

You don’t know exactly when he started studying you, but if you asked him, Gojo Satoru would say it was the first time you beat him.

Not at math—that’d be too predictable. He had pride in his equations. He had owned that mathlete crown since middle school. But you walked into physics lab on the first day of your second year, not just knowing the concepts, but folding space-time diagrams like origami, talking about entropy like it was a bedtime story.

You were beautiful. It hurt. And worse—you were clever. Unforgivingly clever.

He was done for.

From that moment on, you were the only variable worth solving. And Gojo, loser among men, gangly and twitchy with glasses and pens sticking out of his hoodie pocket, began documenting you like a Nobel prize experiment.

“Subject: [Name]. Lab Partner. Goddess. Entity of Devastation.”

You always looked perfect. Not just cute or pretty—sharp. Lip tint just enough to make him bite his own. Glasses? Rarely. You didn’t need them—your vision was already too clear. And your answers in class? Always correct. Always concise. You didn’t speak often, but when you did, people shut up.

And he listened. He recorded. He analyzed.

He had a whole Google Doc titled:

“Nobel_Potential_Tensor_Calculations.”

The Complete Observational Thesis : Personality, Patterns, Perfections, and Maybe One Day… Consent.

It had tabs:

Wardrobe rotation patterns (updated every week)

Pencil preference (Which he archived when you left them behind)

Tone shift when addressing classmates vs. him ("Everyone else = flat or neutral. With me = teasing, sarcastic...flirty?? Hypothesis: She knows. She wants me dead.")

He was beyond salvation.

Everyone thought you had a thing for the basketball team. Guys with tattoos and overconfident smirks. 

But no. You weren’t into the jocks. He’d studied that, too. Watched how your eyes barely twitched when they flirted. But in the lab, when he muttered something under his breath and you leaned in with a smirk and said, “Come again, Satoru?”—

That was the first time you called him by name.

Yeah, he almost did come again.

His brain exploded. Then imploded. Then exploded again.

He fumbled with his notes, his pen, his mouth. You’d said Satoru like it meant something. Like you were letting him in on something private. And that was the moment.

He got worse after that.

He rewound that syllable in his mind on loop, like a prayer: Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…

In the privacy of his dorm room, he’d press his face into the hoodie you once borrowed when the classroom was too cold. He never washed it. He never could. It smelled like your shampoo and something divine.

His hand would drift down. His breathing shallow. And all he’d see was your expression when you said his name.

He wasn’t proud of this part of himself.

He nearly died. From arousal or humiliation—or arousal by humiliation—unclear.

 But he wasn’t sorry, either.

You knew.

God, of course you knew.

You noticed the way he twitched when you leaned too close during lab. The way his hand would tremble if yours brushed it by accident. The way he stared—like he was watching a star about to collapse into itself.

You weren’t oblivious. Just patient. Meticulous.

You knew what he was. A pervert. A loser. A genius. And you liked it. You liked him. How can you not?

But why let him know all that? It was more fun this way.

You wore a little more perfume when you knew you’d be lab partners. Purposely tied your hair up so your nape showed. Sat next to him in the library, thighs barely brushing, and didn’t move.

You whispered his name sometimes—only sometimes—just to watch him suffer.

"Satoru, can you hand me that? Thanks."

And that one time you said, "You smell nice today."

He didn’t breathe for twelve whole seconds. He counted.

He didn’t want it to stop.

He had dreams. Filthy ones. You, in his hoodie and nothing else, sitting on his desk with your legs parted. Wearing his glasses, and they were fogged from the heat of it all.

He didn’t want it to stop.

He'd wake up sticky, aching, and trembling, whispering your name like a lunatic. Then he’d go to class and pretend he hadn’t spent the last eight hours picturing your moans.

Every time you leaned over to help him debug a line of code, every time you tilted your head and smiled lazily at him like you knew he wanted to ruin you on a lab bench—he choked. Figuratively. Sometimes literally.

He’d beat off after class so often it started to feel like a Pavlovian response to the sound of your voice.

But he never asked you, never touched you. Never even tried.

Because Gojo Satoru, freak that he was, needed your yes more than he needed oxygen. He'd wait. Forever, if he had to.

But if you ever whispered that consent?

He’d ruin you with the kind of obsession that doesn’t come back from the brink.

One rainy Thursday, you sat next to him during a lab session and sighed dramatically. “Laptop’s dead. Guess I’ll just wait.”

He offered his. A little too fast. “You—you can use mine.”

“Oh?” You blinked slowly at him. “Won’t that leave you helpless and alone without your lifeline?”

He flushed. “I–I can manage.”

Of course, that was the moment Suguru texted. Something about the court. Satoru hesitated. You looked up at him from under your lashes, already pulling the laptop toward yourself.

“Go. I promise not to look at your other things.”

He laughed nervously. If only you knew.

Except… you did.

And by the time he returned—sweaty, flushed from playing one very bad half of basketball—he opened the lab door and nearly dropped dead.

There you were, brows slightly raised. One finger delicately on the trackpad. Lips formed in what could only be described as a fell-from-hell smirk and—

Amusement.

A single chill ran down his spine.

“Uh,” Gojo wheezed, stepping closer, dread forming in his gut like a black hole. “What… are you reading?”

You turned your head slowly, like a predator who’d just caught something squirming.

Your voice came out smooth. Too smooth.

“You’re thorough, Satoru. I’ll give you that.”

Well in your defence, his hard drive had an entire folder encrypted under layers of fake research data—labelled as “Nobel_Potential_Tensor_Calculations.” Inside was the real data. About you.

It had everything. What coffee you liked. How often you changed your perfume. A spreadsheet of your class schedule. A compiled zip of your voice memos from shared project meetings. A screenshot folder filled with blurry images from zoom meetings—your face caught mid-laugh. He had graphs of your seating preferences. Charts of your skirt lengths per semester. Hypotheses filed under “Effects of Verbal Affirmation on My Autonomic Response.” Subfolder: She Called Me ‘Satoru’ Twice This Month.

Creepy, you'd call, if you hadn't done some 'research' on him yourself.

well, he doesnt have to know that, right?

You looked up slowly. Smiling. “’Behavioral Log, 3:52PM. She touched my hand accidentally. Temperature spike. Heart rate elevated.’” You raised a brow. “This is... dense research, Satoru.”

His mouth opened. Closed. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry. His cock? Already twitching like a traitor.

“I—It’s just a dumb— It’s not real research, I just—”

You tilted your head. “Didn’t know I was the subject of an ongoing study.”

He stepped back, hard, like your chair was a landmine. His whole face flamed. His breath was shallow. You were still reading. Still smiling, smugly.

“I especially liked the part where you documented what lip balm I wear.” You tilted the screen toward him. “‘Subject applied Burt’s Bees pomegranate at 9:42 AM. Lip-to-cup contact observed. Resisted urge to bite desk.’ That’s cute.”

His soul left his body.

You kept going, merciless.

“Also, I can’t believe you actually made a flowchart about my laugh. What were the categories again? ‘Soft and rare,’ ‘cynical chuckle,’ and…” You grinned, devilish. “‘Accidental wheeze—induced during suggestive jokes.’”

He was going to combust. Right there. Just explode into a puff of shame, lust, and regret.

He wanted to fuck you on that desk. With his glasses slipping down your nose, with his name on your tongue, with your thighs shaking around his head while he shoved that smugness right out of you. Right here. Now.

And then—you walked away. As if you hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it into the very core of his existence.

Well, you were wet.

Gojo sat down. Hard.

He stared at the screen.

His entire manifesto was still open.

“...fuck,” he whispered.

He came in his boxers on the way to the locker room. No hands. Just the memory of your voice purring the word Satoru while reading from his worst-kept secret.

Arousal by humiliation, it is.

He didn’t talk to you for three days.

You didn’t make it easy.

You laughed a little too loud when he passed by. You pressed too close at the vending machine. You dropped your pen on his desk. And today—today you “accidentally” fell into his lap during the club meeting.

“Oops,” you whispered, blinking up at him.

He’d frozen. Completely. You were sitting on him. Right on him. His cock pressed against your ass through just four-maybe layers of fabric. He was stiff in more ways than one. If he didn’t move you soon, he’d—god, no. Not again.

You stood too late.

He excused himself with a choked, “Sorry! Be right back!” and nearly tripped out of the room.

He ran to Suguru again. “Spare pants. Please. Please—”

“You came again?”

“Shut up, it’s not—shut up—”

Gojo didn’t even want to know how much Suguru already knew. He didn’t even want to think about how Suguru might’ve pieced this together.

The next day, you were nowhere. No hallway run-ins. No sarcastic greetings. No sly jokes. He was almost relieved.

Until someone grabbed him and yanked him into the abandoned AV room.

“—wha—!”

You. Chest heaving. Eyes angry. Hands gripping his collar.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Shut up.”

You shoved him against the wall, your body flush against his. He could feel your warmth through your clothes. Your breath on his neck.

“You wanna fuck me, right?” you asked lowly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You wanna bend me over this table and fuck me like a little experiment, right?”

His knees nearly buckled.

“Well?”

He opened his mouth to stammer something—anything—when you slowly, deliberately, knelt.

He stopped breathing.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, undoing his belt.

“Tell me,” you repeated, glancing up at him. “Tell me no.”

He was shaking.

When you pulled his pants down and his hard, flushed cock sprang free,

Your lips parted slightly in awe, eyes widening at the full length of him, flushed and twitching, precum already smeared against your lower lip. You let out a low, breathy gasp.

“Oh my god, Satoru—” That broke him.

A sharp growl escaped his throat—one you’d never heard from him before. He yanked off his glasses with one hand,

“I wanna see you in them.” he murmured. His voice was hoarse now. Deeper.

His fingers brushed against your hair as he bent slightly, lifting the frames.

You watched him , even though your heart was thudding in your chest. There was something raw, desperate in the way he handled the glasses. Something that made your pulse spike.

He pressed the glasses back onto your face. The delicate weight of them slid down your nose slightly.

The moment your mouth wrapped around him—warm, wet, slowly easing him past your lips like you were savoring him—Satoru’s mind went blank.

Gone. No equations, no frantic calculations, no escape route. Just the heat of your mouth and the dangerous way you were watching him, eyes half-lidded, smug, daring him to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re really—ah—”

Your hand gripped the base of his cock, stroking him gently while your tongue flicked over the head. His legs trembled.

His hand on your head tightened slightly, clutching your hair, not pushing, just guiding. You moaned—just faintly, just enough—and the vibration nearly made him lose control. He throbbed against your tongue.

“Shit—okay, yeah, like that, just—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You were trying to keep control, but he could see the strain in your throat as you took more of him. Could feel your saliva sliding warm and messy down the base. Your jaw trembled around him. Your hand squeezed his thigh for balance, and that alone made him buck forward just a little, hitting the back of your throat.

You choked, just a bit. Gagged. Pulled back with a small whimper and your eyes watering.

And then—then you looked up again. When did he pull up his oversized cardigan and put the edge in his mouth? You didn’t know but God, was it hot.

The glasses were a little crooked now. Your lips were swollen. And you smiled.

He let out the loudest moan yet. Desperate. Raspy. Feral.

“God, you’re—are you even real?” he whispered, breath hitching again. “Been jerking off to this for months. And you—you just—fuck—”

You moaned around him again, deliberately this time, teasing.

He let out a choked curse. His grip in your hair tightened more firmly now, finally taking control of the pace—slow, deliberate thrusts into your mouth, watching his cock slide between your lips. His thighs were tensing. His voice was breaking.

“You wanted this,” he hissed, gently rocking his hips into you. “All those little games—you knew. You knew what you were doing to me.”

You pulled off for air, nodding.

He groaned—long and low—and then pushed back into your mouth, deeper, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, desperate now. “Fuck, don’t you dare stop—just like that—”

he came down your throat while pushing your head down so that your nose touched the base of his happy trail.

He swears he never came that hard his entire life.

Well, it was safe to say he didn’t hold back after that day.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Constructive Criticism

Dale Carnegie's 9-step guide

Begin with praise and honest appreciation. Carnegie believes, 'Beginning with praise is like the dentist who begins his work with Novocain. The patient still gets a drilling but the Novocain is pain killing.'

Call attention to people's mistakes indirectly. Carnegie suggests that we substitute 'but' for 'and'. He uses an example, 'We're really proud of you for raising your grades this term, and by continuing the same efforts next term, your algebra grade can be up with all the others.' Here, we have called attention to the behaviour we wish to change indirectly, and the chances are the person will try and live up to our expectations.

Talk about your own mistakes before criticising the other person. If you do have to highlight someone's faults, you should do so humbly. If the person criticising begins by admitting the fact that they themselves are far from perfect it will be less difficult to listen to a recital of your own faults.

Ask questions instead of giving direct orders. By asking questions you often stimulate the creativity of others. Carnegie believes that, 'People are more likely to accept an order if they have had a part in the decision that caused the order to be issued.'

Let the other person save face. The importance of allowing someone to save face can't be underestimated. Too often people 'ride roughshod over the feelings of others, getting our own way, finding fault, issuing threats, criticising a child or an employee in front of others, without even considering the hurt to the other person's pride.' If we considered the other person’s feelings it would go a long way in alleviating the sting.

Praise the slightest improvement and praise every improvement. We should take the opportunity to praise even the smallest improvement in ability. By doing so it inspires the other person to make a continued effort and to keep on improving. Carnegie writes, 'Abilities wither under criticism; they blossom under encouragement.'

Give the other person a reputation to live up to. If there is a certain area in which you wish someone to improve, Carnegie believes you should act as though that particular trait was already one of his or her outstanding characteristics. If you give them a reputation to live up to, they will make a determined effort rather than see you let down. 

Use encouragement, make the fault seem easy to correct. Be liberal with your encouragement, let the other person know that you believe in their ability to take the required action and that the necessary changes are easy to carry out. By doing so they will be more inclined to practise and they will not see the problem as insurmountable.

Make the other person happy about doing the thing you suggest. Ultimately, people are often motivated by personal gain. Concentrate on the benefits to the other person and be empathetic. Ask yourself what it is that the other person really wants and convey to them that they will personally benefit from taking action. 

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[whomstsnek]

I’d love to see some Kremy and Torbek interactions that don’t suck

Have Torbek give Kremy a forehead kiss of forgiveness (platonic or romantic ur choice)

for you, anything <3

very VERY mild spoilers for S2 (just the setting)

---

“This is all my fault!”

A pulse of thunder echoed across the valley, the only other sound in the little campsite Carnival Lecroux called home. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, Kremy wasn’t even sure any of them were still breathing. All eyes were on him. He felt dizzy, he felt raw and exposed, air leaving his lungs with each desperate gasp, but none seeming to come back in.

“I fucked y’all over. We’re all gonna die, and there’s nothing we can do about it, and it’s all my fuckin’ fault!”

All at once his body gave out, knees buckling, and he collapsed onto the ground. He hardly noticed the cool, wet squish of mud seeping into his pinstripe pants, or the cruel, sharp wind whipping at him mercilessly. His face felt wet—was it the strange rains of Yon, or bitter tears he didn’t deserve to cry? Kremy couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

He doubled over like he’d been hit, body curling over itself protectively, one arm clawing at the earth beneath him and the other wrapping tightly around himself in a mimicry of comfort. Each breath came like it was being torn from him, his hunched form wracked with painful sobs. Nobody moved.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt strange in his throat, oily on his tongue, the truth of them choking him.

“I’m so sorry.”

Nobody moved.

Kremy continued to writhe helplessly in the mud, repeating those words over and over and over again like they would save him. Somewhere in the back of his stupid, selfish mind, he had hoped one of them would come to his aid, would roll him over and pull him close and tell him he had nothing to be sorry for. Maybe they had left, he mused as the minutes ticked by with nothing to show. Maybe this was the final straw, maybe they all had finally had enough of him and moved on. Maybe he would die here alone in a mess of his own making. The thought was solace as much as it was agony.

A pair of boots stepped into his blurry field of vision, matted brown hair and overgrown nails poking out of what must have once been fine leather. Kremy swallowed the guilt and bile rising dangerously in his throat. Not him. Why him?

Torbek didn’t say anything as he slowly padded over, large foot prints pooling with rainwater in his wake. He squatted down in front of the other, but Kremy couldn’t meet his gaze, too afraid of the hate and anger he knew he’d see in those big, sad eyes.

Another cry—perhaps a sob, perhaps a scream—was ripped from his throat as long arms wrapped around his body, pulling Kremy up into Torbek’s hold like he was something fragile, something precious, and the bugbear’s chin came softly to rest atop Kremy’s hat-less head. Thin hands with too-long fingers ran gingerly across Kremy’s back and shoulders, rubbing small circles into hard scales while Kremy hiccuped and whined pitifully in his grasp. They sat there like that for some time, days for all Kremy knew, before Torbek shifted him in his arms and pressed his thin, chapped lips into the spot where his chin had rested.

“Torbek forgives you, Kremy.”

Kremy burned with something he couldn’t identify; it was like everything had come into focus for the first time, far too much after far too little. Every brush of hair against his scales, every heavy drop of rain falling from on high, every place where Torbek’s hands held him together, it all seemed alight. It scared him, more than death, more than the hags, maybe even more than Garou.

“I don’t deserve it.” he mumbled, voice hoarse and words painful, the sound of them barely carrying over the roaring storm.

“Torbek knows.” Torbek pulled Kremy in closer, cradling him so close that Kremy could hear the other’s heartbeat. “Torbek forgives you anyways.”

Torbek’s hands continued to smooth up and down Kremy’s spine, and Kremy could still feel the spot on his head where Torbek had kissed him, and it all burned, but he didn’t leave, and Torbek didn’t make him. Slowly, the rain began to clear, and the world began to move, but Torbek still stayed.

Eventually, Kremy knew he would someday need to apologize for this, too—this was too much, too selfish of him, too needy—but that could come later.

For now, everything was warm.

[wambsgansshoelaces]

Ruined

Siobhan Roy x fem!Reader

Oneshot

summary: a chess move gone wrong. but it brought you two back together, so how can she complain?

thank you anon 🫀 for requesting this! you’re so loved and appreciated <3

Word Count: 2.257k

When the invitation comes in the mail, you think nothing of it. Because of your job, Waystar was always trying to kiss your ass and trying to convince you they were the perfect employer.

It was also because of your previous relationship.

Even though you and Siobhan had been separated for a few weeks now, you weren’t sure that many people knew. Not only did Royco execs invite you to try and convince you to ‘join the ranks’, they’d invite you to try and get closer to Shiv. The daughter of the man in possession of the biggest media conglomerate in the world, a mega billionaire.

You assume this is just another dinner to kiss ass to prospective employees. You didn’t really mind, though. It’s free food, and even though you’d never admit it out loud, a boost to your ego.

Post breakup with Shiv felt apocalyptic. You didn’t want to eat, sleep, breathe. But you had to. You had shit to get done.

You’re happy for the excuse to get dressed up. It makes you feel good about yourself, and god knows you need that right now. You stare at yourself in the mirror, dark colored turtleneck and high waisted pants accentuating the curves of your body. You gloss your lips, mentally preparing for the night out.

The place is gorgeous, as always. The hallways are dimly lit, warm orange light dappling the space around you. You find yourself with a finger sandwich in hand, waiting for dinner to be announced so you can congregate in the dining room with everyone else and actually eat.

You watch as Logan Roy plucks a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing servant. If he was here, then that means this thing was important. But that raised a question- why are you here?

Your answer arrives right with Siobhan Roy. You spot her the moment she sets foot in the room. Despite how messy your brakeup was, you just couldn’t get yourself to get over her. She’s radiant, beautiful like the sunset, like the time-old glaciers, like the condensed dew on an ageless bottle of wine. She lit up your world, bringing day to your dystopian world of eternal night.

She was stressing over something, you could tell, even from across the room. Her shoulders were set tautly, her phone gripped in her hand. Her eyes sweep hastily over the gathered people, and yours subconsciously follow. You recognize all the high profile politicians, the big whales of finance and business. You’re beginning to feel out of place.

Lost in your daze, you don’t realize as she steps up beside you. When she speaks, you think you’re dreaming for a split second. In recent history, the only time you’d ever heard her voice, spoken to her, was in the depths of your mind’s eye.

“Are you fucking with me?” Shiv hisses from beside you, fake smile pasted to her face.

You’re taken aback. “Hello to you, too,” you mutter in response.

Her hand falls immediately to the small of your back, and she steers you away from the crowd. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I was invited. I didn’t fucking drop from the face of the Earth after you broke up with me,” you say dryly. Once you’re out in the hall, her voice raises slightly from her original whisper.

“Who invited you? How the hell are you even here?”

She leads you into an empty spare room and shuts the door firmly behind her. “What the fuck, Siobhan?”

“This is a dinner to introduce an acquisition. I would know if you were hired by Waystar. So why are you here?”

“Like I said, I was invited.”

“Why? For what?”

You scoff. “How encouraging of my career,” you drawl.

She snorts in response, turning to pace the room. “What’s he up to? Do you know?” she asks quickly, referring to her dad.

“How should I fucking know?” You cross your arms over your chest. “I didn’t know we were on speaking terms, anyway.”

“We’re not,” she spits. “Not after what you put me through.”

“What I put you through?” You laugh. “Siobhan, you dumped me because you were too busy fucking your work rather than me.”

She barks out a laugh. “Is that how you see it?”

“That’s how everybody but you fucking sees it. You got angry I wanted to talk about the fact that you did nothing but work, and work overtime, and neglect me, that you ended things and ran,” you spit back, voice dripping with venom.

She puts her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry I take my job seriously.” Her bracelets tinkle as her hands flit back down. “And that’s not what happened.” She twists to face away from you, hands carding through her hair.

“Then, pray tell, what did? You didn’t exactly wait around for me to even process. This is the first time we’ve spoken since then.”

When she turns back around, tears dot her waterline. Your chest swells with anxiety, struggling to differentiate between the stone-cold killer Siobhan and your sweet Shiv.

“I’m sorry, I’m deflecting. It’s not like that, I swear,” she says, voice cracking. “Oh, my fucking god. I got fucking scared, baby. I have all of these complicated feelings for you, and when they never went away, I got scared. I realized I loved you, that I love you, and I got horrified I’d fuck things up.”

Your heart flutters at the pet name. “That’s not a fucking excuse, Shiv. You left me by myself. You never even said goodbye properly.”

“I know, I know it’s not.” Her face drops into her hands. “It’s just… I can’t bear the idea of getting hurt. Being hurt by you, no less. I’d never recover. I haven’t recovered. I can’t move on. I can’t think of beauty without thinking of you. You’re in every goddamn sunrise, piece of jewelry, every starry night sky. Nothing I’m scared of matters anyway, because you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

You’re rendered speechless. Your mouth opens, then closes. You don’t know what to say.

“I can’t,” she says weakly. “I compare every single person to you. And every single time, I love you so much fucking better.” She chokes on a sob, face still covered by her hands.

Without thinking, you step towards her, taking her in your arms. Her head rests on your shoulder as sobs rack her body. You’d never, ever seen her like this. Not when you were together, not in any sort of public media. You rub soothing circles into her back.

“I’m sorry,” she laments, her voice wavering. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve never let you go. I want you back. I need you back. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this bullshit. You’re it for me. You’ll always be it for me.”

“Shiv,” you breathe. “Shiv, take a breath. Come on, you’re working yourself up.”

She obeys, attempting to regulate her breathing. She sniffs roughly, wiping at her eyes, before pulling away from you and turning her back to you.

“What I did was inexcusable,” she says, voice quieter. “I… I understand if you want nothing to do with me anymore. I’m sorry. I love you.” She inhales shakily, her hands smoothing down her blouse. “Dad knew what would happen if you came today. I need to go.”

Without another word, she leaves you behind.

You see no point in sticking around. You’re confused, strangely swelling with love. You want to both chuck your phone into a river and pick up and dial her number immediately. You hunt around for someone who can get you your coat, and before you know it, you’re out in the blistering cold by yourself.

You spend the rest of your night face down in bed. You’re so conflicted. Does she want you, or does she not? Should you contact her first, or can you still hold onto the hope that she’ll come find you?

The night drags on, and there’s nothing. Early the next morning, you bolster the confidence to send her a text asking her if she’s alright. Your anxiety runs rampant the moment you hit send, and your face burns with heat. You both pray she answers as soon as she sees it and pray she never sees it at all. You want to belt your phone at the wall.

You find yourself at a coffee shop at seven thirty. You need to get out, to think about literally anything else. You have the day off, and you’re not sure if it’ll be good or bad for you yet.

The moment you set foot in the shop, you see her, and she sees you. Her hair is tied back, and she’s wearing an old sweater of yours. This is when she’s prettiest, you think. When she’s not playing the game of succession, not strategizing, just sitting comfortably in her skin.

Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying. She beckons you over, doe eyes still glinting with tears.

Hesitantly, you go over and sit across from her.

“How did you…?”

“You come here every day,” she says quietly. She pushes a cardboard cup of coffee towards you. “I never forgot your order.”

You murmur your thanks, taking a sip. “We should talk,” you say stupidly.

“Yeah. We should,” she responds, folding her hands together and setting them on the table in between you two.

“Can we just… talk things through?”

“I want that. Please.”

You sit back in your chair, unsure of where to begin. “Did you actually mean it? Last night, I mean?”

“Everything I said. I would’ve stayed, but… ironically, duty called.”

“What’ll change?” you ask softly. “If we… if we try again?”

“Everything,” Shiv whispers. “You’re my world. I can’t go a second without thinking about you. You’re my top priority, I swear. I’ll never fucking leave your side again. I was a shitty girlfriend before. But I’ll change. I’d do anything for you.”

“I missed you,” you choke out. “So much.”

She loses it a bit, too, tear escaping and sliding down her cheek. You reach across the table and wipe it away. “I did, too. I missed you.”

“Do you want to come home?” you ask, hopeful. She smiles.

“Finally. I’ve been living in a shithole with my cousin since you.”

You roll your eyes, knowing she’s playing it up. She takes your hand, and before you know it, you’re sat on the couch, making out. Her fingers dig into your jaw, keeping your mouth locked with hers. Shiv kisses are hard, needy. She’s been waiting for you, craving you the last few weeks.

She pulls away to kiss and suck at your neck. “Shiv,” you say breathily, not expecting it. Despite her fervor, she’s gentle, successfully pleasing you.

“Shh, baby. Let me do this. Let me make you feel good. I need to make it up to you. I was an asshole.”

You laugh. “You’re just being territorial.”

She sighs, leaning back and inspecting a developing purple hickey on your skin. She buries her head into your shoulder after dotting soothing kisses along the new bruises.

“I love you. I’m sorry,” she says into your skin.

“I love you too.” Your hand strays to her back, stroking lightly.

“I promise I’ll do it right this time,” she murmurs. “You’ll never stop feeling fucking amazing.”

“I hope you’re right,” you respond.

“Really. I’m going to be better.” She kisses at your shoulder. “I’ll start skipping meetings for you.”

“You don’t need to neglect your job, Shiv.”

“I want to, anyway. I want to spend every second right here, with you.”

Your hand smoothes down to her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I’m so fucking happy. You make everything better.”

Shiv slips out of your grasp, padding into your kitchen. You stay sprawled out on the couch, content.

The days go by slowly, and you’re grateful. The two of you spend morning tangled together, nights intertwined. You come home to her, she comes home to you. You never leave each other without a kiss goodbye, and you never say anything before kissing hello.

Shiv wasn’t lying. She prioritized you, and solely you. If she couldn’t come home on time, she’d send flowers and crawl into bed with you late at night, peppering your face with kisses. She’s become more affectionate, her touches always lingering and her always curled up against you.

You make sure to never neglect her, either. Despite your massive differences in salary, you make sure to give thoughtful gifts, and kiss her whenever you can. You find that you enjoy cooking for her, watching her face brighten whenever she eats something she likes.

You’ve both begun to keep pictures of each other in your wallets. You always catch her staring at a miniature portrait of you in her hands, her thumb gently stroking over your face.

Every night, your bed is warm with affection. You never feel alone again.

When it happens, she doesn’t get down on one knee. It’s when you’re both half asleep on the couch, your head cradled in her lap when she shows you the ring. She giggles when you let her slip it onto your finger, the word fiancé falling giddily from her lips.

You spend a moment rummaging around in your purse, then hurry back to her, another ring in hand.

She kisses you so hard your head spins.

“I love you. I love you so much. And that’ll never change.”

[terminallywerde]

The biggest crime is that Ao3 won’t let me slap a kudos on every single chapter of a fic.

“youve already left a kudos here”

Nah shit. They deserve more for being so good.

[duelpawn]

This might be an unpopular opinion, but I think it's okay for artists to not want criticism on certain pieces.

Because sometimes I don't want that, sometimes my art comes out as it is and that's how I want it to stay, you know? Sometimes I just want to admire my creation without the feeling that it should be better or the need to improve it!!!

[based-haruka-anon]

What if you wrote es and fuuta sibling shenanigans? That would be pretty cool :D

Okay i know you probably meant current ages, but the thought of two very loud violent toddlers has plagued my mind so im writing them as little ones!

0311 sibling stuff, Fuutas 8 and Es is 3

Fuuta and Es are at the beach together, and Es is being an annoying little sibling, this is in an odd au where they're implied to have the same parents, whether they're adopted or biological siblings is up to your interpretation, story under the cut!

The sun glares down on the beach, heating the sand and lighting the water.

Fuuta pays no attention to this sun, patting down the top of his bucket. He pulls the bucket up; which reveals a broken, half completed castle. He holds the bucket over his head, and stares into the dark bottom, yep, there's the rest of the sand.

Despite this roadblock, using his skills as the resourceful and mature eight year old, he shoves his hand into the bucket, and proceeds to hand apply the remaining sand to his castle.

He shakes the remaining sand off of his hands, and throws the bucket to the side. Fuuta smiles rather triumphantly, admiring his bucket mold castle. While he quite enjoyed his castle, it was off center, and looked about ready to tip over any second.

The castle never has a chance to tip. Es runs towards Fuuta, not seeing the castle. Their little legs trip over themself, and they lookat him with big eyes, laid across the once mighty castle, "Ow.." they cry, reaching for Fuuta. Their eyes water and little grubby, fat toddler hands trying to grab at him. Fuuta's brow furrows, he crosses his arms with a rather girlish pout on his face.

"You don't get to complain Esuu!" He exclaims, seemingly fine with these consequences, "you destroyed my castle, so you get to fall!!" Es makes a pitiful expression at him, then they started to cry.

In true three year old child fashion, Es is very sensitive. In true Fuuta fashion, he is also very stubborn.

He looks around anxiously, making sure their mom was no where around and pulls Es off of his once mighty castle. Their clothes are now covered in damp sand, Fuuta thinks he can almost see the exact imprint of the castle. He stares solomnely at the flat mound of sand that was once his castle.

He looks at Es and glares at them, "you crushed my castle Esuu," he scolds, they nod and cry harder, flailing as they plead their innocence.

"Accident!" They exclaim while flapping their arms, they make a pitiful expression at Fuuta. His glare softens and he groans. Es makes kitten eyes at him, which quickly discourages his anger.

Fuuta looks at Es, before shushing them, "okay I accept your apology," he says, patting their back slowly. He makes a face of distain, before spoting Es' bucket right next to them.

With two buckets, they could create an even mightier castle! With his new evil plan in place, he whispers his schemes to Es; who eagerly brings their bucket over.

Es happily starts to shovel sand into both the buckets when instructed. They also manage to get sand absolutely everywhere, especially on Fuuta.

He grumbles, but decides to create their base and moat, digging through the sand. Once the base is finished, the moment of truth has arrived! They both place their buckets down, tap the tops, and pull them up.

And both of the castles only come out halfway, sand remaining in the buckets.

[cinnamonsly]

hiii hi there im such a big fan so im kind of nervois to send this... anyways i love ur lineart but its so sad when u color and u cant see it :'( do u know u can put the lineart over the color dodge layer? like u can put the color dodge under and ull be able to see the art! /gen /srs /lh

hey there, thank you for the kind words!! but everything i do within my art (including regarding the lineart) is intentional, bc i personally think it looks good!! i really like colored lineart which can make it kind of hard to see it in some of the pieces i finish, but if it wasn’t the main thing i was trying to emphasize anyway i don’t really worry about it. bold lineart doesn’t rly fit my style so i try to stay away from it

i hope that kinda makes sense? i still post the lineart/sketch for most of my drawings beforehand, so that’s always a good place to get a real good look at the lineart outside of the finished piece!

[cottonjewels]

oh- you do moodboards?

if you haven't already - a moodboard of tord, with the trans pride colours, please. :)

Of course! ^ ^

(Also, I apologize if the moodboard doesn't look like a pride character moodboard, this is my first time making a pride moodboard and I hope to improve in the future!)

"Hello, Old friend!"

Tord - ❤️🔫🍴

[sleepyzink]

Some OC drawings!! Constructive criticism for their designs (especially Ray’s) are super appreciated!! /nf

First one (black and red hair) is Ray, second one doesn’t really have a name yet!!

Under the cut is a few informations of both x3 specifically white haired silly

(Reblogs/comments are appreciated :3)

Ray is Sleepy’s (my main oc) sibling!! Their pronouns are he/they, and he’s trans!

I honestly don’t have much lore for him, I just thought I’d make my main oc a sibling and decided on Ray! I’m still working on his story and stuff, though he stems from UTMV (because why not + I made him while being in my huge latest UTMV hyperfixation) and they literally just spawned in Sleepy’s work in progress AU x3

(Sleepy’s an AU creator + an artist, but they actually were IN the multiverse!! Because why not!!!)

——

Meanwhile, white haired person is a Cookie Run Kingdom OC (I could also just pull them out of it but eh, I’d rather stick to CRK because hyperfixation x3) and they were basically experimented on by witches! (If you know the crk lore it’ll make more sense) which basically made their powers, though also made their trauma because 😭 being experimented on ofc isn’t fun!

The stitching + different dough (they’re a cookie) tone thingy is because, at some point in the experiments, they lost part of their face, so they pulled some dough from another already dead cookie, and stitched it up! Though it made them have to constantly cry the green/purple substance off of that eye

That’s kind of it! Also, white haired silly is based off of a lamb plushie (which made me think they could be called Lamb Plush Cookie or something, So I might go with that!)

Thanks for reading!! (If you want to give your thoughts on all of the ideas and stuff, go ahead!! I’m all in for suggestions + feedback!!)

[burinazar]

wondering how many more people in my circles i've accumulated enough Recommending-Things-To Credit to throw the hole show at them because i am dying for more sickos to show my things to

that 'write for an audience of thirty sickos' tweet is like aspirational to me because if i had that many (especially if a couple were like, Concrit-giving Sickos) i'd be really happy and not even slightly wish for a bigger audience. but it seems i can at most pull three-to-four sickos at a time and the prior sickos orbit away before new sickos come. Where Are My Thirty Sickos

[gooses-trenchcoat]

rsd vs one random usher who thanked me for using a different exit when he asked

[dxrk-red]

✦︎Sukuna x reader All yours.

"'Kuna?" "Hm?" "Are you comfortable with me?"

Sukuna and you had been seeing each other for the past 10 months. Ten. That should be enough for someone to know if a person likes them, right? Of course it should. That's 300 days. Yet whenever Sukuna was around you, every word, every touch felt calculated. Hesitant. You brushed it off for a while, thinking that it's just how this big burly man, with a staggering height and inked skin, is. But the small responses, the quick look aways were bothering you. And you needed to know. So you found yourself at your apartment, lounging around in the living room with Sukuna seated comfortably on the sofa. A respectable distance between you two. Too respectable for lovers. You tried to initiate proximity, sure, you did. But every time you scooted closer to show him a silly cat video, shoving the phone in his face, he would pull back slightly, glancing away. And these little incidents crept through your pretty mind, creating a turmoil, egging you on to ask the said question. Raising a brow, Sukuna looked at you from where he was sprawled out. Sharp eyes narrowing onto you as if to say, 'Where'd this come from?' But the thoughts of him not wanting you, no yearning for you like you did had seeped through and now you were conflicted. Was Sukuna really comfortable with you? "I mean-", you started, a small exhale leaving you. "...do you feel okay with me? Do you not like it when I'm too close to you? You keep looking away. You can tell me if you don't want to, y'know. I wanna make you feel safe-" "I like you." Woah, that was unexpected. Your brows raised up to your hairline, not used to such a statement by him. Sukuna showed he liked you: through small gifts, but not proximity, though never said it. These words changed things. A tinge of red bloomed across Sukuna's ears as he cleared his throat. He shied away, looking down at his lap. "I do feel comfortable with you, I just..." He grunted, a small frown gracing his lips. How could he tell you that he was shy? How could he tell you that he liked you so much more, that his brain fluctuated every time you smiled at him, that he had to look away to function properly? That every time you cooed at him, he had to physically restrain himself from the cuteness aggression and suppress his urges to squish you? Because the big, bad Sukuna never did that. A snort, then silence. You were trying to hold back a laugh, but you wanted him to talk. "Suku, are you shy?" You asked, smugly raising a brow. What a gremlin. Sukuna thought to himself affectionately. Scoffing, he turned his head away, arms crossed defensively. "Hell no.", he snarked but his pink face said otherwise. "Awwww, you're so cute." You shifted closer, causing Sukuna to tense up as your warm hands cupped his cheeks. Shit, he could melt. "You could have told me. And here I was, thinking you hate me or something.", you cooed. "Your stupid questions make me hate you." "You're sooooo cute." "I take my words back. Get off of me this instant." His hands circled your waist. He didn't hesitate, leaning into you. "Too late, mwah." You plant a kiss to his nose, making him turn red as you laugh with genuine amusement. Your lover was the sweetest thing ever. "Don't shy away from me, okay? I want you to feel free with me." That made Sukuna's eyes soften, longingly gazing into yours. A smile like that could ruin his life, and he'd let it. Because Sukuna knew you're the only one he'd ever be comfortable with.

First blog. Constructive criticism is welcome with open arms. I would appreciate any requests and prompts. I hope you like this just as much as this upgraded fire boy likes you. Thank you for reading. -Masterlist-

More of Sukuna.

[bamsara]

I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

[wambsgansshoelaces]

hello again my minions

I would appreciate any constructive criticism or plot ideas! my brain’s been blank the last couple of days :,)