#it doesn't need to look perfectly in shape

[emmanation]

what came first: the misinformation or the personal journey?

hello! everyone!

once again!

i know you're happy to see me.

anywholy.

i've been seeing some posts floating around shiftblr and loablr and tiktok and reddit, and we need to talk about the moment when someone's personal story morphs into someone else's limiting belief.

and before you ask: no, brothers and sisters in christ, i am not here to drag anyone or play the internet police or act holier-than-thou, because honestly, glass houses and all that, we've all posted things that weren't peer-reviewed or perfectly phrased. but that's the internet. that's being human.

but here is my own thing, and i am speaking purely from experience, mind you: just because something's a personal experience doesn't automatically make it neutral or harmless or something we should just nod along to.

you might say, hey, manifesting didn't work for me, nothing is guaranteed, and that's fine! totally fair to express!

but the second you frame that as general advice or some universal cautionary tale, it stops being just your story and starts shaping other people's journeys, whether you meant it that way or not. because, and trust me on this, i've seen how this plays out in my inbox (which used to be stacked sky-high with 5k asks at one point, wild times), people take your words seriously, they internalise them, they make them gospel truth. and yes, i am applying this to myself as well.

and it's a tough needle to thread because i get it, genuinely: everyone's navigating their own thing, and some people are approaching this as spiritual and intuitive, and others as scientific and methodical, and it is very easy to swing back and forth depending on mood or platform.

but the distinction between spiritual and scientific doesn't mean you toss logic out the window or that you can't hold a consistent line.

you can't exactly have your cake and eat it too by saying, oh it is all vibes and intuition, and then flip around to scientific rigour when you're feeling skeptical.

there's still some basic structure here, some rules of cause and effect, assumption and outcome.

posting online isn't whispering secrets into a void (pun 100% intended, sue me). there's an audience, and those words carry weight, they echo around, they land somewhere.

and sometimes that landing is not at all gentle. sometimes it's the reason someone spends a week rethinking their entire journey or deciding they're the exception to success or that they're just not cut out for manifesting or shifting or whatever we're discussing this beautiful day.

it's not like anyone is being malicious or setting out to sabotage anyone else's journey, but intentions aren't magic erasers for consequences. believe me, i'm well aware.

besides that, there's a dance we keep doing where we say stuff like "everyone's path is personal," and sure, absolutely, agree one hundred percent, but if your personal path includes saying something flat-out untrue about the method itself (e.g., implying limits to what the void or law of assumption can do), then maybe, and i'm saying this as someone who's been on both sides of being corrected, we could pause and ask ourselves: is this helpful, or is it just me projecting my own burnout or doubts onto a collective canvas?

and no, my brothers and sisters of christ, i am not suggesting we start policing posts or gatekeeping personal stories, god forbid, but maybe just a wee bit more awareness?

because like it or not, we're kind of curating a collective archive here, bit by bit, day by day, and every casual little, this might not work for you, chips away at the power that new people desperately need to lean into.

and i mean. look.

the reason i even said anything, and yes that anything was blunt, definitely dramatic, and that's my fault, my responsibility, should've been the bigger person, my bad folks, in the first place wasn't because i was in the mood to argue or because i woke up feeling like a void vigilante who strikes everyone down with my big bad shiny new machete or whatever.

simply it was just that i saw that post and then, like clockwork, people, and friends, started trickling into my inbox saying stuff like "so the x not real?" or "does this mean i've been doing it wrong the whole time?" or worse, "i guess i should stop trying."

and i don't know. that's the part that made me feel like i had to say something. not because i needed to win an argument or wave a flag or make a point, i have seen the ripple effect too many times now. like, you post one take that sounds grounded and balanced and whatever, and then ten people behind the scenes lean into full crises over whether or not xyz is even real, and suddenly everyone's walking around like their house of cards just got sneezed on.

so if i sounded blunt or bossy or rolled-my-eyes-too-hard ish, fine. maybe i did. my sincerest apologies. but it really, truly wasn't about being right, it was about watching people give up over a wording choice and feeling like i couldn't just sit on my hands while that happened. like yes, sure, i've been annoying about it, but also i care. and maybe that's the most annoying thing of all.

so anyway! long story short (too late, i know): just remember we're all casually steering each other here.

nobody's in charge but also, paradoxically, we're all kind of responsible.

a bit of care with phrasing can save someone else a whole lot of heartache, i am talking about myself here too, don't wiggle the finger just yet, and if this comes off a bit sparkly-preachy then honestly, guilty as charged, but i swear on my whole journey it's coming from a place of genuine care and having cleaned up way too many inbox tears from posts that sounded harmless but landed heavy.

so here's me, waving, standing on my soapbox (but aesthetically, so it is fine), and softly asking that we all just double check what we're throwing into the collective pot. yes . . . me included.

okay. okay. love you all, mean it all.

[dailycupofcreativitea]

how in the world do u get hair so good in the dbz style ,, hair in general is so hard ToT

I put together a little "tutorial", but I just break it down into segments as close to the reference as possible, then as long as the generic "segments" are visible, you can mess them up with bending/swishing/swooshing/drooping/etc. as much as you want!

That's pretty much it (and practice, and fearlessness). Let me know if you need me to elaborate on anything!

[quemirabobo]

I just realized that I've been putting too much on my plate lately and instead of getting some of that shit done all I end up with is feeling sick every week and things keep accumulating and I stress myself ten times more and I end up doing nothing, reading something to distract myself of the fucking titanic quest I put my ass on

[lovebugism]

A request for the Thunderbolts (if you're interested no pressure <3)! - being caught/interrupted having sex

ty for requesting! :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, john, yelena, and bob), each with their own separate summaries and a whole lotta smut!! enjoy :D

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you and bucky try to have some alone time after a mission gone wrong but, like most things, it doesn't go as planned (0.9k words)

Bucky Barnes has been waiting for this all day.

The need within him borders on primal now. Adrenaline and yearning course through his blood like fire and ice water in his veins; a near-lethal concoction of anger and want and craving. It’s the job that makes him this way, Bucky always tells himself — if it wasn’t always so life or death, and if you weren’t always so willing to throw yourself into the line of fire, he figures he’d be as even-tempered as they come.

But this latest mission wasn’t nearly as easy as Valentina made it out to be. The six of you scattered for safety, and somewhere in the gunfire, Bucky lost sight of you. It took four hours for the dust to finally settle, and for you and John to stumble back to the rundown motel in the middle of nowhere that your boss mistakenly called a ‘safehouse.’ Neither of you sported anything more than couple scrapes and a bruised ego, but Bucky hugged you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, anyway.

“You’re okay…” he mumbled into your hair within a sigh of relief.

“I was,” you joked. “Until you started suffocating me.”

Bucky loosened his hold but never quite let you go, while John shifted uncomfortably behind you. “I’m okay, too, guys. Thanks for asking.”

Bucky channels all that stifled grief and rage into you now, in each of his rhythmic thrusts into your pulsing pussy. The thin motel bed creaks beneath your bodies with every roll of his hips. A lewd sort of symphony swells within the walls of the dark, dank motel room accordingly — a sinful orchestra of squeaking, panting, clapping, and moaning.

He feels the very beginnings of an orgasm tightening in the pit of his lean stomach. His hands ball the pillow into his fists on either side of your head, and you smile deliriously up at him.

“Close?” you pant, fighting back a moan when he slides into you just right, the coarse thatch of pubic hair above his cock rutting perfectly against your swollen clit. 

Bucky nods obediently, then ducks his heavy head to your shoulder. The ends of his hair tickle your jaw while he exhales quiet grunts into your neck, right over your racing pulse. 

“I know you are,” you coo through labored breaths, nails etching crescent shapes into shoulders. “I know you need it, Buck. C’mon— Cum for me.”

His hips stutter against yours. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a broken whine. He nearly lets himself go until a knock at the door brings him to — urgent, rapid, and unable to be ignored.

Yelena’s deep voice comes muffled from outside. “T-minus five minutes before the military shows up! Whoever’s not outside is getting left behind,” she announces far too casually, then strolls to knock on the next door. “So much for a safe house,” you hear her grumble as she goes.

Your legs lock around Bucky’s hips when he threatens to pull out of you. You meet his subtle look of shock with something stern and mischievous, an unstoppable force to an immovable object. 

“Did I say you could stop?” you ask him.

Bucky blinks like an owl, then shakes his head in response.

“Then cum for me.”

He buckles down over you again, resting the bulk of his weight on top of your pliable body, while his thrusts turn shallow and irregular. 

He cums inside of you much sooner than he would’ve liked, because he had every intention of dragging this out until daybreak — until the only words you could think of were his name and the pleas to let you orgasm. But you have far too much control over him for that, and he quickly turns into putty in your hands. 

Upon his release — quick, unshared, and premature, like a total teenager — neither of you shares a word while you hurry to get dressed. You help each other put on your tactical gear and rush out the door in time to find the rest of the team piling into the rusted van parked outside.

The tin can was supposed to be inconspicuous enough to carry a team of so-called New Avengers, but nothing could be discreet with Alexei behind the wheel.

“Just in time!” the older man shouts when you and Bucky pile into the back seat.

The door slams behind you, and Alexei peels out of the pitch black parking lot, old tires squealing. His wide smile makes his eyes squint at the edges when he peers at you through the rearview mirror. It makes you wonder if he’s slept.

You shift uncomfortably, sandwiched between a pair of broad shoulders, trying hard to ignore the sensitivity between your thighs. 

“We were about to leave you,” John deadpans from beside you, voice gruff with leftover sleep. 

You squint at him while he props his tired head against the window. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Walker.”

Yelena twists in the passenger seat, smirking at you over her shoulder. Her box-dyed locks are wild from the sleep she never got. “What were you two doing in there?” she lilts, Russian accent deep and gravelly.

“Sleeping,” Bucky monotones.

Ava scoffs from the row in front of you, though you can hardly see her from here. She takes up most of the room in the middle seat, resting her head on her backpack and her legs in Bob’s lap. “Yeah, I bet,” she laughs.

“We were!” you try to argue, though the break in your voice is hardly convincing.

Even Bob turns around with a suspicious squint in his kind eyes. “The walls were criminally thin, to be fair,” he mumbles, almost apologetically.

“Sorry…” you waver.

“Hey! Do not apologize!” Alexei shouts from the front seat, waving his pointer finger in the air. “There is nothing wrong with needing a little bit of release—”

The van fills with a chorus of annoyed groans before he can properly finish his sentence.

JOHN WALKER X READER — you and john try to have a quickie on a mission, but mistakenly forget to turn off your comms (1.1k words)

John Walker saw it coming.

He knew what he was in for the moment the idea fell from your mouth — the blueprint of an elaborate heist to return the smuggled vibranium back to Wakanda, for which each of the New Avengers had their role.

Alexei had been honored to be a distraction, to brush elbows with the wealthiest people in the world and get his fill of complimentary champagne. John, however, was slightly offended that his only part in the whole thing was to woo the woman running the gala long enough to catch her in a lie.

“That’s it?” he laughed from the opposite end of the long table. “You want me to… flirt with some woman I don’t even know?”

You nodded. “Yes. I want you to flirt and look pretty— That’s what you’re best at.”

Yelena fought back a laugh. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, swallowing through a pang of mild embarrassment. “And it won’t make you jealous?” he wondered aloud.

“Why would I be jealous?” you scoffed.

“Well, what if she doesn’t give in right away?” the blonde man challenged, folding his strong arms over the table to lean in close. “What if she thinks I actually want to have sex with her—? What if she doesn’t want to tell me anything until I’ve had sex with her?”

You hesitated, for only a fleeting moment, then shrugged a lazy shoulder in response. “Whatever it takes.”

John nodded slowly and leaned back again, as though he were taking your words as some kind of dare.

Alexei, unable to read the room, then offered, “Well, if Walker’s too scared to do it, I would be happy to take one for the team and sleep with this strange woman—”

The plan went exactly as you thought it would.

Maybe a little too well.

John Walker plays his part to perfection, the only way he knows how. Turns out, you were right — he was best at flirting and looking pretty, it seems — because it takes very little work on his part to get what he wants.

He dials his charm to eleven, like he knows you’re watching over him; and the drunk woman, worth more money than Walker will ever see in his life, fawns over him with ease. He gets the intel and then some, sporting a smirk and a pink lip print on his cheek.

“Did ya get that, honey?” he asks into his comm, smiling at the nearest security camera because he knows you’re watching him from there.

“Don’t look so smug,” you grouse in his ear. “Meet me at the rendezvous point when you’re done gloating.”

John’s able to sneak his way into the basement, thanks in part to Alexei’s Russian drinking game that he’s roped a group of drunken elites into.

He finds you waiting for him in the security room, all dolled up to blend into the party you never actually attended. The thin, emerald silk of your dress drapes over your body like soft, summer rain.

John loses his breath at the sight of you, quickly forgetting that he came here to gloat, as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Where’s everybody else?” he asks, walking to stand behind you in front of the wall of security cameras. You can see the entire gala from here, every bustling body filmed in black-and-white static.

He stands close enough behind you for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He can smell the vanilla perfume in your hair the same way you can smell the oaky cologne on his neck.

“Ava and Bob are tracking down your new girlfriend,” you quip, pointing to the screen at the bottom left corner where the two of them rush down the hallway. “And Yelena and Bucky are jetting off to the super luxurious private island your girlfriend really wanted to take you to.”

“She still waiting for me in her room?” John wonders, eyes flitting across the screens ahead of him.

“Yep,” you nod without looking back at him. “You can probably still catch her before the others if you’re fast enough. You know, if you were serious about that good time you wanted to show her.”

John laughs. You feel the exhale of the warm breath against your shoulder, right before he leans in to press a kiss to your bare skin.

“You’re so jealous,” he croons lowly into your neck.

You fight a shiver when his scruff brushes against you there. “I’m not jealous,” you insist proudly, shrugging your shoulder and dipping away from his touch. 

You spin on your heel and brace yourself against the table to slide yourself on top of it. John migrates instinctively towards your parted thighs.

“No?” he presses sarcastically with his head tilted like a puppy.

“No. ‘Cause she’s about to go to prison,” you say, nodding towards the camera where Ava leads the confused woman, dressed in nothing but a silk robe, out of her hotel room. “And you’re about to fuck me.”

“Really?” John hums, despite settling in between your spread legs like he was made to do it. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

You use his tie like a leash to pull him closer, smiling with a sadistic look in your eye. “Don’t keep me waiting, Walker.”

It’s a mess of scrambling limbs. John hurries to free his cock from the confines of his slacks while you lift the skirt of your dress to slide your panties to the side. 

You watch with lidded eyes, propped against the square screens behind you, while John works himself the rest of the way hard with his fist. You inhale the sweet scent of his cologne when he leans over you, and bite back a whimper when he slides slowly inside of you.

The quiet security room fills quickly with the sounds of heavy breaths and quiet moans — but before John can fuck you the way he wants, the door swings suddenly open.

Bob stumbles in, mouth already parted to say something, but his eyes widen in shock before he can.

“Jesus, Bob!” John shouts, jerking out of you and tucking his stiff cock back into his pants.

The curly-haired boy falters for a moment. He knows he should leave, but his brain isn’t working properly. He turns around to face the corner instead. “Sorry!” he squeaks. “I’m sorry!”

“What are you doing in here?” you pant.

“You said to meet at the rendezvous point!”

You and John share an anxious look. Both of you have forgotten about the in-ears and the live microphone inside them. “You’ve been hearing us on comms?” you waver, distantly fearful of the answer. “Like, this whole time?”

Bob nods. “Yeah…?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” John snaps.

Ava’s voice crackles suddenly through the microphone. “Well, we didn’t want to be rude—”

YELENA BELOVA X READER — walker almost catches you and yelena having a "late night snack" in the kitchen (1k words)

Yelena Belova can’t help herself.

It’s the whiskey running through her veins, maybe, or the way you look in the yellow refrigerator light. She forgets all about the movie paused upstairs and the late-night snack the two of you came searching for at three in the morning.

You bend at the waist, reaching for something deep in the fridge, and your t-shirt rises to reveal your underwear. Modest. Cotton. Pale pink and decorated with so many cream-colored stars.

It drives Yelena wild. 

You leave the carton of milk on the counter and stand on the tips of your toes, reaching for the boxes of cereal Walker always keeps on the highest shelf. You just barely manage to grab the Cinnamon Toast Crunch container when you feel Yelena press herself against your back, caging you between her body and the counter’s edge.

“Excuse me,” you giggle and struggle to spin in her hold.

You just barely manage to catch Yelena’s lazy smile before she leans in closer. “You’re excused,” she murmurs, voice low and smooth as honey.

She kisses you once, twice, and then a third time — longer and more languid than before — then begins to trail her lips down your jaw. 

You grin when she licks over your pulse point. Her fingers ball the hem of your shirt into her fists. “I really want to finish that movie, Lena…” you lilt knowingly.

“We will,” she hums, half-muffled against you. “Right after I make you feel good.”

She goes to sink to her knees in front of you. You hold tightly to the outsides of her elbows to stop her, eyes wide and glittering with panic. “Not here,” you scold with a shake of your head.

Yelena’s face scrunches in a stubborn, girlish pout — far too cute to be a world-class assassin. “Yes, here,” she argues.

“What if someone walks in?”

“No one will walk in. I promise.”

She smiles when your hardened gaze refuses to waver. She leans in close, trailing the tip of his nose over the bridge of yours. Her breath fans over your cupid’s bow. “It’s late, everyone’s sleeping. And I’ll be quick, okay?”

Her fingers dip beneath your shirt, curling over the hem of your panties. She doesn’t know how wet you are for her already. You don’t know how her mouth is watering for a taste of you now.

You huff and turn to the side, finding the blinking green numbers on the stovetop: 2:57 a.m. 

“Fine,” you cave. “But I’m only giving you three minutes.”

Yelena falls slowly to her knees. “I only need one,” she smirks, pressing a chaste kiss to your clothed stomach as she slides your pretty underwear to the side with an expert hand.

You scoff. “That’s very presumptuous of y—” She licks a fat stripe up the length of your pussy. You sigh a broken moan. “—Oh…”

Her hands carress the backs of your thighs, just beneath your ass, as she kisses your cunt the way she would your mouth.

Your knees threaten to buckle when her lips lock with your sensitive clit, sucking gently there until you keen. You feel her smiling against you when you brace yourself on the counter’s edge to keep from falling.

Yelena’s mouth is a merciless thing. She has every intention of making you cum in a minute, just like she promised she would. She focuses mostly on your swollen clit — licking, then sucking, then sucking and licking — to pull a swift and powerful orgasm from your body. 

You think she would’ve broken a record if Walker hadn’t walked in at the absolute worst time.

You tense when the hall light turns on. His steps are slow and heavy, like he’s barely lifting his feet off the ground. John turns the corner, dressed in sagging sweatpants and a tank top, and flinches at the sight of you there — leaning awkwardly against the counter. 

With the kitchen island in the way, he can’t see Yelena from where he’s standing — or how she’s sucking an orgasm most devilishly from your body.

You’re grateful when he stops short in the doorway. You’re less grateful when your girlfriend refuses to cease her merciless assault on your pussy.

“What are you doing up?” John asks, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Oh, you know, just—” You clear your throat when your voice wavers. “Just getting something to eat.”

He nods politely and takes another step.

Panic swells within you the same way your orgasm does.

“Did you need something?” you blurt, fighting back a whimper when Yelena's teeth scrape gently along your clit.

John’s brows furrow, but he makes no mention of how strange you’re being. “I was just getting some water—”

He takes another step. You reach for a rogue water bottle and chuck it across the room, perhaps more forcefully than you mean to.

“Here you go!” you shout with a wavering smile, feeling your orgasm tightening in the pit of your stomach.

John catches the plastic thing against his chest. He scoffs a tired laugh and shakes his head. “Thanks, weirdo…” he mumbles and walks away.

You don’t relax until the hall light has turned off and you’ve heard his bedroom door click shut again. Then you deflate against the kitchen counter — one hand propping yourself up and the other holding tight to the back of Yelena’s head.

You give the short, blonde tendrils an especially sharp tug and she moans into your pussy, heavy eyes fluttering shut.

Your thighs tremble on either side of her face when you cum. You bite your lip until it hurts in a feeble attempt to keep yourself quiet. The kitchen fills with the sound of your subdued whimpering as Yelena sucks the remnants of your orgasm from your weeping cunt.

She doesn’t stop until you’re pushing her away.

Yelena leans back, wiping her glistening mouth with the back of her hand. She smiles while you catch your breath. “How was it?” she quips.

“I’m so getting you back for that,” you pant. “Just so you know.”

“Oh…” she croons sarcastically, rising to full height again. “Are you now?”

You nod once, lidded eyes glinting with something stern and mischievous.

Yelena tries not to cower at the way you look at her, like you’re some kinda succubus who can’t wait to swallow her whole.

“The entire tower is going to hear you screaming before I’m done with you, Belova.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — the one where alexei finally learns to knock before entering your bedroom (1k words)

Bob Reynolds is having the most amazing dream.

It’s of you and him, all tangled in an unmade bed, and bathing in the morning glow of a golden sunrise. You’re pressed against the side of him, heavy and warm, with your arm tucked under the blanket. You rub his half-hard cock over his boxers and press chaste kisses up and down the length of jaw. Bob’s mouth tugs upward in a lazy smile as he exhales slowly through his nose.

His eyes flutter open on their own accord. 

He finds his bedroom soaked in the same orange glow he was dreaming about. He blinks the haze of sleep from his eyes, and only then registers your body pressed against his — and the way you knead his stiff, clothed cock with a gentle hand. 

Bob wakes from one dream only to enter the next. His sigh of contentment leaves in a grumbled moan in his throat.

He feels your smile curl against his jaw. “Good morning,” you hum against his skin.

Bob nods until the words catch up to him, chestnut curls in a frizzy halo around his head. “Yes, it is…” he jokes, words weighed down with sleep.

Your body trembles with a quiet laugh from where you’re lying along his side. “Well, you were poking me in the back to be fair,” you say, punctuating your murmurs with another kiss to his neck. “So this is kinda your fault, if you think about it.”

Bob might’ve argued if he wasn’t already so close to his orgasm. Your hand dips beneath the hem of his boxers, using his pearly pre-cum as lubricate while you glide your fist up and down his cock.

His stomach tenses — there’s a knot at the pit of it he feels tightening, bound to snap at any moment.

His mouth parts to speak, but a pathetic whine escapes instead.

“You don’t care, do you, Bobby?” you coo to him, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “You just wanna cum, don’t you?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” Bob squeaks obediently, right before he sighs. “Yes, please…”

With his eyes still shut, he feels the mattress dip beside him as you crawl on top of his body. The blankets shift to accommodate you as you settle between his legs.

“Where do you wanna cum, then?” you ask, too innocently for how demoniacal you're being just now. “In my hand or in my mouth?”

“Your mouth,” Bob answers instantly, voice breaking as cock jerks in your fist. “In your mouth, please— In your mouth.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and smile wide at the broken look on his face. “Good boy,” you hum, just to make his cock drool, before you dip beneath the covers. 

You tuck the hem of his boxers beneath his balls, keeping the base of his cock in your fist as you lick gently at the tip. You savor the salty tang of his pre-cum when you suckle at his sensitive head with no warning. Bob tenses immediately beneath you. A moan escapes from his parted mouth, filling the quiet bedroom.  

“Sorry!” he squeaks when he realizes how loud he’s being, exhaling a trembling breath and squeezing his hands into fists. He yearns to touch you, but not without permission. “I’m sorry, baby…”

If you’re angry with him, you don’t show it.

You just take is cock down your throat and until he keens. You work at him swiftly and mercilessly — knowing that, at any moment, it’ll be seven in the morning, and the rest of the tower will be up and recruiting for the latest mission.

You need Bob to cum before then.

So you swallow around the length of his cock and cup his sensitive balls in your hand. It’s a near-lethal combination that you only use during your quickies — or when you’re especially trying to torture him. 

“Can I cum?” Bob pants when he feels the knot tightening in his stomach. “Please, can I cum?”

You don’t answer him with words. You can’t with your nose buried in his pubic hair and his cock stuffed down your throat. You hum affirmatively around him instead, “Mhm.” 

The added stimulation makes him burst. Two salty ropes of warm cum pool in your mouth.

“Oh— shit!” 

His moans turn into something more urgent, fearful even, as your bedroom door clicks suddenly open.

Both of you jerk into upright positions — you on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and Bob cupping his palms over his still twitching cock.

You find Alexei standing in the doorway, with a steaming breakfast burrito clutched in his fist. He blinks hard, like he’s trying to discern exactly what it is he’s looking at.

He swallows down his mouthful and fights back a sudden wave of nausea. 

“Team meeting downstairs in five,” is all he says, half-detached and strangely robotic, before turning back the way he came.

“Shut the door!” you call to his disappearing figure.

He doesn't seem to hear you.

“Lenaaaa!” he shouts over you, Russian voice booming throughout the quiet tower. “Never make me do that again!”

You and Bob are only slightly late to the team meeting in question.

The room is deafeningly silent, heavy with a nameless tension. Neither of the team seems to look at you with anything other than sleep in their eyes — other than Alexei, of course, who sits slouched at the head of the table.

Yelena pets unenthusiastically at his shoulder, begrudgingly comforting the pouting man.

You take your designated seats at the long table without a word — you at the opposite end, and Bob sitting most adjacent to you.

Alexei’s eyes harden into a pitiful glare. “Is there anything you two want to say to me?” he wonders dramatically, accent sounding deep in his throat. “An ‘I’m sorry,’ perhaps?”

Bob shifts uncomfortably, gaze averted. “Sorry—”

“Learn how to knock,” you deadpan, then flash a cynical smile that makes the man cower. “Or I’ll show you something a lot worse than what you saw this morning.”

[evening-desire]

cw : yandere, bullying, reader is gn but i wrote it in fem reader in mind. part two here, part three, part four, part five

thinking about yandere! popular mean femboy that's also your childhood friend. he's all in skirts, pastel cardigans, and cute accessories. he dresses all pretty and cutesy, but his personality? far from what you can call "cute"

he's so mean, judgy, he doesn't like to filter his words, he will put regina george from mean girls into shame just by staring at her. people doesn't want to anger him, let alone getting on his bad side, including you.

but somehow, he always have his way to pick on you, calling you "boring" and other mean stuff, making you carry his bag and hold his umbrella, he would point out your "lame" sense of fashion saying his dog dressed better.

but he never really msant the things he said (only to you atleast) and never actually hurts your feelings bcs he knows the lines when talking to you and only you, other people? he could care less about picking his words.

he actually cares alot about those people that are genuienly kind to her including you, born in a wealthy family who's always been absent in his entire life, he found solice in you.

you’ve known him since kindergarten, the boy who used to hide behind your back when kids teased him for wearing bows in his hair or when his voice trembled as he asked if it was “okay” to like pink. you were the only one who ever told him yes. | the only one who stood by his side when he first wore a skirt to school. the only one who fought for his right to be who he was before he even found the confidence to do it himself. you were his protector. his safe place.

but high school changed everything.

now, he walks the halls like royalty. pastel skirts swaying, soft cardigans draped delicately over his shoulders, glitter lip gloss catching the light as he rolls his eyes at the crowd that parts for him.

his name used to be whispered out of curiosity. now it’s uttered with reverence and fear. he’s the kind of pretty that makes people nervous. the kind of pretty that ruins you if you look for too long. with perfectly manicured nails and a heart-shaped compact mirror always in hand, he’s not sweet. he’s venom in a sugar-pink bedazzled bottle.

he’s cruel. unfiltered. brutally honest and painfully aware of the power he holds over people. one sideways glance and someone’s social standing crumbles. he doesn't even need to speak, though when he does, it’s sharp, laced with sarcasm and wrapped in mockery.

everyone knows not to get on his bad side.

except, for some reason, you seem to have a permanent reservation there.

but you know, beneath the judgment and cruelty, he still cares. he doesn’t show it with kindness. he shows it by letting you close when everyone else is kept at a distance. he shows it by trusting you with the version of him no one else is allowed to see.

still, something’s changed lately.

there’s a look in his eyes now, one that lingers too long when you talk to someone else, one that sharpens when you laugh at someone else's joke. he’s gotten possessive, in a quiet way. subtle, but dangerous.

you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. his teasing has gotten more biting, more meaner and possessive. he makes you sit next to him. makes sure you’re always around. and god forbid you don’t answer his texts immediately, he’ll corner you at your locker with a smile so sweet it feels threatening.

he’s beautiful, terrifying, and a little unhinged when it comes to you.

divider by @.adornedwithlight & @.cafekitsune

[cowgiri]

𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐎𝐘!𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 is a gentleman who holds doors open and treats his little lady like a queen. he's old-fashioned in the best ways, always thinking about your feelings and making sure to take care of you in whatever ways you need. but the moment you close the bedroom door, he's anything but a gentlemen. he knows how to take control when you need to be manhandled, how to put you in your place with nothing but a short tsk and a sharp smack to your ass. his fingers know exactly which buttons to push, which places to stroke and tickle and tease, where you like it rough or gentle. and once he has you going, he doesn't stop until you're a whining wreck under his touch, clutching your thighs together to keep the pleasure from spilling out.

𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐎𝐘!𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 whos hands are calloused from years of roping cattle and working the ranch, but when it comes to you, they’re surprisingly gentle. the callouses and rough skin of his hands make for a delicious texture when he's pounding you with his fingers or rubbing your clit. he knows exactly how to use those strong fingers to tease and please, whether he’s tracing your skin or gripping your hips with just the right amount of pressure. he knows how to make you moan and beg with a touch, knows how to drive you higher and higher until you come undone. 

𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐎𝐘!𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 wears a pair of tight blue jeans that compliments his tanned skin and well-muscled thighs. he moves slow and easy, like a man who has all the time in the world and isn't afraid to take it. his belt buckle is heavy and brass and shaped like a horseshoe, something he won in a rodeo years ago. but it ain't as heavy as his cock. it's thick and long and perfectly curved, with a delicious vein running down the middle that you like to run your tongue along. he doesn’t last very long if you take him in your hand and start stroking. he says it’s because your soft and warm hands make him crazy. and when he comes, he does it all over your tits, shooting thick ropes of white across your chest. he smears it into your skin with his rough hands, telling you how sexy you look covered in his cum and begging you to let him fuck you. and god, it’s hard to say no to that.

𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐎𝐘!𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 says sweet, dirty things to you in bed, telling you exactly what he's going to do to your tight little pussy, telling you what he wants to see when you're riding him. he tells you about the way he likes to fuck, slow and easy or hard and rough, and he tells you what he'd do if he had you out on the ranch, how he'd push you up against a tree and take you for all the other cowhands to see. he talks about your body and what it can do for him, how good it feels when you ride his cock. he whispers words of affection and appreciation in your ear, his lips pressed to your skin as he pants and breathes through his own orgasm. and he says all of it in his smooth, slow southern accent, the one that makes you tingle from head to toe. 

some fluffy cowboy!caleb

[yeyinde]

The 141 finding out you've never had sex.

Just casually drinking, playing cards. A joke causes it to slip out.

body electric: the virgin edition

Gaz, the instigator, mutters something about not having been fucked in ages. this springs up a sudden surge of comradery, because, yeah. neither have they.

Soap's devote Catholicism (i like to imagine) leaves little room for flippant intimacy. he tries to be a good boy. key word, of course, being: tries. but the last serious relationship was years ago. back when he was grunt. he's pent up. abstinence, yeah? he holds it tight in his hand. but the thing about fists is that they're often mistaken for anger. Soap's a realist masquerading as an optimist. he knows whoever falls into his jowls next will be a MacTavish by the time he's through with them. and commitment. well. his comes at a price. a hefty one.

Ghost prefers casual flings where he doesn't have to take any clothes off. unzips his trousers, frees his cock, and then tries to pretend he's a real, flesh and blood, human. to feel something, anything, except a vacuum between hollow bones. but his tastes are peculiar. on the side of unhinged. he hasn't found the perfect body yet satiate himself with.

Price. well. with his bloody hands, he thinks he'd rather not dirty the same people he swears to protect. and divorcing at the age of 30 does that to a man, maybe. his role as a captain (an excuse in retrospect) also keeps him from unleashing his wants. the very same ones that are probably best under lock and key, anyway. it's just for the best, really. something he ought to do because the moment he has another chance to sink his teeth into someone's neck, he'll tear them apart. break them into pieces.

despite bringing it up, Gaz knows the real reason he's single is because he's pushy. he wants. so he takes. and then takes some more. more. more. until his gullet is full of the person he's obsessed with. carrying them around in his breast pocket everywhere he goes. the perfect mate. the one he can shower with unfettered affection. a deluge, in all honesty. one with the ideation to drown. biblical floods. trapped beneath him. he likes it more than he should, but. singedom, then, he supposes.

and then you roll the dice. admit, sheepishly, that, technically, you have them all beat. zero is always lesser than five, ten, twenty. but it's this misstep—zero, never—that catches their attention.

suddenly, you're not surrounded by kin but a pack of wolves. all hungry in their own ways, all starving. it just makes sense to quench their hunger with you, doesn't it? friend, ally. pretty little thing. so sweet for them. and perfectly mouldable. putty they shape to their hearts desire. the perfect mate.

Soap grips his rosary. the sign of the cross, heavenly Father and Holy Spirit, digging into his palm like the burn of a baptism. what's devotion if not pain? he cuts himself on the gold. offers blood of the sacrament to whoever might be listening, and leans in, sniffing.

Price's knuckles are white. he leans back, hidden in shadows. all you can see is spark of burning orange from his cigar as he takes mouthful after mouthful of smoke, contemplating. assessing.

"that so?" he doesn't even need to look at his Lieutenant to know that the man has gone still. too bad for you, it's not from shock.

Ghost barely holds himself back. keeps tight in his seat. fists clenching. unclenching. he has a good enough read on the people around him to see the unfiltered desire ripping across their face. scorching. but to bite, with his mouthful of jagged, seraded teeth; ones meant to rip, break, tear, would ruin you. permanently. unequivocally. and—

"wanna give it a go?" all eyes turn to Gaz, electric in his seat. eyes smouldering umbre. "i mean, you trust us the most, don't you?" us. it's stunning, he thinks, the way Gaz can weave tapestry in the air like this with just his words. one tangled like shibari binds. "and we care for you a lot. we'll be gentle. it's up to you, of course, but—"

Soap's bloody hand disappears under the table. you gasp. "yer askin' fer it, ain't ye? beggin' so pretty fer it."

"n-no, i—"

"mind your manners." Price. his voice is chiselled into char, authoritative; low. a lulling command spoken in a breath of smoke. "and don't lie, love. or i'll have to take you over my knee."

the tension is thick. Soap's arm moves, slow. deliberate. Ghost has clench his jaw to avoid bearing his teeth. snarling.

Gaz cuts it with a knife. hews compliance into your skin with a fine needle point. "it's okay. we'll take such good care'a you. make you feel so good."

your submission is a heavy thing. oppressive. the shallow dip of your chin, the blistering heat simmering under your flesh, burning right, is the prettiest fuckin' thing he's ever seen. he does clench his jaw this time. tight, tight. tight

until something pops.

"okay." you yield. head bowed. beautifully submissive.

when he looks around, catches the predatory crackle in the air. his hackles raise. immediate. instinctual. and ah, right.

it's easy to forget he's surrounded by a wild pack of stray dogs. starving ones, too.

[wholemeallbread]

⟢ CUTTTING FRUIT FOR YOU !

what bllk boys do when you ask them to cut/peel fruit.

⟢ including ... isagi yoichi, barou shoei, reo mikage, itoshi rin

⟢ notes ... fluff, mentions of knives, mentions of food, picky-ish reader (barou)

ISAGI YOICHI

makes it his life mission to make sure he does it as perfectly as he can.

he takes three minutes to cut his first slice. then, he spends decades trying to eyeball around the same size, and it ends up being so off.

overthinks it so much. he'll be cutting an apple into slices, and one of them comes out as a square. why? he thought you'd rather have bite sized pieces, and this one was "too big".

you can tell he's beating himself up in his head about it because he can't even look you in the eyes when he serves it to you.

please reassure him cutting fruits is not that serious </3

BAROU SHOEI

you don't have to ask, he's forcing you to eat them.

at least once a day he scolds you about your poor eating habits. you want something sweet? well, he'll give you something sweet. fruit.

if you're particularly reluctant, he'll cut things up in the most extravagant ways possible. even just one grape is too pretty to eat because how did he even make it rose shaped with such a massive knife?

he gives up.

when he serves you fruit, the slices are perfect. no blemishes, no odd cuts, all even sizes, picture perfect. you don't even need to inspect each slice because they're just that perfect.

REO MIKAGE

is already cutting fruit for you before you even ask.

it's almost instinct whenever the two of you end up having a conversation in the kitchen. he doesn't stop talking, just preparing a bowl of mixed fruits with all of your favourites at the same time. he's probably got his house stocked up with everything that you like.

if he knows you're eyeing a piece of fruit because you can't wait, he doesn't hesitate to hold up a chunk that he just cut, feeding it to you.

if you don't want it, he'll make you take it anyway. not only is it healthy and refreshing, but also hydrating; you need to eat some.

ITOSHI RIN

always gives you a funny look when you ask.

like he'll do it, but why him?

is suspiciously good at peeling oranges. he could be ripping the thing apart and it'll come out smooth with no piths sticking to it. that's true skill.

if he really wanted to, he could squeeze one with his bare hands and make juice. (copied from sae) he did it once in summer because you were dying for some "nice, fresh orange juice", and your eyes were basically begging him to do the thing.

honestly he'd rather just give you a bowl of small berries and grapes instead of going through the process of cutting fruit.

[deconstructthesoup]

One thing I absolutely adore about Dead Boy Detectives is the immaculate costume design. Specifically, how it perfectly encapsulates who the characters are, both as a whole and who they are in the moment.

From the very first scene of the show, we know immediately that Edwin is a bookish, somewhat stuffy guy from the Edwardian era who attended a boarding school, and Charles is a punk from the 1980's who's most likely the wildcard between the two of them, just going off of the way that they're dressed. Both of them have distinct color schemes and different styles, but the general shape of their outfits is actually relatively similar---both of them have collared shirts (Edwin's dress shirt, Charles's polo), something over those shirts (Edwin's vest, Charles's suspenders), a jacket of some kind (Edwin's suit jacket, Charles's flannel thing), a longer overcoat (Edwin's traveling coat, Charles's peacoat), something around the neck (Edwin's bowtie, Charles's necklace), slacks, and nice shoes. They're distinct, yet matching, two clearly defined separate characters yet part of a set.

Edwin's prim, proper, buttoned-up personality lends itself to the way he dresses throughout the season---in the first episode, he only dresses down when he's in the office with Charles, aka his safe place and his safe person, and he doesn't really dress down like that again for a good long while after getting stuck in Port Townsend (though, if my memory serves me correctly, he does take off the suit jacket while watching TV with Niko). But in episode six, he's changed up his usual look for a cozier, casual-looking sweater and a little bit of collarbone, and in episode seven... well, he's in his nightclothes, and he's about as open, raw, and vulnerable as you can get. Edwin's color scheme is also predominately blue, which lines up nicely with his logical and practical, yet deeply sad and closed off personality, and the only time he really wears anything other than his normal blue-and-brown outfit (willingly, that is) is when he's in that green sweater in episode six. And, uh... all I can say is that it's quite telling how blue and green---or, well, teal---are the main colors of the gay/mlm flag.

Charles, by contrast, dresses down a lot, and that makes a lot of sense when you consider the fact that unlike Edwin, he feels comfortable pretty much anywhere. On any given episode, he goes from wearing his peacoat to just wearing his flannel to ditching the flannel to not even wearing the freaking polo---though, again, the latter is something that only happens when he's in the office with Edwin. Safe space, safe person. And, well, plenty of people have analyzed Charles's polo shirt going from red to burgundy to black over the course of the series, and there being a little bit of red under the collar of his coat that's only visible when Edwin fixes it, and then it goes back to burgundy, and then it's red again when Edwin's out of Hell... for good reason! It's color symbolism at its finest! Not to mention, the red and black not only perfectly contrasts Edwin's color scheme, but it also lines up with Charles's personality---he's a rebel, he's hotheaded, he's bold and brash and loud... and yes, he's angry, but he's also so, so loving.

When we first meet Crystal after she loses her memories, her outfit choices feel very deliberate. They're stylish and vaguely trendy, they're arty and a little bit witchy---pretty fitting for a psychic who's also a showbiz kid, even if she doesn't know that last part. But all of her clothes appear thrifted, or at the very least vintage, and the patterns and the general vibe all feel natural and comforting. Her makeup's always fairly simple, her hair's either down or up in a couple of cute space buns... overall, this Crystal looks like the kind of person who'd make you tea when you're in a bad mood, who'll listen when you just need to vent, and who may not always know the right thing to say but will understand what you're going through. But when we see her in the flashbacks, her clothing's flashy and prioritizes high-end trends over comfort, she's either got her hair up or has it straightened, and she not only has dramatic makeup, but acrylics. This is a girl who talks shit about you behind your back, who's bitter and cynical and wants everyone to feel the same way, who makes up for the lack of love and stability in her life via material things. It's also worth noting that Crystal's color scheme has a lot of purple, which is a color that connects to wealth and luxury, but also creativity and magic---which, yeah, fits her two conflicting sides pretty damn well.

You cannot talk about Niko Sasaki without talking about her outfits, and the meaning behind each of them has already been talked about at length. However, one thing that really stands out to me is that the reason they're so iconic isn't just because of the monochrome color schemes, but because they're out there. They're weird, they're eclectic, they're a little mismatched in style sometimes, and they're so unapologetically her. Niko wears heart-shaped sunglasses, unironically. Everything about the way she dresses speaks to how, even though she's a recovering shut-in who initially doesn't want to be perceived, she's still very sure of who she is.

Jenny's design, like Charles and Edwin's, is a design that gives you the key information you need the minute she first appears onscreen. The dark makeup, the silver jewelry, the leather apron, and the hairstyle all point to a person who's tough, doesn't take anyone's shit, and has long since given up on caring what other people think---in other words, she's a badass. But the butterfly tattoo hints at a softer side, a side that we see time and time again throughout the series as she shows that she cares about Crystal and Niko, and even the boys... eventually. Also, Jenny's design is perhaps one of the most clearly queer-coded in the series, to the point where her being a confirmed lesbian is pretty much a no-brainer.

Esther's design oozes camp, from top to bottom. The fluffy coat, the bustier, the boots and the cane and the everything, speak to a woman who's kept with the times and yet has seen it all. There's really not a lot I can fully say about her design, other than what Charles has already said: "She looks like a witch... like, kind of a sexy witch, who smokes a lot." (Or maybe I'm just tired and running out of steam at this point, idk, I love Esther's design and I can't really put it into words.) It's also pretty fitting that her color scheme has a lot of yellow in it---after all, she's always striving for more, so what better color for her than the color of gold?

Everything about the Night Nurse's design speaks to a woman who follows rules and discipline above all else, from the pantsuit to the pinned-up hairstyles to the tie to the heels. She's also the most muted out of the main cast in terms of color, dressing mostly in browns, dull greens, and duller browns---and while I don't have a lot to go into detail about there, I feel like that's kind of a symbol of her narrow-minded and bureaucratic worldview.

And the animal characters... Jesus Christ, I fully forget that they're all being played by human actors. Tragic Mick dresses like a man who's always spent his life by the sea, layered denim and all, and it's never a stretch to see this sad, bushy-bearded, baggy-clothed fisherman and imagine him as a walrus lounging on a beach. Monty, at first glance, seems to only wear black, which would be perfectly fitting for a crow, but when he's in better lighting, you see that he dresses in layers of red and blue, calling to how he envies Charles and Edwin and clearly longs for something more---and this might just be me, but I think that even though his outfits seem fairly normal at first glance, they feel kind of like a costume for Monty more than anything else, like he's trying to emulate a teenager that he's seen on TV more than someone in real life.

The Cat King fits this just as well, with all of his outfits aligning perfectly with whatever his cat form is at the time---when he's a fluffy ginger, it's always sequins and fur coats and clothing pieces that are specifically designed to take up space and call attention, and when he's a black shorthair, it's sleek styles and shiny leather and pieces that are designed to cut an intimidating yet more subtle figure. And while I could go into detail about all of those, what really stands out to me is how clearly queer everything is---more than Jenny's alt lesbian attire, more than Esther's campy coat and corset. From the very first scene he's in, he's wearing a skirt, and it looks natural. Nothing about the way the Cat King presents himself is exaggerated, nothing about the way he dresses is played for laughs---he's flamboyant and feminine and flirty, and he looks so fucking hot while he does it. It's gorgeous.

So... yeah, uh, all the awards for the Dead Boy Detectives costume designers!

[fanged-fanfics]

Ok, but what if next time shadow milk comes into the dough baby's room, we show off our artistic skills by doing makeup on him? Making him as pretty as ever!

.

(And then when he leaves, black sapphire is like 'what in the world happened to your face-?'.. 'Art, my dear minion, ART')

☆ Blue Hues of Trouble — Shadow Milk & Child!Reader ☆

Genre: Semi-Fluff, Platonic || they/them pronouns for reader || Warning for mild manipulative themes

A/N: Previous part for those who need it!

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

You rummaged around in the box sitting beside you, taking out tools you honestly can't remember the name of. You knew dressing up your face was something adults did for fun, and hey, Shadow always did say you were his favorite little artist! The jester sat before you, hunced over so you could reach his face.

You applied what had to have been the third layer of blush, drawing shapes on his cheeks with eyeliner ink. He sat perfectly still, humming in contentment. While you were turned away, his eyes flicked over to the corner of your bed. The doll he'd given you was haphazardly tucked away, mismatched button eyes peeking out of the sheets. He couldn't help grinning to himself.

"Say, little one, did your papa say anything about our plush friend?" He asked, putting on the most innocent tone he could muster. You huffed, applying eye shadow to his right eyelid with a frown "No.. I gotta hide it. Papa would try to toss it away". "How cruel!" Shadow Milk gasped, his face the picture of childish hurt "All because your dear friend wanted to give you a little gift?"

You nodded sadly "Yeah... but he doesn't play with me anymore! He just talks about big stuff...". Shadow Milk shook his head, tutting as he pulled you into his arms "Poor little doll! All alone, with no one to play with" he sniffled. You couldn't help but giggle at his silly antics "Nuh-uh, I have you!". Shadow Milk grinned, but no kindness reached his eyes "That's right. You'll always have your dear friend Shadow Milk"

The doorknob clicked, and the strong hands cradling you were suddenly gone. You landed on the carpet of your room with a grunt, looking around in bewilderment. All traces of your blue and black friend had disappeared in a mere blink, as if he were never there. You felt yourself beginning to pout, but footsteps sounded of someone entering

"Little sunflower, are you here?" Pure Vanilla asked. When he saw you, his worry melted into a tiny smile. He strode over, makeup kit completely ignored as he lifted you onto your feet "I was looking all over for you. Are you alright?". "Yes, papa" you nodded. You couldn't help but notice lines on his face that hadn't been there before. Faint darkness under his eyes, circles wearing heavy on his kind face. Pure Vanilla's smile almost faltered seeing you looking at him in concern. He stood back up, patting your head "That's good. I've someone very important I'd like you to meet"

Just then, the door creaked open more. Dark Cacao was there, and right beside him stood someone new. A tall man with pale grey armor, iridescence shinning in his large sword. He placed the weapon to the side, intense gaze falling upon you. You scooted closer to Pure Vanilla, who held your hand as reassurance. This new stranger bent down, seemingly scanning every inch of your face. "May I have your hand, little one?" He asked, extending a gloved hand to you. You stepped back, looking up at Pure Vanilla. He nodded gently "Don't worry, this is a dear companion of mine. He won't hurt you. I wouldn't let him"

With some of your worries softened, you gave the stranger your hand. He closed his eyes, and a light emitted from him. The glow of it made you feel warm, and it seemed to circle your being. The stranger's brow furrowed, and he stood "I can sense it". Pure Vanilla suddenly looked afraid "You don't mean...?". The other nodded. "Their souljam has been touched by deceit. I can feel it, clouding the edge of their essence"

Dark Cacao's frown deepened, and Pure Vanilla gripped his sleeve "No.. no, no, this can't be. I've been so careful- I can't-" his breath hitched "Elder Faerie Cookie, you must help us". "Don't worry, I won't let any harm come to this doughling" Elder Faerie promised "I can watch them, in my kingdom"

"No!" You shouted, clinging to Pure Vanilla's robes. You hid your face in his stomach "Don't wanna!". With a deep frown, Pure Vanilla turned to the faerie "I think that would only harm them.. they're so young, they still need me". "But this is the safest way" Dark Cacao said "If that Beast is back, we don't know what others might have been freed. We must eliminate this problem quickly". "There has to be another way" Pure Vanilla plead, holding you close to him. He looked to Elder Faerie, who gave a conflicted sigh

"It is possible that I can send a guard from my kingdom, someone to watch over them. They won't be able to purge the influence, but hopefully it can stop the spread" he said. "Thank you, Elder Faerie" Pure Vanilla responded "For all your help. I'm more greatful than you can imagine". "I'll also be sending someone" Dark Cacao chimed in "This castle needs protection". "I couldn't ask that of you" Pure Vanilla said "You need someone to protect you as well, if this really means what we fear it does"

"You are one of my oldest and closest allies, Pure Vanilla Cookie" Dark Cacao responded "A threat to you is a threat to me. I know what it's like to lose yourself... to lose your child..." the Cacao king gave you a look, his sternness softened by reflection. Pure Vanilla nodded "Thank you, my dear friend. I very much appreciate it. Whenever you need, I will make sure to return this kindness"

After a long time of the three discussing their options, they were soon being seen out. You were much more relaxed, but still sticking to Pure Vanilla like glue. "You may expect Silverbell Cookie's arrival soon" Elder Faerie said, standing in the threshold of the castle doors "I have faith that he will guard this castle to the fullest extent possible". "I will send you Chocolate Bark Cookie" Dark Cacao said next "He is one of my oldest allies. You can rely on him, much like you rely on me". "I cannot thank you two enough" Pure Vanilla sighed "Please, be careful on your travels". "Don't worry about us" Elder Faerie said "We'll check in soon enough"

Once inside, you headed to the kitchen. It was still a little upsetting that Shadow Milk had left so suddenly, but now you were also confused. What did all this mean? Did you do something wrong? Why did everyone seem upset with you? As you mulled over the question, Pure Vanilla sat you in your favorite chair. "Care for some Fluffy Castella?" He asked, taking out a cooking pan. You grinned happily "Yes please! And a bit of Toffee jam". "Coming right up" Pure Vanilla chuckled "How about you help me mix it all together?". You slid off of your chair, padding over to excitedly peer at the counter "Yeah!! You can count on me!"

Lingering on the windowsill, a small inky black blob with a single blue eye observed you. It just as suddenly slunk back, rushing across the fields. Around the outskirts, where the trees covered the moon and the forest ground stayed dark, two Cookies leaned against the bark of the trees. The blob stopped before them, morphing and twisting. It grew in size until the gunk peeled away, revealing Shadow Milk Cookie. "Master Shadow Milk!" A pitchy voice squealed, the cookie with red apples in her hair jumping forwards to greet him. "That took hours" the Cookie in purple and black pointed out, sliding into view with smooth strides

"I needed information" Shadow Milk responded simply "It seems our target is getting reinforcements. They're trying to weed us out". "They caught on this quickly?" The purple one asked. "That Elder Faerie Cookie.. I just know he's planning to seal me in that cramped tree again" Shadow Milk mumbled. "Never!" The gal declared, squeezing Shadow Milk's arm in a crushing hug. "Don't worry, minions, your master won't go down that easily" Shadow Milk declared, bravado returning to his tone "With just a pinch of deceit, we'll plant the seeds of our brilliant takeover!"

"Is the... face paint a part of it?" The purple Cookie asked. Shadow Milk raised a hand, feeling the botched shapes and messy makeup that was still on his face. He put his hands on his hips with a scoff "This, Black Sapphire Cookie, is art. If you're jealous that I can pull it off, just say so". "Of course not, Master Shadow Milk" Black Sapphire replied, bowing deeply "How foolish of me". "You're forgiven. This time" Shadow Milk replied, beginning to step into the thick woods "Now we must prepare. Our next act is just a curtain call away!"

[lcatala]

Inspired by this post by @thanergetic-hyperlinks, I present to you

Tessellations of the Nine Houses

(Or "I can't really draw figurative art so my Locked Tomb fanarts are geometrical vector drawings")

"A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface, often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes, called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps." — Wikipedia.

Making tilings themed after each necromantic House seems obvious: for each House you pick a tile with the same number of sides as the number of the House; but this does present some challenges for some of the Houses.

note 1: this might give the impression that I first decided on the symbols and then found patterns to match them in a very organized and motivated manner; in practice it was much more chaotic and multidirectional, the patterns informing the symbols as much as the symbols informed the patterns; this is fine since symbolism is entirely associative and arbitrary anyway

note 2: I added alt-texts for all the images, but I have no idea of how to properly describe abstract geometric art; if you feel you can do a better job than I did, feel free to put your fingers where your mouth is--wait, hang on-- I mean feel free to provide better descriptions if you can

note 3: looking forward to the geometry nerds explaining to me how I got basic geometric details wrong, friggin nerds

The First House

The First House seems obvious, as a shape with one side is an ellipse (of which the circle is a special case). There's just one problem: ellipses do not tile the plane. No matter how much you stretch them and deform them, the very nature of ellipses means you'll always have gaps or overlaps.

So we cheat and we work with overlaps: turns out there is a history of tilings that use circles as a construction pattern, then turn the overlapping sections into the actual tiles. Such patterns have been used extensively in European and Middle Eastern art, and have also been associated with the New Age movement, so it fits Jod's style perfectly. And so we get this:

The different cells correspond to different House colors, with the resulting gothic stained-glass appearance quite in line with the Roman Catholic Empire vibe Jod is going for. The overlapping circles convey the intricacy of the relation between the First House and the eight other, both autonomous from it yet intrinsically part of it.

The Second House

There's a variety of geometrical shapes that have two sides, but most of them don't tile the plane, altho there is one that does — if we take a crescent shape and slightly thicken it so that the inner and outer curves are identical, we can do this:

The waving pattern is of course evocative of the flag of conquest which the Cohorts of the Second House have planted on many worlds.

The Third House

With the Third House things get a lot easier, because equilateral triangles are one of the three regular polygons (where all sides are the same length and all angles are identical) that tile the plane all by themselves without needing any other shape! Which however doesn't mean we have to be boring; we can have a little bit of fun:

Flowers for the beauty and ionizing radiation warning signs for the rancid vibes.

The Fourth House

Squares are the second regular polygons that tile the plane by themselves, so again our job is easy here, altho we still want to not go for the easiest option in order to be able to work in some symbolism:

The four big navy squares with a small white square at the center of course evoke the number five and the shadow of the Fifth House's regency over the Fourth.

The Fifth House

Regular pentagons do not tile the plane, so we have to use a more unusual shape — there are many options, but obviously we want to again pick one that offers some interesting numerical symbolism:

The cross-like patterns of course bring up the number four and the hold of the Fifth House over the Fourth. As for the crosses themselves and the fact that they appear to be made of wooden stakes, well uh… Abigail Pent, Vampire Hunter??? She does have Van Helsing vibes.

The Sixth House

Hexagons are the third and last regular polygons that tile the plane on their own. But this is the Sixth House we're talking about, things need to look orderly but in a convoluted way. So how about multiple levels of recursion:

The apparent complexity of the pattern is created by different orientations of a small number of elements, either 3 irregular hexagons, or 1 patterned regular hexagonal tile, depending on how you look at it, in line with the kind of hermetic scientism one imagines the Sixth House indulges in. The result is those apparent three-dimensional elements and emerging higher-order patterns, including that of ꙮ, the Multiocular O found in exactly one word of one 15th century Old Church Slavonic translation of the Book of Psalms ("серафими многоꙮчитїй" many-eyed seraphim).

The Seventh House

Regular heptagons do not tile the plane, but they don't need much tweaking to work, which is fine since for the Seventh House we want something deceptive yet simple (deceptively simple? deceptive in its simplicity?):

Hearts for the beauty, snake scales for the poison [the Seventh House is on Venus, the planet named after the Roman Goddess of love, but etymologically "Venus" is actually the same root as "venom", and of course "Septimus" resembles "septic" — tho in that case there's no etymological connection, it's just a happy coincidence].

The Eighth House

Octagons do not tile the plane, but they come pretty close, so we can give the Eighth House a simple, stern, but slightly threatening pattern:

Boring sterile bleached temple mosaic, with just a little bit of passive-agression, a perfect fit for Evangelical Christians Tumblr puritans the Eighth House.

The Ninth House

And so we reach the Ninth House. Now the thing about the Ninth House is that, even by imperial standards, they're huge freaks, like they're completely unhinged heretical weirdoes. So, when it comes to their tiling, we need to get weird, like, a lot weirder than we've been so far, and this will require some context, so get ready because now we're officially going on a wild tangent.

So far all the tilings we've seen were periodic. That is, they were drawing a pattern that repeats itself indefinitely in all directions.

But starting in the 1960s, mathematicians began to study aperiodic tilings, tilings that don't repeat; you can keep expanding them forever and never exactly find back the original pattern you started with. The first mathematical proof of such a pattern was made in 1964 and theoretically required 20,426 distinct tile prototypes… This was soon refined to just 104 tile prototypes, then a mere 40. By 1971, it was mathematically demonstrated that you could make such a pattern with just 6 tile prototypes.

Except that was a lie.

Note that I said mathematically demonstrated. As it turns out there was an aperiodic pattern with just 5 tile prototypes, known as Girih, that had been used in Islamic art… since at least the 13th century — but it had historically been treated merely as an element of architectural design, and its mathematical properties weren't studied until 2007.

Then in 1973 this guy Penrose came along and demonstrated you could make an aperiodic tiling with just 2 tile prototypes. So now the goal was to find the ultimate aperiodic tiling, the one that would use only one tile prototype. Given how fast the field had progressed so far, it seemed that this discovery was imminent.

It took 50 years.

Not only that, but it was the work of amateur mathematician David Smith who accidentally discovered a 13-sided polygon that could make an aperiodic tiling all by itself (he then had his discovery checked by and co-authored a paper with a number of professional mathematicians).

EXCEPT THAT WAS A LIE AGAIN.

In turns out an aperiodic tiling using only one tile prototype had already been found… in 1936. But since the study of aperiodic tilings only started in the 60s, its significance in that domain wasn't understood at the time. It was seen as significant, but for an entirely unrelated reason: it was the first demonstration of a polygonal shape that needed only two copies of itself to completely enclose the original one — many mathematicians before that point thought the minimum possible was 3 (think of the Triforce from Zelda, with one equilateral triangle completely enclosed between three other identical triangles).

And coincidently, that shape happens to be a highly-irregular nonagon [yes "enneagon" is """technically""" more correct but "nonagon" has been used since the 17th century and is more common and it has Nona in it and Nona loves you]. So here it is, the Voderberg tiling, the freakish freakish tessellation of the Ninth House:

Like you see this and you're like "what is this, what is that thing, that's not a tiling, what the fuck is that" — but it is, it is a tiling, you can keep adding the freaky polygon and it keeps expanding outward forever, with no gap, no overlap, and with an ever-changing pattern. A double-spiral radiating outward, for Anastasia and Samael, Anastasia and Alecto, Alecto and Harrowhark, Harrowhark and Gideon.

And if you were thinking that this last one must have been significantly harder to draw than the other ones, you would be correct.

[freebooter4ever]

yall dont forget ive been a fan of goorin looooong before i even knew geno existed, and long before geno knew goorin existed too lol. at least im pretty sure. i can see sid maybe buying a bespoke handshaped brim felt hat for historical funsies... but geno? no lol. not his style. i kinda quit following goorin after they transitioned to the trucker hats because suddenly their insta feed wasnt about beautiful old style hats.

still jealous about this trip. however i am also fairly positive not a single one of the trucker hats are made in the us factory so its a little misleading. but still a positive that they make any of the hats at all in the usa with fair wages 🙃

LOOK at the website people, there is literally only one category of american made hats anymore and its the classic styles like mine from 2019.

[suplicyy]

You bringing him a bento for the first time!

Haikyuu boys x Gn!Reader

— Summary: How would he react to receiving a bento at school that you made especially for him.

— Characters: Yamaguchi, Kenma, Akaashi, Oikawa, Tendou.

— Tags/Genre: Gn!Reader | Fluff

— Idea by: @sarasversionworld

Yamaguchi Tadashi

He never thought he would receive something like this until he met you.

You always treat him with so much love and affection, that he even thought about the possibility of this happening one day, but he always thought he was dreaming too much.

But when you appeared at his desk holding a small box wrapped in a flowery cloth, he felt like he might pass out right there.

Yamaguchi is someone who is very insecure about himself, as he has not received attention from any person in a romantic way, so receiving something simple but as comforting as a homemade lunch means a lot to him.

"Huh!? This is for me...? T-Thank you very much!!"

You can be sure he was all flushed when he took the bento from your hands.

And if you have any doubts that he didn't like it, put it out of your mind immediately! Tsukishima will definitely complain to you the next day saying that Yamaguchi talked about your bento all day.

Kenma Kozume

We all know that Kenma is someone who eats very little, and it's no wonder he has the smallest appetite in the series.

You worry a lot about his diet and how it affects his well-being, and as he is a volleyball player, he needs to eat well to be in good shape for every game!

And to help him, you thought about making a complete bento for him at least once a week.

So when you walked towards him with a bento box in your hands, he didn't think it was for him and that it was your own bento, but those thoughts soon dissipated when you shyly handed him the box perfectly wrapped in a polka dot cloth.

Obsessed with technology, Kenma always has his cell phone or console in his hand while eating a meal.

Then It was an unexpected surprise to see him putting away his video game to eat the bento you made for him.

And if you give him a delicious slice of apple pie, he will definitely try to eat better to get the dessert.

Akaashi Keiji

As someone who has the habit of taking care of others around him, he was probably the one who gave you a bento earlier, so as a thank you, you decided to make one for him too.

Even if he never said it to you, it's quite noticeable how much he likes onigiris, seeing as he brought one to school almost every week.

And that was why the bento you prepared was full of onigiri of different flavors, as you weren't really sure which flavor was his favorite.

Akaashi would certainly be very grateful for the surprise, and he may be a little shy about the gift and sometimes doesn't show his emotions as much, but you've known him long enough to know that he loved the bento you prepared for him.

"Oh, that's for me?" He takes the bento from your hands, and when he opens it, he finds onigiris that you made yourself.

"Thank you, my love." He gives you a small smile, and when no one is looking, he plants a kiss on your cheek.

Also, don't be surprised if Bokuto appears out of nowhere and eats some of the onigiris you made for Akaashi, he usually eats his friends' snacks (and doesn't share when someone wants to eat his snack💀).

Oikawa Tooru

He has certainly received several bentos or snacks from his fans, and no matter how willingly he accepts each gift, he has never been so interested in it.

But his opinion is totally different when it comes to you, he appreciates every thing you do for him.

We all know he can be a little cheeky sometimes, so expect to get a comment from him bragging about himself.

"But of course you wouldn't resist the thought of spoiling me, I'm irresistible after all." says Tooru giving you a wink.

Just give him a serious look and he stops talking in the same second...😭

Oikawa will beg you to feed him, blatantly lying that his hand is hurting at that moment.

He'll be bragging to his third-year friends about how he has such an amazing partner and they don't, but not until Iwazumi threatens to throw him off a cliff.

Tendou Satori

Just like Yamaguchi, Tendou is someone who has never caught anyone's attention romantically, and is even excluded because of his different appearance than other people.

So when he receives a bento from someone he loves so much, he will definitely remember it forever.

Trust me, he'll have a passionate smile written on his face and with the brightest eyes while listening to you talk about how you prepared his favorite food.

He would probably first make some joke about the situation, to try to ease his own shyness, but later he will genuinely show his gratitude in every possible way.

Tendou loves being around you, so expect lots of hugs and little kisses during lunch, in addition to his lots of compliments for the bento you made.

The next day, he probably would surprise you with a dessert he made especially for you, like truffles, cookies or even cupcakes!

And please give him lots of compliments too!! This way, he will prepare something every week for you.🌷

— A/N: They had already sent me this idea a long time ago, and only now have I managed to have the creativity to write something about it.😭 Anyway, thank you very much for your help!! And I will certainly do that other idea of yours that you sent me!

[hyuneflix]

THE PURRFECT PAIR • Lee Minho

after four dates lovesick!minho decides it's time for you to meet his sons. he seems more nervous about it than you are, a seed of doubt that grows in the anxious crevices of his mind. however, the moment he sees you with his babies, he realises he never needed to worry--you're purrfect. gn!reader.

word count: 3.7k << back to dash // next episode >> ↪ now playing: doesn't matter at all - renforshort

For most who had begun to traverse the various stages of a new flourishing relationship, the big next step usually resided in the complicated dynamics of their friends and family. The nervous excitement to introduce a new person to those who already had years of history by your side was an unmatched kind of feeling that manifested in a dizzying disposition and a heart that seemed unable to slow. Would they get along? Would they see them the way you did? Could they make it past your most protective friend or your strictest parent?

When it came to the ever-unique and unconventional Lee Minho, however, it was his three sons you had to win over. When he’d uttered such an invitation on your fourth date, you’d frozen in spot, eyes wide at the sudden revelation. He looked just the same upon glimpsing your expression from behind the rim of your wine glass. His ears turned pink as he chuckled apprehensively; “they’re cats…” he’d admitted sheepishly, eyes falling to scraps of food left in his bowl. 

The laugh that fell from your lips was a melodic sound he’d come to adore in the short time he’d known you, his heart fluttering the moment it kissed his eardrums with the same delicate grace your mannerisms maintained. It had been enough for him to raise his nervous gaze, settling on the amused arrangement of your alluring features. How had he managed to keep you interested this long? What was it about him that seemed to blind you to your clear superiority? 

“I almost wish they were humans, cats are far more difficult to please.” You’d retorted, lips wrapping around each word with a fineness that captivated him. A smirk tugged at his, eyes averting to meet with your crescent-shaped gaze as he shook his head. He knew it was impossible for a species of any kind to resist the charming energy you exuded as tangibly as the floral scent of your perfume filled the air around him. 

Nevertheless, he mirrored your nervousness just a little. What if, against all odds, you didn’t fit into his life as perfectly as he envisioned you doing? What if he’d spent the last four dates romanticising every facet with a despairing longing to kid himself into thinking you weren’t out of his league? Was he simply prolonging every immaculate moment with the utmost passionate delirium; a prediction that this would end far sooner than he desired lingering in the back of his mind?

Minho had met you by chance, during a time in his life when he’d finally stopped looking at relationships as something to be cast aside as quickly as they’d begun. Yet, in his head, he’d painted you as the reason. It didn’t matter that the change in disposition had already begun to bloom months before you’d crossed paths, the moment he saw you, he’d decided his heart had been preparing for your arrival. 

He still remembered the encounter as clearly as the day it happened. You filled the room with warm light as soon as you entered it, the party he’d once intended to rush through out of obligation to his friend suddenly feeling fated. People seemed to draw nearer to you like a magnet, your quiet confidence a drug to all those looking for a dose of self-assurance by proxy. He saw the way you painted smiles on everyone’s faces as if a born artist, each one wider, more intricate than the last. 

It had taken Minho hours to gather up the confidence to approach you, your presence was in high demand but that wasn’t the reason. It was laughable, but he didn’t feel worthy of your artistry; didn’t think himself a canvas deserving of your attention. All the same, when he saw you lingering by the driveway–a cigarette perched haphazardly between your frowning lips–he felt himself propelled forward. How could he resist? Minho had never been much good when it came to art, but for you, he’d paint the prettiest, widest smile over the downturn of your lips. It would be his masterpiece, his finest work. 

When he managed it with such surprising ease–with a mere fumbled hello and pink-tinted ears–it felt as if something unseen had clicked into place. He realised then that he never needed to worry about his skills as an artist, you’d make every one of his attempts look like museum-worthy artworks. 

In spite of that revelation, it was almost three months and four dates worth of memories later, when he felt uncertain once again. You were sat dainty and perfect in the passenger side of his car, a sight familiar by now. Only, the circumstances couldn’t be more different. Usually, you’d occupy his vehicle at the end of every date as a means of dropping you home; the soft hum of music pulling gentle sways from your content form as he drove with laser focus. However, this time you were parked outside of his parents' home, the lack of car in their driveway a representation of their absence. 

Minho had picked this weekend with as much careful consideration as he’d given every decision in his life no matter the size of it. Meeting his cats was a baby step in a much grander plan, one he’d prepared, like a lovesick fool, from start to finish. If it were up to him, you’d have met his parents by the second date, but Minho was terrified of pushing things too quickly. He wanted to traverse each stage with meticulous care as if they had all the time in the world and not what felt like a ticking time bomb ready to implode the moment he stepped wrong. 

“You ready?” He asked, tone soft and light as he reached across the centre console to take your hand in his. It was hard not to let his thoughts be consumed by the softness of your skin and the perfect way your fingers seemed to lace with his own. You were made for him–designed with his proportions in mind–you had to be, there was no rational explanation for the racing of his heart or the snug embrace of your palm. 

“As I’ll ever be.” You chimed, the harmonious sound tugging at the corners of his lips. He couldn’t resist nearing you, the magnetic pull of your aura as impossible to fight against as a powerful current. Leaning closer, his free hand pushed stray strands from your eyes, his being swallowed whole by your gentle stare instantaneously. 

“Are you nervous?” He murmured, ready to assure you, to tell you he felt the same. Prepared to express your united front; you could walk the uncertainty together, hand in hand, two hearts beating as one. His hand moved down the smooth slope of your face, thumb brushing against the contours of your skin with a featherlight caress. 

“When am I ever?” You smiled widely, cheek expanding beneath his wandering digits, his steady gaze committing every blemish and mark to memory. How silly of him to assume you’d be anything but your usual confident self, how foolish of him to prepare a romantical tale of unison. He was the only one anxious, the only one hopelessly examining every detail of the evening as it transpired in real-time. 

Did you know something he didn’t? Have you already practised every rise and fall of your expressions in the mirror this morning? Or were you simply this unburdened by the uncertainty of such a pivotal moment in your relationship? 

His mind remained plagued with every possibility and explanation as you both travelled the neat cobalt pathway to his childhood home. He kept his eyes trained on the well-kept lawn, its perfection taunting him. What was he missing? He searched the lush expanse for a single flaw as intensely as he dug around his mind for the cause of your unwavering resolve. 

“Are you nervous?” Your voice cut through the fog that filled his skull as if a lighthouse navigating him through his choppy thoughts and back to the safety of land. It was welcomed, the fear of drowning in the unrelenting waves of his insecure introspections a prevalent concern. Your arms wrapped so easily around his middle as he rummaged through his pockets for his keys, your large eyes peering into his as if searching his distant stare for the answer before his words could offer it.

“Nah, they’re just cats…” He chuckled, forcing a grin atop his lips as his free arm wrapped around your figure, proximity lessening as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. The jingle of keys signalled his victorious endeavour, his face lingering close to your hair for a moment longer to inhale the coconut scent of your shampoo. 

Minho had always been a bad liar, or perhaps you were just used to his every move by now. You had always been good at that, learning, absorbing, committing every mannerism and emotion to memory until you had their conscience inserted alongside your own. Everyone who came across the man deemed him enigmatic, but you knew him differently. They just weren’t looking at him from the right angle; hadn’t taken the time to study the changes in his aloof disposition. Right now he was being forcefully stoic, pushing something down that you were hoping he’d place. You knew better than that, though. If you want to understand the inner workings of his mind you’d have to dig a little deeper. 

“Just three cats you call your sons?” You teased, your heart soaring at the smirk that rose across his lips. It was a sight you’d never get used to, an expression that overwhelmed your every sense until he was the only thing you could see, feel, taste, smell, hear. It was the way it overtook his whole face that consumed you. It was a mere tug of his mouth and yet it made his eyes appear sharper in a way that stole your breath. He was effortlessly handsome, the kind of humble beauty that went unnoticed in the mirror. You wanted to change that. You were going to change that.

“I’m just dramatic, ignore me.” He stared back at you, a task that grew increasingly difficult beneath the flourishing of adoration behind your bright-eyed gaze.

“I don’t wanna ignore you.” You mused, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he worked to unlock the front door. He chuckled, smirk spreading into an unmovable grin. His arm tightened around you, bringing your form as close to his as humanly possible. Your scent caught in the subtle breeze, coconut mixing with floral notes as it wafted across his senses. He never knew the two went so well together until now, the smell so unequivocally you; sweet and exotic with a dainty spring-like appeal.

Yes, spring, that was you, breathing life into everything you touched with a warmth that warded off winter with effortless determination. He was autumn, a lukewarm sort of chill that threatened to grow colder the longer he remained. Spring and autumn, two worlds apart, never touching, never meeting, a more hopeless pair than the sun and the moon. Yet, he hoped all the same. He could be the uncharacteristic snow in the warmer months. You could melt his cold exterior, you could thaw his heart before the ice festered and burned like an unrelenting frostbite.

“Come on, let’s meet your babies.” You whined playfully, his lack of response not deterring you. You could see the way he retreated to some compelling corner of his mind, thoughts whirling with the same circular formation as a tornado. You wondered if they raged just the same, a thundering, wicked storm that stole a part of him with every weathered gale. You wished to be the person holding the umbrella above his head, preventing the downpour of thoughts from soaking his skin, from stealing the warmth from his bones. 

“Yeah, yeah alright.” He mumbled, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head before he shuffled closer to the door. He couldn’t help the low chuckle that exhaled from his nostrils in a ragged breath, the way you clung to him as he moved to unlock the door too adorable to leave unacknowledged. 

With a click and a creak, the door unlocked and parted with minimal protest. The soft pitter patter of feet was instant, a gentle meow sounding from the darkened doorless threshold of the living room. You both stepped inside, the warmth of his home enveloping you like the embrace of a parent. Your form seemed to glide through his home with so much ease he could barely believe you hadn’t been within its walls before. He watched onward with a lazy smile as you bee-lined straight for the source of noise, almost forgetting to kick off your shoes in the process. 

He closed the door behind him, flicking on the low light of the entryway. He did the same in the living room, following a distance behind you to encase your eager figure in the soft glow of the overhead lights. A cat darted out from behind the television once the shadows had been stolen away, the darkness giving way to an off-white hue. You released a surprised yelp followed quickly by a giggle at the unexpected sight.

“Ya, Doongie… Don’t sneak up on y/n like that.” He lightly scolded the skittish feline, body crouching to run his palm across the silky expanse of orange and white. The soft bump against his ankle stole his attention for a moment, a cat vaguely matching the former staring up at him. He sunk to the floor, sitting cross-legged as he stroked Soonie’s fur with his unoccupied hand. 

You watched onwards with a smile, arms tucked across your chest as you observed the keen glimmer in Minho’s eyes. If it had been hard to believe his insistence that they were ‘just cats’ earlier, it was entirely impossible to now. He looked at them the way he looked at the ramen he’d subsequently devoured back at the restaurant–as if they were a moment of simple and pure joy in his otherwise mundane routine. 

The same quiet meow from earlier met your ears, your gaze falling toward a tabby feline. The smaller cat looked up at you with wide eyes, as if silently pleading for something you couldn’t quite place. Your instincts drew you to the floor, almost mirroring Minho’s actions as you got comfortable against the rug that stretched across the hardwood panelling. 

Your motion stole Minho’s attention away from the two purring beings tucked at either side of him. A wide smile erupted across his face at the sight of you carefully regarding Dori, your hand outstretching slowly. The concentrated grin that tugged at your lips was an endearing sight, the way it widened as the tabby leaned forward to nuzzle against your palm sending a jolt of affection straight to his heart. 

His movements slowed, too captivated by the careful way you traced your fingers across Dori’s fur, running across the darker lines as if absorbing every detail. You looked at him in a way he couldn’t describe as if searching his jasper-green eyes for the words his meows and purrs couldn’t produce. 

“Yes? I agree. It is rude to stare. You should tell your daddy that.” Your voice came out in a coo. Minho released an amused laugh, chest rumbling beneath the baritone melody. Another pitchy meow left the tabby, your brows rising as if you understood. “I disagree, I think it is your duty to tell him. It sounds better coming from you.” 

“Ya, leave Dori out of it.” Minho grumbled. “Five minutes in and you’re already putting him in the middle of our conflicts.” He shook his head, shuffling closer to your form until he was right beside you, thighs touching, shoulders almost the same. His arm settled across your lower back, fingers quickly finding a home beneath the fabric of your shirt. His digits caressed mindless patterns across your warm skin, chin tucked at your shoulder. It was inexplicable the way he yearned to be closer to you, everything you did compelled him nearer as if driven by a siren song. 

“Nuh uh, he was the one who brought it up in the first place.” You protested with a playful chime. He rolled his eyes, turning his face to press a kiss to your neck. It pulled a giggle from your lips, shoulders lifting slightly, skin tingling beneath the push of his lips. He smiled against your sweet skin, repeating the action with an affectionate, unrelenting enthusiasm. 

“I somehow doubt that.” He murmured, a sharp inhale following the scent of your perfume as it became synonymous with the oxygen in his lungs. He loved the idea that he was breathing you in, replenishing another part of his body. Another inch of him consumed by your irresistible state of being. 

He turned away from your neck to admire the lazy grin on your lips, both your hands petting the tabby that resided comfortably in your lap. It was uncanny the way you seemed to belong so perfectly against the mahogany varnish of his hardwood floor. Even the scent of your perfume flawlessly complimented the distant aroma of lilies his mother perpetually kept around the house. Your skin contrasted against the rug beneath your form, eyes matching the colour of the old furniture. 

As the other two cats trudged over to you curiously–one nuzzling under your arm, the other sniffing your knee–he realised his earlier anxiety had been so entirely misplaced. You were right not to be nervous and he was foolish for thinking there was a universe where you didn’t fit perfectly into the familiarity of his home. 

“Hello, you two. You’re going to have to take turns I only have two hands.” You regarded them warmly, trying to divide your attention between the three cats equally. He found himself entirely transfixed by the way you handled each of them with the utmost care, treating them like extensions of yourself. The sight had his heart thumping against his ribcage with violent force, almost as if it ached to break free from its confines and settle in the warmth of your palms. 

He loved you, he knew it then. 

He wasn’t ready to say it aloud, too afraid of the outcome to express himself so openly, to be so vulnerable and bare. Nevertheless, he knew the day would come; the ticking time bomb he’d feared so vehemently suddenly seeming non-threatening. It wasn’t there to destroy, it was there to count down to the moment he couldn’t hold his love in any longer. To ensure that no matter how plagued his thoughts became, he was always destined to tell you how he felt for better or for worse.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” You spoke with a wide grin, the three cats clambering all over you as if driven by the same desire to be near as he was. Your voice was so genuine, so full of joy that he could practically see the bomb’s clock quicken. He shook his head, body pressing closer to yours as he littered kisses across your neck, moving his affectionate assault higher across your jaw and face.

“No, thank you.” He murmured against your skin, close not close enough as he hooked his arm around your waist to draw you nearer. “You’re so perfect.”

You chuckled, accepting every one of his affections with a giddy smile. “I’m purrfect?” You joked, turning to look at him as he pulled back from you. The scowl on his face had you laughing again, eyes crinkling at the corners. His bemusement couldn’t linger for long, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.” He grumbled, head shaking in discontent. 

“Well that’s too bad, I was going to say we make a purrfect pair, but I was clearly mistaken.” You retorted, teasing tone giving away your jestful intent. 

“A perfect pair?” He asked, almost as if trying out the way it sounded on his tongue. He liked it, loved it in fact. Minho and y/n, autumn and spring, the perfect pair. Two seasons destined to remain apart meeting in immaculate harmony. Yeah, he liked the sound of that. 

“No, purrfect pair. Learn the difference.” You scoffed, tone still playful as you gazed up at him with adoring eyes. He rolled his own, head shaking as he fought back the urge to kiss you with all the passion his heart hid away from view. 

“You will never hear me say that, ever.” His voice was low, sharp eyes taking in every rise and fall of your beautiful features. You looked so divine below the off-white glow of his living room. He wished his irises would morph into camera lenses, closed lids becoming shutters so he could capture this moment with you in permanent technicolour.

“Really? Cause I was kinda hoping it would be in your wedding vows.” You spoke with such sincerity and conviction that if Minho were standing, he was sure he’d be knocked from his feet. His eyes widened, breath hitching, heart racing impossibly fast as he looked at you in disbelief. Had you found a way to peer into his mind, to see his carefully constructed plan? Had you known all along his intentions? Was he that transparent? That clueless to the obvious way he gazed at you with all the love his heart could hold?

“Too soon?” You asked, tone still light despite the heat that rose in your cheeks. Minho blinked, head shaking as a smile crept across his lips. He leaned in, the hand that wasn’t situated at your waist rising to cup your warm cheek. His mouth captured yours in an unrestrained kiss, all the intensity he’d been afraid to show spilling out of him like a dam granted permission to give way beneath the water pressure. 

“Purrfect timing.” He murmured against the plush push of your lips, mouth slotting against yours faultlessly, but of course it did. Of course, your lips fit perfectly like every other inch of you seemed to. You were the once-lost key that slid with ease into his complicated lock; the missing puzzle piece he’d thought he’d never find. 

You were spring, breathing life into every crevice of his being until he lit up like the first ray of sunlight after a long winter. You were purrfect.

<< back to dash // next episode >>

A/N: impromptu upload, i was chilling with my cats earlier and got inspired so hope yous enjoy it lmaoo. i haven't edited or checked it so lowkey it could be shit idk. this was supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away as per the usual lmao.

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[bigification]

Lumberjack - A TF Short

"Why did I need to come here dad?" You whine.

"This is important, son. It's a family tradition." He responds, clearly tired of convincing you.

"Look, I already told you a million times, I'm not gonna be a lumberjack like you." You try to plead with him as you enter the department store.

"Just give it a try, we'll start with some woodworking to get you started and if you still don't like it I'll stop asking." He says as he holds his hand out.

"Deal." You smile and shake his hand.

You're 99 percent sure you're not gonna like it, so maybe this will finally get him off your back about this whole family business thing. Your father is nothing if not honest, so it feels like a weight off your back that he might actually stop nagging you about it.

"Here we are." He says as you turn into the lumber aisle. "Why don't you grab a few two by fours." He asks.

It doesn't bring you joy, but you promised you'd give it a chance. You walk up to the wall of wood planks, scanning for which ones are two by fours.

"Not that one." Your father says with concern as you grab the wrong plank. "Just to the right."

Your hand wanders to the right until it meets a large two by four. You wrap your hand around it and try to pick it up, but you can't. You try a few times to lift it off the shelf, to no avail. Is it just too heavy? Are you really that weak that you can't even lift one plank of wood? That can't be right.

The silence is broken by a cracking sound coming from your hand. You watch in horror as your hand starts to grow, the bones cracking and reshaping as your palm doubles in size and your fingers become thick and calloused. It somehow feels comfortable holding the plank of wood now. Your hand is large enough to nearly wrap around the whole plank, and the callouses protect from the splinters sticking out of the wood. Why does it feel so... familiar?

You don't have to think about it though. As if it was spreading up from your hand. Your forearm grows thicker than your biceps and your biceps triple in size in an instant, ripping right through the sleeves of your shirt. Thick veins start to surface along the defined muscles on your arms.

Your other arm quickly follows suit, making you look like a cartoon character with massive arms and a tiny body. That wouldn't last long however.

Your shirt rips even more as your shoulders broaden with bulging muscles. Your flat chest suddenly bursts outward with muscle, quickly becoming two juicy pecs that strain your shirt to its limits. Your pudgy belly melts away to reveal a perfectly defined eight pack. Even your waist slims down, creating a perfect V shaped upper body.

The transformation has only just begun. You feel a tightness grow in your shorts. Your free hand wanders over to your crotch. Your dick feels much smaller down on account of having hands twice as large as before. Although you start to feel your underwear tighten as the bulge in your shorts grows and grows until it fits perfectly inside your massive man hands.

Your shorts continue to get tighter when your flat ass begins to rise like a loaf of bread, growing into two perky fat globes. It doesn't help when your thighs swell to twice the size, forcing you to spread your legs just to walk. Oh, and a man as well hung as you needs a pair of beastly feet to match. The straps on your sandals don't stand a chance against your Sasquatch feet, growing to a monstrous size 20.

Then the transformation finally starts to make its way to your head. Your neck thickens, your jaw widens, your nose grows longer, your brow bone sticks out more. Then it hits you. Your eyes widen as your brain starts to change. Everything you learned in university is gone in an instant and replaced with the memories of a real man, like your father. Axes, saws, and sex are all you know. Your brain also pumps your body with a surplus of testosterone. A light brown beard sprouts along your sharp jawline. It spreads down your neck to your pecs and along your eight pack. You keep the rest under check, but you would look like Bigfoot in a week if you didn't shave.

"You sure it's the two by fours you want?" You ask your father in a deep gruff voice.

There is an awkward silence for a moment.

"Son?" Your father says.

You turn to face him.

"Why don't you flex for me?" He asks.

It was a weird request, but you'll never turn down a chance to flex for someone.

"You've been hitting the gym, haven't you?" He compliments you.

"Yeah, I'm glad you noticed. Maybe you should come with me." You tease him by pinching the fat in his gut.

"You know I used to look just like you when my pops was teachin me. But us lumberjacks need to eat well to make it through the day." He chuckles.

"I'll be fine with chicken and rice." You respond.

"Oh, just you wait until I've got you workin in the forest with me. You'll be begging for seconds and thirds. Soon enough you'll look just like your old man." He continues laughing while he shakes his gut. "Now c'mon, let's get you in some real clothes. None of those shitty gym clothes." He says excitedly as he walks away.

[vexwerewolf]

If we talk about the aesthetics of technology in Lancer, we can divide each of the Big 4 along lines of form and function.

IPS-N: Pure Function

IPS-N cares only what a mech does. It doesn't need to look good or pretty doing it - it only needs to be able to do that thing well. It's notable that the Raleigh, arguably the most form-oriented of the IPS-N frames, is also considered to be the company's biggest commercial failure - they strayed from their core design principles and got punished for it.

Harrison Armory: Form Follows Function

Harrison Armory still leans pretty heavily towards the functionality side of things, but it isn't satisfied with doing a good job alone. Yes, the mechs have to perform well, but they also have to look good doing it. There's no practical application for the Sherman's sleeveless coat or the Tokugawa's dainty little tassels, but they don't hinder combat functionality and they make the mechs look dashing. In comparison to IPS-N's coarse, industrial, almost unfinished look, HA mechs look stern, austere and imposing. There's a smoothness to them that you just don't get on IPS-N frames.

SSC: Function Follows Form

SSC is where we start to plunge into aesthetics-forward mech design. The Death's Head isn't six-legged because it's a sniper - the Death's Head is a sniper because it's six-legged. SSC came up with a mech design and asked: "what would this do best?" A six-legged chassis provided a more stable firing platform for precision weaponry, so that was what it did. Shapes and appearances are invented, and then a use case is discovered for them.

HORUS: Pure Form

It might seem weird to classify HORUS as "pure form" when their mechs largely don't have a consistent visual identity outside of the examples in the book. However, if we look a little deeper at the definition of "form," the explanation becomes clear: in some ways, HORUS is in the business of making statements, not mechs.

For anyone who's actually played a HORUS mech in Lancer, you may have noticed how awkward they are to actually pilot. Their statlines are, on paper, often very poorly suited to the sort of work they have to do. The Gorgon is built to attract attention and draw fire but has no armor. The Manticore is meant to be a front-line fighter but is quite slow. The Minotaur is meant to be a tech platform but has a low sensor range. The Pegasus' one functional trait doesn't apply to any of the weapons in its equipment package!

This is because HORUS mechs are designed purely as a testament to a certain discipline of technology. I remember expressing irritation with a friend's NeoGeo-for-X-Box emulator once, that you couldn't reconfigure the controller mapping so that it was easier to play with the X-Box controller. He remarked that it was meant as a historical preservation tool that perfectly duplicated the functionality of the NeoGeo, and that the only reason you could even play games using it at all is because that was a function of NeoGeo arcade cabinets.

That's how HORUS mechs are - their usability as chassis is broadly a side-effect.