#��⋆｡𖦹 my writings

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. will prob get a pt.2. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[dawnbreakerluna]

consider an au where sylus is still a powerful figure and the unnamed ruler of onichynus but also a single father to young twin boys, kieran and luke.

he hesitates at first at the idea of taking in two children who were stranded in the n109 zone, debating on whether or not this was just another ploy of one of his many enemies. yet, with how beat down and shaken they were in that alley... that weary heart of gold spoke to him after his keen senses assured this was a matter that involved nothing but sympathy.

gaining their trust was a challenge, more so than when he first realized the power he wielded and how to use it to his advantage. but over time, his heart stirred knowing that he had an additional purpose to his life. if ruling onichynus and being the fearsome figure his stomping grounds saw him as would do him this good in being able to protect them, he would continue to do so.

then in comes you — the one he has been looking over for time now, the one who shares the unique prowess of holding an aether core in your body. the both of you are alike in many ways, only that you've yet to realize your true potential and wield your evol properly.

the resentment and hesitation you feel towards being able to trust sylus is mediated in a smoother manner, when you're introduced to the two young souls under sylus' care. while in other situations you would take advantage of this vulnerability to bargain intel, your keen assessment of the bond sylus has with his sons is genuine and true.

in kieran and luke's perspective, upon warming up to your presence and noticing the fond look in their father's eyes when he gazes at you... they wouldn't mind trying to play matchmaker. they wouldn't mind if you decided to stay around, to accompany sylus and them for the rest of their days.

[bruisedboys]

eddie only lets you touch his hair. and if someone else does he gets upset I feel.

fr!! hes very particular about who gets to touch his hair. he’s such a dork I love him

fem!reader

eddie finds a knot in his hair at hellfire, and it’s driving him crazy but he can’t get it out himself for the life of him. dustin notices his aggravation and is like dude here. let me and eddie yells at him and slaps his hands away. but then when you come to pick him up from club, he’s pushing himself into your chest, arms around your waist, all whiny. babe :( I got a knot again :(( will you get it out for me?

unfortunately dustin and co are also leaving club and see the whole thing. you getting eddie to sit on a bench as you stand over him. you running your fingers through eddie’s hair gentle as ever, working at the stubborn knot until it’s gone. eddie practically melting under your touch. the sticky, sappy thank you kiss he gives you.

poor eddie doesn’t hear the end of it. complaints of that’s disgusting, dude and why’d you let her touch your hair and not me? it’s childish, eddie thinks. they’re just jealous they don’t have a pretty girl to get knots out of their hair like he does.

[sphnyspinspin]

Hey, do you know what the trope is when men, specifically in the cartoon medium, wear a red Hawaiian shirt with white flowers on it?

The only men that come to mind are Denny from Robots In Disguise 2015, Rango from Rango, and Master Fu from Miraculous.

I know for a fact that there are more but I just can’t remember any at the moment.

Is it, like, a reference to a really old trope in Hollywood?

Is it secretly symbolic in western animation, specifically geared towards the male demographic?

Do artists just like to draw it because men’s fashion is simply boring and they steal that one character design aspect from previous characters that they drew inspo from in the first place?

Am I reading too much into this?

I. Need. ANSWERS. PLEEEEEASE!

Tagging y’all in case you know something I don’t:

@novafire-is-thinking @autistic-fool-with-ideas @celestite-caroline @frosty-tian @viewer-of-many @gelu-the-babosa-multiversal @luciolefire @mysticfoxdesigns

[bttrflyeffekt]

butterflyeffect does the oversharing candy salad trend <3 (obviously inspired by myah @venusvity) tw for mentioned grooming, child abandonment, child neglect, violence, stalking, and akito being akito.

“I'm going first," Akito announces as the camera shifts its focus from the butterfly shaped fairy lights to the group in front of it.

Xinyi scoffs. “No, you're not! It's my Tik Tok accou–" 

He ignores her protests, holding up a comically large clear plastic container before setting it on the table in front of him. “I'm Akito, and when I was fourteen I started a fight club in my school.” Shaking the bag in his hand, he grins, "I brought Hershey's chocolate drops."

Glaring at him as he steps to the side, Xinyi takes his place. “I'm Xinyi. I brought a generic bag of sour gummy worms.” She dumps the bag into the container, making sure to shake out the excess sugar from the bottom of the bag. “And when I was younger I was a child star, and this thirty year old man became obsessed with me and would follow my tour bus in his Chrysler Sebring.”

"Did they arrest him?” Patch asks, as Heejin steps into frame.

Xinyi pauses, then solemnly says, "No. But my bàba tased him in the throat, so he stopped coming around." 

Heejin smiles at the camera, proudly holding up her bag of Airhead gummies. “I'm Heejin, I brought these gummy Airheads because everyone hates them and I thought it would be funny." She empties the bag into the container with a laugh. “In 2018, I had a really fugly bob because a sasaeng snuck into our old apartment and cut a chunk of my hair when I was asleep, like directly in the middle of the back of my head.”

Sookyung snorts a laugh as she's pushed into frame. "I forgot about that,” she exclaims, obviously delighted at the memory, as she looks at the camera with a smile. "I'm Sookyung, and recently a deep fake nude of me went viral online and they made my boobs too small. Also Akito liked it.” Akito made a scandalized noise, but didn't deny it. "Oh! And I brought chocolate covered pretzels!”

She gently pulls an obviously nervous Hajoon into the frame, and pats him on the back.

He brushes his hair out of his eyes before holding up his candy. “I'm Hajoon, I brought Swedish fish, and I realized last month that my favorite teacher groomed me." He turns to Sookyung. “Is that too dark?" 

“No!" she exclaims, “You're doing great!" 

He smiles to himself, stepping to the side to let Sungho into frame.

“Hi, I'm Sungho. This was before I knew I was gay, so that makes it extra funny, but, once I was having a conversation with our old CEO, and I mentioned having a girlfriend back home – just to test the waters and see how he'd react – and he laughed in my face, then called me a slur.” He holds up a peace sign beside his eye. "I brought Hi-chews, the desert kind.”

"This is all gonna taste like shit,” Patch states, as he takes Sungho’s place. "I'm Patch, and I was added to this group as damage control because Akito is the worst person in the world, and in my first week, I got 537 death threats.” He pauses to read the front of his bag. "Heejin brought peach rings for me to dump because I didn't have enough time to buy my own candy.”

Akito makes an incredulous noise. “You counted?”

Xinyi shoves past him to stop him from going first again, smiling as he grunts at the impact of their bodies colliding. “Hey, Xinyi again. A few years ago – three now, I think – my parents disowned my brother for being gay, and I lost contact with him,” Patch and Hajoon made wounded noises on her behalf as she held up her candy, “I have Jolly Ranchers that Hajoonie unwrapped for me.”

“Can I go now, or are you gonna bodyslam me if I try?” Akito asks.

“Nope!” Heejin says with a giggle before jumping into frame. “I’m Heejin, and I had to go no contact with my mom last year because she bullied me into having an eating disorder. I have chocolate covered pomegranates.”

She yanks Patch into frame, just to stop Akito from coming in. “Jesus Christ, Jinnie,” Patch says with a laugh, “I’m still Patch, and on my third day under our company, before I was even going to take his job or anything, Akito threatened to stab me because he said that I looked at him funny.”

“It was a misunderstanding!” Akito exclaims as Patch pulls Sungho on screen.

“I’m Sungho. This time I have another bag of Jolly Ranchers that Joonie unwrapped, because none of us communicated the kind of candy we were going to bring with one another,” he grumbles, obviously grumpy. Hajoon laughs, which makes him smile. “Um, I grew up in a cult that my parents run.”

Sookyung cackled. “You can’t just drop that with no context!”

“I can do whatever I want,” Sungho argues, laughing as well. He tries to pull her in, to stop Akito, but he’s shoved to the side as Akito bulldozes past him.

“I’m Akito, and I hate all of my members,” he snaps, “Um, when I was twelve, my mom abandoned me and my dad because she said she hated our masculine energy.”

“Oh my God,” Heejin says, mouth open in shock, “Is that why you’re a raging misogynist?”

The girls all cackle in sync, as he goes red in the face. “Fuck off.”

“Ok, my turn,” Hajoon says, giggling at Akito’s rage. “I brought Sour Patch Strawberries,” He dumps the candy into the container, before pausing to think. “Okay, um, I’m the youngest of six, so my parents were basically out of fucks to give once I was born, and when I was, like, eight, they forgot me at the mall for an hour and a half.”

Sookyung laughs so loud that it makes him jump. “Oh my god. You poor baby,” she says, coming into frame to hug him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, she says. “I’m Sookyung, and I only brought one bag of candy because I didn’t realize we were going more than once. Um, one time, during a performance, my clip on bangs flew off and hit Hajoonie in the eye, and we thought he was going to go blind.”

Xinyi is laughing so hard that she’s shaking as she steps into view holding a tiny pair of plastic tongs. “I stole these from the company cafeteria,” she explains as she begins mixing the candy. “Oh my God, we definitely cannot post this,” she exclaims, breathless.

[whoskimii]

it is CANON Gojo is a DOM.

gege has confirmed he has a god complex plus he’s so cocky.

not on my watch pookie, go cry about it somewhere else :3 and next time, don't be shy, don't hide your account, baby <3 i don't bite !

[shellxrls]

there’s like 0.0001% of piss writers here. Please be do not be shy i am begging i have no content to read

I’LL TRY I PROMISE. i’m honestly just kind of torn bc,, i love piss so much, like genuinely 100% i need a shirt that says ‘i 🩷 piss’. BUT, i’ve never actually done anything sexual involving piss 😭😭 so it’s a bit difficult to write bc it’s not a kink i’m actually familiar with irl, and so the logistics are somewhat confusing to me at times.

[purinfelix]

these pics of young carlos are giving me ideass ….. ideas like … a spiderman au fic ………. someone hold me back ….

[milkyruins]

## sim jake x reader, KISS CAM— GONE WRONG?!

summary: you work the kiss cams and everything goes smoothly. but one day, the cam gets turned towards you.

genre: fluff

content warnings: mentions of dubcon situations (the concept of the kiss cam), reader is almost physical injured by a basketball, slight peer pressure.

wc: ~.7k

yes, perhaps the concept was outdated. perhaps it created discomfort and dubiously consensual situations for its victims. perhaps it was even, as the aged alumns squawked every game, profane.

but your uni never banished the infamous kiss cam and you were being paid to operate it. and honestly, your wallet couldn’t afford the contemplation of ethics.

it was a pretty easy job– you showed up to the stadium, enjoyed the game like everyone else, and just swiveled around your camera a little during breaks. and it was nice because you always got extra plus one seating, meaning that your sports buff of a boyfriend, jake, could always keep you company with overly complex game analysis and an arm slung over your shoulder.

and it was just about time for half-time. begrudgingly, you left the warm embrace of your boyfriend and made your way to the camera. in a flash, your headset was on, you were scanning the crowds for lovebirds, and the jumbotron was whirring to life. you only had a few more seconds to settle on a duo to project onto the jumbotron, but all the adrenaline you felt as a newbie never arose nowadays. even if the “couple” you landed on wasn’t really a couple, it was the awkward scenarios that also made the kiss cams entertaining.

well, you said that, but the moment you spotted a basketball flying at you in your viewfinder, a decent amount of adrenaline shot through your body. as much as your brain screamed at the rest of your body to move, your legs stiffened, planting you firmly into the ground you stood on. all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat ringing in your ear. helplessly, you squeezed shut your eyes.

but the impact you were waiting for never came. as your opened your eyes, you realized that jake’s arms were wrapped around your waist and that you were back on the bleachers.

“babe? are you alright?” jake whispered through his panting. you nodded. you swiveled around and locked eyes with your boyfriend.

“i’d be a goner without you.”

you both laughed. “you’re far too dramatic for your own good.” he replied.

the confusion that settled across the bleacher soon turned into hooting. it sounded like a typical response to the kiss cam… the kiss cam that you weren’t operating.

“shit! i need to work th-”

as you wriggled out of jake’s grasp, you realized the camera was on. and that the lens was pointed at you.

in a mild panic, you readjusted your headset. you needed your manager ASAP.

you heard your manager in a frenzy. “y/n, y/n, do you copy? y/-”

“i’m here.”

a sigh sounded on the other end of the radio. “i’m assuming you’re absolutely confused?”

“that’s about right. how do i fix-”

“y/n, listen to me. the stray basketball ended up hitting the camera and swiveled it toward you and jake. they saw you two being intimate and now want you guys to kiss.”

“fuck.”

the crowd was now cheering louder, and you were pretty sure jake realized what was happening.

“as much as i understand how you’re feeling, please refrain from using that sort of language on the shared-”

jake gently took your headset off for you and placed it on the seat behind him. “you realized?”

he nodded. “it’s kind of obvious when the camera’s pointed directly at us. and the crowd’s cheering ‘camera person’ over and over again.”

you scrunched your nose. “‘camera person’? is that the best they can do?”

jake slipped his arm around your waist, eliciting another wave of cheers from the fans. he pressed his forehead against your own and carded his fingers through your hair. it was just you and him in this moment. “do you want to just get this over with?”

“do you?”

you both nodded at the same time, creating some uncomfortable forehead chafing. but it sent you guys into a fit of giggles, which created a wave of “aws” from the onlookers.

and now it was finally time to get serious.

jake’s hand softly cupped your cheek. you two exchanged a secret smile and then leaned in.

[pearlcure]

whos ready for sigewiiiiinne? 💖💖 me, i am.

[muraenide]

At the time of writing this, I'm very sleepy, but consider this a "Joan's late night thought" post (It's around 11pm where I'm at).

As my rping career gets more mature I've realized I started to care less about basic stuff like being "ooc" or focused on follower counts or blog aesthetics or trying to get along with everyone's muses on tumblr bc that's nigh impossible. I'm so lazy my theme/rules/graphics are the bare minimum or 90% are copy-pasted from my other blogs or recycled.

Instead, what's more important to me now is *how* I write my replies/threads. Have I cramped too much information in one reply and have made it difficult for rp partners to make their next reply focus on one single direction? Do I leave enough information in one reply to allow my rp partners to continue the thread based on it? Have I picked the best word choices that suit my muse? (Particularly for Jade, he always uses polite forms of every word. So he rarely swears, but here's the fun part. There are ways to make him cuss and still appear faithful to the canon character, but that's EXACTLY a writer's job to make that work even if he never swore on screen to reference from). If we've plotted, did my reply push the plot forward or was it just beating around the bush? Did 10 paragraphs of writing successfully convey what I wanted to show/tell the reader or were they just ramblings that only had a vague meaning of the message I wanted to bring -

I feel that shifting my priority to these concerns rather than the other aspects of rp has made writing really enjoyable for me again (that I haven't felt in years bc I was too caught up with restricting my muse since I tend to have a preference to really stick to the source material, 99% of the times I only write canons, the other "phase" was being too focus on making the writing pretty, but using the right words which doesn't always have to be difficult is far more important than pretty writing) but I can't believe it took me this long to realize that this is not what rp is about.

[dawnbreakerluna]

   AISLA LOR — soul-tied to the realms, their moons and the stars 24 — DEEPSPACE HUNTER, UNICORNS METAFLUX PECULIARITY INVESTIGATION UNIT — AQUARIUS — EVOL: BLOOD MANIPULATION.

   where people’s troubles mainly relied in wanderers; strange, otherworldly creatures as they are, aisla had become acquainted with the supernatural and keenly-sought entities for as long as she could remember. it was a gift, the very one that both burdened and protected her. it was recognized by the very same researchers who performed the protocore amalgamations made to her heart, but even the threat of a spiritual cloud didn’t stop their determination and greed.     now older, having graduated into the highest division among the hunters association, the fire in aisla has never left. because of her capabilities and incidents of the past that required her unusual expertise, the unicorns team has leaned into the understanding that among the wanderers that lurk about, there’s phenomena that cannot be explained through their thorough research over the years. while aisla doesn’t feel alone, given the few individuals she works with in the mpi unit, it’s certainly a lonely path she treads. there’s much to the universe that seeks her compassion all around, leaving the heaviness of the unknown to weigh down on her shoulders.

MORE COMING SOON. . .

[slowwwstim]

lishu stimboard with love, heart, and heathy food themes for anon!

💗 🍇 💗 / 🍇 💗 🍇 / 💗 🍇 💗

thanks for your request <3

[dilfstar]

just had the Best idea oh gigi genius

[ohimsummer]

yucky day today but I will perhaps queue up asks and wither away

[shellxrls]

so I had a dream where coryo wants to hv a baby w me, and so he fuck me raw and cum in me but he forgot to let me climaxed first, n so i tell him "lick ur cum of off me" n "drink it all up" as he give me head so i'll orgasm. I need to remember this dream so can you please write it down pookie 💔

this is why i wish i had sex dreams omg. never in my life have i had the joy of having a sex dream with one of my favs 😞.