#Art Size Guide Set

[saintajax]

I haven’t used medibang in so long procreate really has spoiled me

[teaboot]

Because a few have asked

Teaboot's Super Okay Guide To Developing A Brain That Makes Art Work

Or: How to get your eyes to talk directly to your hands without your brain micromanaging you

Or: How to draw better

⚠️ Warning for super fast gifs cause they all gotta be 5 seconds or less or else my phone shits the bed ⚠️

1. Do the following exercises. Don't just think about doing them or figure out a clever way to not do them, just do them. Yes even the boring ones and the ones that look ugly

2. If you have any pride, crush it. Kill it. Crunch it up into itty bitty bits and feed it to the ducks at the park. You have no talent and don't know anything and everything you make is hot garbage. Believe that. Make yourself believe that. That is where you live now. Surrender any indignation or shame you have to the void and embrace rock bottom.

3. Read step 2 again and actually do it this time. My methods will not work if you try to make this process pretty. Don't.

4. No drawing from your imagination on these. Actually draw from real life. If it's boring like eating day old oatmeal in in beige room but your usual art still feels wonky then I'm talking to you specifically. You can't write poetry until you learn words and yes learning words is as dull as horseshit sometimes but do you wanna be Robert Frost or not

5. Pick up some cheap paper and a ballpoint pen. Grab a small object, between the size of your hand and the size of a microwave. Set a timer for fifteen minutes. Put the tip of your pen to the paper and press "start".

Now without looking at your paper, only looking at the object, draw the object in as much detail as you can. Do not break contact between the paper and the pen tip until the timer goes off.

This is a continuous line drawing, and you're doing it in pen because you need to know what rock bottom looks like and rock bottom looks like no eyes no erasers no shading no do-overs.

6. Sit down in a public place. As someone walks by, draw their their body in as much accuracy as you can before they are no longer in view. Once you can't see them anymore, the drawing is done. No adding details. Pick someone else and do it again. No "base sketch". Just them. If it barely looks human you're doing great

7. Get a black pen. Put a small object on a dark, flat surface. Now draw the surface without drawing the object. Don't draw the outline of the object. Don't do a sketch. Just draw the surface that is visible around the object until only a silhouette remains. No time limit just do it.

The ability to draw accurate proportions from sight comes from learning to see what exists between a thing and the absence of a thing and if that hurts to think about then you need to do it more

8. Keep doing these until you are Ready.

9. You will know when you are Ready. It will make sense when you are Ready. You will Understand.

10. Unwind with some goofy shit so you don't forget why you wanna improve to begin with

[radenajeng]

Art Lesson With Hyunjin

Tags: idol!hyunjin (Barely mentioned it), soft boyfriend energy, established relationship, domestic fluff, reader hate painting, character growth (?).

A/N: English is not my first language.

You hate painting.

Everyone knows that. You love doing many things—writing, reading, even learning quantum physics theories just for fun. But painting? Drawing? You’ve always drawn the line there. You never understood when people said painting was therapeutic. If anything, it felt like an extra burden on your mind.

And yet, here you are.

Stuck in a painting date with your boyfriend, inside his tiny studio that smells faintly of acrylic and jasmine-scented hand soap.

You sit in front of a medium-sized canvas. To your left, there’s a small table draped with a pristine white cloth—oddly clean for something surrounded by open paint tubes. The colors sit in neat rows, almost mocking you.

You stare at the canvas. The same tightness in your chest starts to creep in, the one you used to feel every time a high school art teacher handed you a blank sheet and said, “Express yourself.” You glare at the canvas like it’s a sworn enemy. Its untouched white surface taunts you, and you find it infuriating.

You let out a heavy sigh.

“Babe, you do remember I hate painting, right?”

You raise your voice a little, just enough for Hyunjin to hear you from the kitchen.

“You don’t hate it,” he calls back, calm and collected.

“Yes, I do.”

Hyunjin walks in, carrying a glass and a small plate—both in your favorite color, the very ones he bought just for you the last time he visited this place.

“You don’t hate it. You just haven’t... clicked with it yet.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

He pulls a chair from the corner of the room and slides it close behind you. He sets the glass and plate down beside the paints, carefully filling them with your favorite drink and snacks you two grabbed on the way here.

“It means I’m going to make you fall in love with it.”

He wraps his arms around you from behind. One hand brushes lightly against your side. His chin rests gently on your shoulder. With the other hand, he reaches for a tube of blue paint, then black. He squeezes out just enough, grabs a medium-sized brush, and guides your hand toward the blue.

You want to object. You really do. But the warmth of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breath against your back—it softens you. Anchors you.

Slowly, he leads your hand across the canvas, sweeping the blue into a gradient that grows deeper the further down it goes.

“Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why you hate painting?”

“Because I can’t paint?” you offer, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

Hyunjin chuckles softly. His laugh vibrates lightly against your shoulder. You scowl at the sound. Then he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

“That might be part of it,” he murmurs. “But I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

Once the gradient settles into something soft and oceanic, he dips your brush into black, guiding it to trace a circular frame around the blue—like an eclipse slowly encroaching on daylight.

“You amaze me,” he says, not looking at you, but at the way the paint takes shape.

“You’re brilliant at so many things. You’re precise. You’re focused. You chase excellence like it’s second nature. And you always succeed. You always finish what you start.”

“Thank you,” you reply, kissing his cheek gently. “You, of all people, know how hard I try.”

Hyunjin rinses the brush, switches it out for a smaller one, then squeezes out a bit of orange paint—just enough to make a mess if you wanted to, but you know he won’t.

“But have you ever tried painting, really?” he asks.

You pause.

“...I don’t think I have.”

You glance at the canvas and realize he’s shaping a tiny fish. Orange. Playful. Probably a nod to Nemo.

“That’s the thing,” he says.

“You’ve grown so used to succeeding in everything you do, that when something doesn’t give you immediate results, you pull away. You hate it—not because it’s bad, but because you’re not instantly good at it. And maybe, deep down, you can’t stand the thought of not being excellent at something.”

Silence falls. Not the awkward kind—but the kind that settles. That sinks in, slow and thoughtful. His words echo somewhere inside you, brushing against something tender.

The orange strokes look like a burst of light in the middle of a twilight sea.

“So… what? You think I should start learning to paint now?”

Your voice is still a little defensive, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in it. The kind that makes Hyunjin smile.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he shrugs. “But maybe you can give it a chance. Like you gave me a chance when I asked you out.”

You laugh under your breath, lowering your head, cheeks already starting to burn.

“You were two hours late. And had to sneak away from your fans to meet me.”

“And you still waited,” he grins. “Didn’t you?”

Your laugh turns into a soft giggle, melting into the air between you. You feel light. Not empty—just unburdened.

He picks up your hand again and helps you paint little bubbles around the fish. They drift upward like small floating thoughts.

“We’ll call this piece... The first time you tried.”

“That’s a ridiculously long title.”

“But it’s honest,” he says, stealing a kiss on your cheek like he’s borrowing time from the universe.

You look at the painting again. It’s far from perfect.

But it’s... not awful. Not intimidating.

It’s yours.

For the first time, you don’t feel tight in your chest. You’re not angry at the brush or bitter at the blankness. You’re not trying to win anything.

There’s a small, quiet part of you that feels... calm.

“Okay,” you admit softly. “Maybe I don’t hate painting.”

“You never hated it,” he whispers, pulling you into another embrace.

“You just hadn’t fallen in love with it yet.”

And maybe that’s the truth.

_____

©radenajeng, june 2025.

[fanaticsnail]

Beautiful

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,400+

Synopsis: Big Mom has found her son, Charlotte Katakuri, a partner she deemed worthy enough for him to court for matrimony. While he is smitten immediately with you, he is determined to make a good impression on you by not revealing his face. Your curiosity gets the better of you.

Warnings: Katakuri x f!reader, talks of husband and wife, use of bride, massaging face, fluff, so fluffy.

Notes: wrote this half-dazed at 6:30am this morning because @gingernut1314 decided she needed the big man in her life and the brain-worm got me. Here he is, the big guy all for you, sweetheart. Art link

Tag List: @feral-artistry @i-am-vita @indydonuts @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

Being courted by the Minister of Flour was not something you had ever pictured to be highlighted on your impressive resume. When you first received an invitation from the Charlotte family to venture to Komugi island, this was not an outcome you predicted for yourself. 

Charlotte Katakuri, the second son and third child of Big Mom, was told to find a bride. His orders were received, the date of his nuptials set, and his suit picked out for such an excitable occasion. The only thing that had not been set in stone was the partner joining him at his side after their soft march down the aisle. 

Your family was titled, strong, and one of the only families Big Mom had deemed worthy enough to usher in a new generation of pirates to join in taking the Charlotte name. Katakuri had no choice but to obey his mother, apprehensively accepting the terms of an arranged marriage against his own desires to simply live to protect his siblings, nieces, and nephews. While this was out of his control, what he could control was how his intended bride depicted him. 

He could continue to shield his face from you. His rationale was as such, “If they never view my face, they would never have reason to fear me.” And so he did as such, hiding his face beneath the fur shroud from the moment he met you, and every courtship session soon thereafter. As he laid his eyes on you for the first time, he was immediately smitten. Taken by your appearance alone, and your willingness to sign your name beside his on the registry to set your intentions to wed in stone, he could never be more proud to have a partner such as you. 

As his trust in you began to build, he slowly allowed you into his heart, and shared his burdens with you as Minister of Flour. He confided in you, relishing in your company as he openly courted you under the watchful chaperone of his younger sister, Charlotte Brûlée. 

One such occasion, he laid out a blanket for you and drew out a large wicker basket from behind his back. He presented you with an assortment of baked sweets and pastries with a soft blush dusting his cheeks beneath the fur shroud. While you accepted the treats with gratitude, you instead placed it beside you and knelt on the blanket, tapping your lap and asking him to lay on his back. 

“Tell me about your day, intended. I want to know every detail,” you smiled mischievously up at him. He cautiously stole a look at Brûlée, who emphatically ushered him to do as he was told with flailing hands. 

Lowering himself onto the mat beside you, he awkwardly shifted himself to attempt to do as you asked. Rolling your eyes, you reach your hands up to his shoulder and gently guide his larger form to lay his head in your lap. His entire head was the size of both of your thighs together, but you had no qualms or complaints about it. 

“Come on, I don't bite,” you reassured him with a soft laugh, “Let me hear about your journeys abroad. Tell me anything that you want, you have my complete attention.” He was a giant, but so incredibly gentle and sweet to those he deemed as family. 

Coaxing his head onto your lap, he immediately drew his hand up to his mask and secured it over his lips to keep his mouth and teeth hidden from your sight. You chose to ignore this, drawing your fingers up and settled him atop your thighs as he slowly, quietly spoke about his life to you. 

While Charlotte Katakuri was immediately taken by you in the registry office with your family and his, you were horrified by the sight that was met with you. You had heard stories about some of the Charlotte's being of unusual size and stature, but you had no idea exactly how tall your intended was. His form was almost three times your size, his intimidating appearance did nothing to stifle your nerves. 

Believing to have masked your concerns at the nuptuals well enough to be believable, your nerves all but melted away the moment his soft, soothing voice checked in with you afterwards. Charlotte Katakuri was a sweetheart, a 504cm tall sweetheart with such softness within his hardened exterior. 

Reclining his head on your lap, you rubbed at his plum-colored hair as he spoke about adventures away from Komugi. His hand gestures out in a flurry in front of his chest, pointing to the sky as he speaks so eloquently to you. Although he does not yet trust you enough for you to reveal his face, your curiosity begins to gnaw at the seams. 

You start to lower his inhibitions by massaging his scalp, scruff of his neck and forehead. His hair pricks your skin as your skillful touch chips away at his woes and worries. His voice quietens further as he closes his eyes as your hands firmly press against his forehead. You needed to see your soon to be husband’s face, you desperately craved to know what was going on beneath the furs. 

As he leans into your touch, he seemingly forgets about the shroud over his mouth hiding his sharpened teeth from you. He is in bliss beneath your hands, and he slips away into a world carved by your palms and fingertips. Your hands dip deeper, lower into his cheeks, your digits feeling his muscles relax their tension beneath your fingers. 

Smiling to yourself softly as he gasps at such sweetness befalling from you to him, he parts his lips gently. He arches his head further into your lap, the shroud finally lowering and revealing his sharp teeth and unnaturally widened mouth. His jaw falls slack as his brow becomes relaxed. 

You crave to coo at his vulnerability, truly enjoying empathetically how much he allowed himself to relax into your soft touch. This hardened general, this pirate minister, this older brother to so many siblings in the Charlotte family, was as malleable as rice flour mochi beneath your skilled digits. You took in his appearance, almost relieved at feeling the twin slits up his lips as you looked down at him with nothing but pure adoration. 

You were immediately in love with what you saw, your heart beating heavily against your ribcage as a warm flush rose to your cheeks. You loved him, all of him.

Brushing your hands over his cheeks, you silently and slowly commit his face to memory like reading a marble carving with a simple touch. He is gorgeous, and you remember to tell him so when he snaps out of his tranquility and looks at you with accusing eyes the moment he realized you slipped the shroud over his chin. 

“What are you doing?” he growls quietly, “Why did you do that? I don't want you to fear me-...” A soft gasp flees from your lips as you take him completely in. His lips split up his cheeks in an unnatural slit through symmetrical scars, his sharp fangs extend up on his lower jaw and over his lips. 

Although he feels slightly betrayed at the way you managed to easily reveal his face, his betrayal is eclipsed by shock and awe when he meets your eyes. 

“I-I just…” you trail off, your body cowering away in response to his anger, but your eyes still depict the emotion you so desperately desired to show him, “...-I just wanted to know. I wanted to see.” Charlotte Brûlée watched the interaction with interest, her own shock evident on her face. 

She witnessed the entire interaction with your hands on his face, almost calling out to warn her brother his face was going to be revealed, but quietly hoping you would fall in love with him further. She knew you loved him, knew you wanted to see him, and trusted you enough with her older brother that she knew you would love him more the moment his fangs and scars were brought into the light.

He was expecting fear, disgust, anguish and anger to be met in your curious gaze. But all you held in those calm and half-lidded orbs was pure trust, love, and pure adoration. His shock was adamant as he nervously floated his eyes between your gaze. His thumb and index finger circled around your much smaller hand, hovering it over his cheek as you felt your heart soar at the vulnerability.

“And now that you have?” his whisper came out more like a gasp, his voice breathy and craved to hear you say you weren’t afraid. He needed to know you did not fear his appearance, his wordless prayers spoken within his mind’s eye the longer your gaze soaked in his sight. 

You placed your unoccupied hand on his cheek, leaning in closer to his face and your lips curling into a soft, innocent and intimate smile. Caressing his cheek, you cocked your head to the side and finally uttered a single word he truly did not ever think he would hear. 

“Beautiful.”

[bogleech]

Also going to finally make a pinned post for all my stuff:

BOGLEECH - my tumblr blog is named after this website I created around 2002 and still update. Thousands of pages worth of content focusing on creature design as well as real biology. My review of the original Legend of Zelda monsters might be the most straightforward example of my articles.

Links to some of the most popular content:

POKEMON REVIEW ARCHIVE: - I rate and review each and every single Pokemon, in Pokedex order, on its merits as a creature design. I also do so as someone whose favorite animals are all parasites.

DIGIMON REVIEW ARCHIVE - same, but more chaotic.

CREEPYPASTA COOKOFF ARCHIVE - for several years I hosted a yearly writing contest before it grew too big for me to keep up with. There are over a thousand user submitted horror, fantasy, sci fi and surrealist stories here emphasizing unconventional, original ideas you seldom see from the "creepypasta" community!

The original "MORTASHEEN" Monster Archive - since the early 2000's I've created and illustrated more than 800 creatures and counting for my own monster-catching world, now set for release as a tabletop RPG setting.

AWFUL HOSPITAL: SERIOUSLY THE WORST EVER (page one): an interactive comedy-horror-sci-fi webcomic I started in 2014 about a medical facility that could maybe be better.

Some of my other internet stuff:

PATREON - constant work makes my patreon updates inconsistent, but the content backlog goes back years with a huge amount of exclusive art and writing. I try to put up new exclusive stuff whenever I can.

ETSY - I design all sorts of original enamel pins like these, plus I sell zero-maintenance terrarium plants (just leave them in a jar!), original books and other things!

COLOR THE ABYSS (available on the above etsy!) - a 30 page educational deep sea coloring book! Includes a few famous favorites like giant isopods and hagfish, but mostly focuses on less popular, often much weirder animals.

UNBELIEVABLE BUGS - also regularly restocked in the etsy store, 30 of the strangest and most surprising arthropods most people have likely never heard of, illustrated by myself and @revretch, written for even the youngest kids to understand (but will likely teach you something new at any age)

My Itch.io and Ko-fi - both sell digital versions of my books, including some creepypasta collections and my first novel, "Return of the Living," about a world of entirely ghosts suddenly dealing with the appearance of ghost-hunting monsters.

TWITCH CHANNEL - I now try to stream something at least monthly, sometimes weekly when possible, from horror games to books and art.

YOUTUBE CHANNEL - archives my twitch streams and other little things.

INSTAGRAM - look at pictures of my huge weird collection of toys and Halloween collectibles

BLUESKY - I'm going to put mainly just updates to my stuff on here.

SEE ALSO:

HUMANS-B-GONE - a science fiction animated series by my partner @revretch, about a world of kaiju-size, technologically advanced insects and arachnids to whom vertebrates like us are just pesky little "gubs." Also has a tumblr account @humansbgone

FINALLY, HERE'S MY GUIDE AND RESOURCE TO MAKING YOUR OWN INTERNET WEBSITE IN A FEW MINUTES WITH NO KNOWLEDGE OF CODING

[l8niteth0ts]

𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋: 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Finally getting a tattoo for your birthday, your tattoo artist is extremely flirty and handsy—but you can't deny that you like it. One thing leads to another, and you're both in the bathroom of the tattoo parlor.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 (𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈): Tattoo artist Connie, getting a tattoo, needles I guess?, vaginal fingering, vaginal oral sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, public sex, semi public sex, praise, it's your birthday, but you can read this even if it's not lol, etc

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4,284

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: Please feel free to leave a like, comment, and feel free to reblog! I am grateful for all of you—thank you for reading my work!

𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒, 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒, 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!

You stand outside the tattoo shop, taking a deep breath as you glance at the sign hanging above the door. It’s been years of saying “maybe next year,” but this time, on your birthday, you promised yourself you’d finally do it. Your friends Sasha and Christa insisted on tagging along for moral support, and now the three of you are gathered on the sidewalk, buzzing with a mix of excitement and nerves.

Sasha gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, not seeming to mind that your palms are a little sweaty. “It’s gonna be great! You’ve wanted this for ages,” she says, beaming.

“Yeah,” Christa adds, smiling sweetly. “Besides, it’s not just you—we’re all doing it together, remember?”

You nod, trying to let their enthusiasm chase away your nerves. “Right. It’s now or never. I owe it to myself.”

With one last deep breath, you push open the door. The bell above the entrance chimes softly, and the smell of antiseptic and leather greets you. Inside, the low hum of buzzing needles mixes with the faint strains of rock music playing through a set of old speakers. The walls are covered in framed flash art, all bold lines and vivid colors, while a glass counter displays jewelry and tattoo care products.

Behind the counter stands a guy with a buzz cut, his arms inked from wrist to shoulder. He leans against the counter with a casual smirk, his eyes flicking over the three of you as you enter.

“Hey there,” he drawls, his voice smooth and inviting. “What can I do for ya?”

Sasha nudges you forward, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “Uh, we were wondering if you accept walk-ins? We want to get matching tattoos,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as shaky as you feel.

He grins, pushing himself upright and sauntering around the counter. “Walk-ins, huh? Well, you’re in luck. We got a few artists free right now. But, uh, just to check... you guys aren’t in some whirlwind romance and gonna regret this in a year, are ya?”

You laugh nervously, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that. We’ve been best friends for years. plus, it’s my birthday, so... kinda figured it’s time to stop chickening out.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile, teeth and all. You can see the glint of a tongue piercing as he grins at you. “Birthday, huh? Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he says, giving you a wink. “C’mon, let’s get you all set up.”

He gestures for you to follow him, and as you move through the shop, he introduces himself. “Name’s Connie. I’ll be the one marking you up today.”

You trail after him, your heart thumping a little harder at the idea of him touching your skin. Sasha and Christa follow, shooting you encouraging looks as Connie guides you to a workstation in the back.

He pulls out a sketchbook, showing you a few variations of the design you had in mind. “So, you said matching tattoos, right? Got a couple sizes here for you to pick from.”

You point to one, about four inches long, and Connie nods approvingly. “Good choice. Just gimme a sec to print the stencil,” he says.

While he sets up, Sasha and Christa are led to separate stations by two other artists: a quiet woman wearing a lacy black long sleeve shirt and a long red plaid skirt named Mikasa, and a stern looking guy wearing a black short sleeve shirt and black jeans named Levi. The three of you exchange reassuring glances, and you do your best to keep your breathing steady.

Connie returns with the stencil, giving you a playful smile. “Alright, Birthday Girl, where we puttin’ it?”

You hesitate, a bit embarrassed. “My hip, right here,” you say, gesturing to the spot.

“Gotcha,” he hums, kneeling down beside you. “I’m gonna need you to pull your shorts down just a bit, okay?”

Your cheeks heat up, but you nod, pushing the fabric down just enough to expose your hip and the curve leading to your thigh.  Connie’s fingers brush against your hip as he positions the stencil, the coolness of the transfer paper a stark contrast to the warmth of his touch. You can’t help but tense up slightly, and he notices, shooting you a teasing smile.

“You good?” he asks, cocking a pierced eyebrow, his voice low and playful.

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah, just... a little nervous.”

Connie grins, giving your hip a soft pat once the stencil is set. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you,” he murmurs, his words dripping with a casual confidence that makes your stomach flutter.

He moves to grab his gloves, and as he slips them on, he glances up at you. “You sure you’re ready?”

You give a small nod, trying not to focus too much on the way his fingers linger on your skin before he finally picks up his machine. He leans in close, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Just relax for me,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ll go slow. If it’s too much, let me know.”

The buzzing fills the room, and you brace yourself. The first touch of the needle makes you gasp softly, and Connie chuckles. “Not too bad, right?”

“No,” you breathe, forcing yourself to relax. “It’s okay.”

He hums in approval, his gloved hand resting on your thigh to steady you. The gesture feels almost too intimate, and you have to bite your lip to keep from squirming under his touch. You feel a heat creeping up and through your stomach, you mentally scolded yourself for getting turned on by him.

“Good girl,” he praises, eyes still focused on your skin. The compliment catches you off guard, heat rising to your cheeks.

“You say that to all your clients?” You tease, trying to mask how flustered you feel.

Connie smirks, his fingers squeezing the fat of your thigh just a bit. “Only the ones who look like they’re about to melt under my hands.”

Your heart pounds, and his words hang in the air like a challenge. He keeps his touch light but firm, the rhythmic hum of the needle blending with his quiet, steady breathing.

After a few minutes, he pauses to wipe away some ink, glancing up at you with a crooked grin. “Doin’ good, yeah?”

You nod, trying not to focus on the way his fingers brush your skin as he cleans the area. “Yeah. Not as bad as I thought.”

“Told ya,” he chuckles, giving your thigh a little pat before going back to work. “Just gotta relax and let me do my thing.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and you swear his gaze is just a little more heated than before. “You’re takin’ it so well. Kinda makes me wonder what other things you’d be good at handling.”

You swallow hard, your pulse racing at his insinuation. “Maybe you’ll have to find out,” you murmur back, half surprised at your own boldness.

He grins, clearly liking your response. “Maybe I will,” he replies, voice dripping with mischief.

Your face heats up more at his words, your core aching with want. You don't know what he's doing to you, but there's something about him that makes him irresistible. Plus, he's hot as hell.

“So, why’d you pick this spot?” He asks, trying to distract you from the sting.

You huff a little laugh. “Dunno. just... thought it’d look cute.”

He chuckles. “Oh, it’s cute, alright.” He glances up, eyes glinting with mischief. “But you’d look cute no matter where you put it.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you can’t help but grin back at him. “You’re awfully flirty for someone who’s stabbing me with needles,” you joke.

He laughs, the sound low and raspy. “Just tryin’ to keep your mind off the pain. Plus, can’t blame me for bein’ honest.”

The buzzing continues, and you find yourself relaxing more, getting used to the rhythm of the needle. Connie hums along with the rock song playing through the speakers, his hand still warm on your thigh. Occasionally, his thumb dips a little closer to the edge of your shorts, just barely grazing the waistband.

When he pauses to wipe the ink away, he glances up at you with a crooked smile. “Still doin’ alright?”

“Mhm,” you hum, biting back a smile. “Your hands are really warm.”

He arches a brow, clearly amused. “Yeah? Glad I can make this a little easier for you. I can’t help it, though.” his grin turns a bit more wicked. “Guess I just like having my hands all over you.”

Your heart thumps at his words, and you shift in your seat, trying to hide how flustered you feel. Connie doesn’t miss it—his smirk grows as he wipes away more ink, his fingers brushing your skin with a little more intention this time.

“You keep squirming like that, sweetheart, and this tattoo’s gonna end up a bit crooked,” he teases, his voice a low murmur.

You scoff, trying to regain some composure. “Maybe if you weren’t being so distracting, I’d be able to sit still,” you counter, giving him a pointed look.

He just chuckles, clearly pleased with your reaction. “Oh, so it’s my fault now?” He hums, dragging the needle over your skin in a slow, purposeful line. “You’re adorable when you’re trying to act tough.”

You open your mouth to fire back, but the buzzing stops, and he leans back, examining his progress. His hand leaves your thigh, and you almost miss the warmth. Almost.

“Almost done,” he says, reaching for a fresh wipe. “You’re handling it like a champ.”

“Really?” you ask, genuinely surprised. “Felt like I was being kind of a wimp.”

Connie shakes his head, wiping your skin one last time. “Nah, you’re tougher than you think. Plus, you didn’t cry, so I’d say that’s a win.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “High standards you’ve got there.”

He shrugs, his fingers grazing your hip as he checks over the fresh ink. “It’s not the tattoo that’s got you flustered, though,” he notes, his tone a bit more serious. “Pretty sure it’s me.”

Your face heats up, but you’re not about to let him get the last word. “Maybe it’s just your big ego making you think that,” you retort, leaning back with a smirk of your own.

Connie barks out a laugh, clearly impressed by your comeback. “Oh, I like you,” he says, his grin wide and genuinely pleased. “Not a lot of people can keep up with me like that.”

Before you can respond, he’s leaning closer, his gloved hand resting on the back of your chair as he inspects the tattoo. You’re suddenly hyper aware of his proximity, the way his breath fans across your shoulder. “Looks perfect,” he murmurs, still not moving back. “You good?”

You nod, trying to keep your cool, but your pulse is racing. “Yeah... thanks.”

He finally moves back, pulling his gloves off with a loud snap. He tosses them in the trash, then turns back to you, that familiar cocky smirk back on his face. “Ready to see it?”

You nod again, and he gestures for you to stand. When you do, he guides you to the full length mirror on the wall, his hand lingering at your lower back. Your eyes widen when you see the tattoo, perfectly lined and shaded, just like you envisioned.

“Wow,” you breathe, tracing the outline with your finger. “It’s... perfect.”

Connie’s reflection grins behind you, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. “Told you I’d take care of you,” he says, his tone almost too cocky.

As you finish admiring the tattoo in the mirror, you glance back at Connie, a smirk playing on your lips. “Not bad for my first one. Maybe you can help me pick out the next spot?”

He leans back against the workstation, crossing his arms, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, you’re already planning the next one? Didn’t think you’d be so eager,” he teases.

You shrug, running your fingers over the fresh ink. “What can I say? I think I might be addicted.”

Connie chuckles, pushing off the counter and stepping closer, his hands finding your hips. “How about I show you the spots I think would look good right now?”

Before you can answer, his grip tightens, guiding you back onto the padded chair. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath on your neck, and the warmth of his hands through your shirt.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’ve been real brave today, huh? Think you can handle a little more?”

You whimper softly against his touch, and whisper, "are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

He smirks, "I'd love more than nothing to give the birthday girl a gift to remember... follow me to the bathroom in a few minutes."

You swallow the lump in your throat, and nod. He stands tall, and brushes his hands on his thighs as he walks toward the back of the shop to the bathrooms. You sit in the chair, heart racing, your core still aching with desire. You glance over at your friends, a mixture of guilt and desire washing over you. On one hand, you didn't want to abandon your friends—especially to go have sex with a stranger. On the other hand—you don't think you could wait any longer to meet up with him.

Everyone is preoccupied, nobody is paying attention to you. You stand up out of the chair, and quietly make your way to the bathrooms. Your heart stops when you see Connie waiting for you. He grabs your wrist, and pulls you into the men's room.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, Connie’s hands are on your waist, pushing you back against the cool tile wall. His lips crash into yours, hot and eager, his hands slipping under your shirt to grip your hips.

“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and husky. he trails kisses down your jaw, nipping lightly at your neck, leaving a trail of heat wherever his mouth touches.

You barely have time to respond before his hands dip lower, fingers teasing the waistband of your shorts. “Been drivin’ me crazy all day. You’re so damn pretty when you’re nervous. Couldn’t help but wonder if you’d be just as pretty falling apart for me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

Your breath hitches, and you bite back a moan when his hand dips under your shorts, brushing over your already soaked panties. He grins when he feels how wet you are, and his fingers press firmly against your clothed clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles.

“Look at you,” he smirks, “Birthday Girl’s already so needy, huh? Didn’t think I’d get you this worked up just from tattooing you.”

You whine softly, hips leaning into his touch, desperate for more. He slides your shorts down just enough to slip his hand inside, and his fingers slide through your slick folds. You can’t help the soft moan that slips out, and he covers your mouth with his own to keep you quiet, swallowing your sounds as his fingers continue their teasing movements.

He slides two fingers into your cunt, and starts spreading them apart, stretching you out. "God, you're so fucking hot," he whispers as his mouth continues to attack your neck. You moan louder into his hand, and he slides two fingers into your mouth. You suck on his fingers greedily, needing more of him.

He groans softly, feeling your tongue swirl around his fingers. "Damn, look at you," he mutters, pulling his fingers from your mouth and replacing them with his lips, kissing you rough and hungry. His other hand continues working your pussy, curling his fingers just right to hit that sweet spot that makes your legs tremble.

"You taste so good," he murmurs against your lips, and then he drops to his knees, yanking your shorts and panties down to your ankles. He looks up at you with that same cocky smirk, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open. "Fuck, you’re dripping already. You really needed this, huh?"

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you, licking a long stripe up your slit before sucking your clit between his lips—the cold metal of his tongue piercing making you shiver. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, and your fingers tangle in his short hair, pulling him closer. He moans into your cunt, the vibrations sending a shockwave through your body.

You bite your lip to muffle your moans, but Connie doesn't make it easy. He flicks his tongue faster, then buries it inside you, fucking you with his mouth. His hands grip your thighs tighter, pulling you even closer to his face as he devours you like he can’t get enough.

You’re shaking, your hips grinding against his face, your moans growing louder despite your best efforts to stay quiet. "Connie," you whimper, and he hums in response, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, full of lust and a hint of smugness.

He pulls away just enough to rasp, "gonna make you cum all over my face, Birthday Girl. Can’t wait to feel you squeeze my tongue."

You gasp softly, your head tipping back as his mouth returns to your soaked core, his tongue lapping at your clit with a lazy, teasing rhythm. He knows exactly what he’s doing, dragging out your pleasure just enough to keep you on the edge without pushing you over.

"Fuck," you whisper, your fingers tightening in his short hair. He chuckles against your pussy, the vibration making your thighs tremble.

"You like that, huh?" he mumbles against you, voice muffled but still cocky. He sucks on your clit, then pulls back, his tongue flicking it just enough to make your whole body shiver. His tongue piercing adds a whole new layer of dimension, the cool ball dragging languidly against your hot core. He’s relentless, alternating between slow, sensual licks and quick, needy laps.

Your knees almost buckle, and he slides one arm under your thigh, holding you up with surprising strength. "Gotta keep you steady, babe," he grins, kissing your inner thigh before diving back in, his mouth hot and eager.

You try to keep quiet, but a strangled moan slips out, and he hums approvingly, his tongue swirling around your clit before dipping lower, licking up every bit of your slick arousal. He nips gently at your thigh, leaving little marks that bloom against your skin.

"You’re doing so good for me," he whispers, his lips brushing against your heated flesh. "Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your own name."

He slides his fingers back inside of you, adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously, and you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out. The bathroom is filled with the wet sounds of his fingers thrusting in and out, mixing with his hungry, muffled moans.

His tongue moves faster, his lips wrapping around your clit to suck just right, and your thighs clamp around his head, hips bucking forward as you feel the pressure build. Connie groans, and the vibrations send you hurtling closer to the edge.

"God, Connie... don’t stop," you whimper, your head spinning, every nerve in your body on fire. He growls low against your pussy, his mouth working you over with a feverish intensity.

You can feel yourself getting closer, and he knows it too, his fingers pumping faster, mouth never leaving your clit. You’re barely holding it together, desperate for that final push.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, and you can see the wicked glint in his eyes. "C’mon, Birthday Girl," he rasps, voice dark and sweet. "Cum for me. I know you want to."

Your whole body tenses, and you feel the familiar heat pooling in your belly, threatening to spill over. Connie notices, smirking against your pussy as he sucks on your clit harder, his fingers curling just right to hit that sweet spot inside you.

"Fuck, Connie!" you cry out, unable to hold back anymore, your hands clutching his shoulders for support as your orgasm crashes over you. Your legs tremble, and he holds you firmly, riding out your high as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, drawing out every wave of pleasure.

He finally pulls back when you start to whine from the overstimulation, his lips glistening as he licks them clean, grinning up at you. "Damn, you taste good," he mutters, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

Your legs feel weak, and he catches you as you nearly slump against the wall. Chuckling, he pulls you close, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "You good, babe?"

You nod breathlessly, your fingers gripping his shirt as you try to steady yourself. Connie tucks a stray hair behind your ear and gives you a lopsided grin. "Gotta say, you make some real pretty sounds when you cum."

You roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. "Shut up," you mumble, but there’s no bite to it. He just laughs, clearly enjoying your flustered state.

"Hey," he murmurs, tipping your chin up so your eyes meet. "We’re not done yet. I still haven’t given you your real birthday gift."

You raise an eyebrow, curious. He steps back, his hands tugging at his belt, the sound of the metal clinking making your pulse quicken again. He kicks his jeans and boxers down, revealing his hard cock, and your breath catches at the sight.

Connie smirks, stroking himself a few times as he eyes you hungrily. "Turn around for me, yeah? Hands on the sink."

You do as he says, your heart pounding in anticipation. The cool porcelain of the sink presses against your palms, and he steps up behind you, his hands sliding over your hips. He leans in, his breath warm on your neck as he whispers, "you ready for me, Birthday Girl?"

You nod, biting your lip as he lines himself up with your soaked entrance, teasing you by rubbing the head against your folds.

"Don’t tease," you whimper, pushing your hips back, desperate for him.

He hums in satisfaction, gripping your hips tightly as he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch. You gasp, both from the sensation and the way his hands hold you so firmly.

"Fuck, you’re so tight," he groans, sinking deeper until he’s fully seated inside you. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice low and breathy.

He pulls out slowly, just enough to make you shiver, before snapping his hips back into yours, setting a deep, steady rhythm that has your fingers gripping the edge of the sink.

Connie starts thrusting faster, the wet sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the small bathroom. His hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each of his thrusts. Your nails dig into the porcelain sink, your back arching as he hits that spot inside you just right.

"Fuck, babe, you’re taking me so well," he breathes, his voice low and gravelly. His pace grows more desperate, and his lips trail kisses along the back of your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

You can barely think straight, your brain foggy with pleasure as he keeps hitting deeper, harder. Your legs start to shake, and he notices, one of his hands sliding down your body to rub tight circles on your clit.

"C-Connie, I’m—" you stammer, your voice breaking as your climax builds.

"Yeah? Gonna cum again for me?" he taunts, leaning down to press his chest against your back, his mouth right by your ear. "C’mon, baby, let me feel you."

His fingers move faster on your clit, and you can’t hold back anymore. You cry out his name as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his cock, making his pace falter.

"Shit—" he groans, his rhythm growing erratic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock throb inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as he spills inside you, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

You both stay like that for a moment, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he catches his breath. Eventually, he pulls out gently, reaching for some paper towels to clean you up. He’s surprisingly tender, wiping your thighs before taking care of himself.

You turn around, still a bit unsteady on your feet, and he gives you a cheeky grin. "Happy birthday," he smirks, planting a quick kiss on your lips.

You snicker softly. "Best birthday ever," you whisper back.

Just as you’re straightening your clothes, you both hear someone approach the bathroom door, and your heart stops. Connie pulls you into his chest, covering your mouth to stifle your giggles.

The door rattles, and a muffled voice from the other side calls out, "Uh... are you two almost done in there? Some of us have to pee, you know."

Connie snorts and calls out, "just a sec, man!" He glances down at you, biting his lip to keep from laughing. Once the coast seems clear, he pulls you in for one last kiss. "Better get out there before they realize we were getting freaky in the bathroom."

"Oh, I think they already know," you laugh, smirking softly.

ⓒ 𝐋𝟖𝐍𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐓𝐡𝟎𝐭𝐬 -- 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊, 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐈𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆.

AOT MASTERLIST

OTHER AOT CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

CONNIE SPRINGER MASTERLIST

ʚɞ

[oldschoolfrp]

The Classic Dungeons & Dragons Game promised "Epic Adventures with Wizards, Dragons, and Magic!" (Jeff Easley cover art, TSR, 1994). The credits listed Doug Stewart for development and editing, and Troy Denning and Timothy B Brown for original design.

This was the final version of "Dungeons & Dragons" rules to be published simultaneously with the distinctly different "Advanced D&D" rules. "Classic" was a boxed set with a 128-page rulebook (less than half the pages of the previous Rules Cyclopedia), a DM screen, dice, a large poster size dungeon map, 6 plastic PC figures, and a sheet of 24 cardstock standup counters of monsters & NPCs. Many pages were devoted to guiding new players through making characters and running a starter adventure. Like its predecessors in the "Basic D&D" series it treated non-human races as separate character classes. It covered advancement only through character level 5, including 1st-3rd level spells.

[butterli5]

The first time Remus ever spent the night at Regulus’ flat, it was raining softly outside, the kind of steady, sleepy drizzle that made the windows fog and the whole world feel far away. Regulus had slipped off to the shower, leaving Remus in the warm glow of the kitchen, tasked with making them some tea. He’d brought a special blend with him, chamomile and jasmine, in silky sachets tucked inside a pretty old tin box he never used for anyone else. It smelled like comfort, like soft nights and sleepy affection, and he’d thought Regulus would love it.

When he opens the cupboard in search of mugs, he freezes.

Two shelves. Stacked edge to edge with the quirkiest, most chaotic collection of mugs he’s ever seen. There’s a green Shrek mug with one ear chipped, a classic black-and-white Snoopy grinning across the side of another, one painted with Klimt’s The Kiss, but only the top corner like it had been cut off in some great rush of affection. A small brown bear mug with round ears and a belly for a handle. One with a bright orange elephant trunk curling around the side as a handle. One shaped like a cauldron, and another with tiny stars inside it.

Remus finds himself smiling, slow and fond and impossibly sappy, as he picks up the bear mug, fingers tracing the little ceramic ears. He thinks of how every single one of these mugs must’ve caught Regulus’ eye somewhere. How he must’ve picked them out, held them, brought them home. It’s silly, but it makes something warm unfold inside Remus' chest, something tender and wanting.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they stop just behind him.

When he turns, he nearly drops the bear mug. Regulus stands in the doorway, hair damp and curling softly around his face, midnight blue silk clinging gently to his frame, long sleeves pushed up over forearms. He looks impossibly pretty, flushed from the heat of the shower, eyes wide and uncertain. Vulnerable in a way that makes Remus’ whole body ache with something he doesn’t have a name for.

“You found my mug collection,” Regulus says, voice shy and amused, a hand ghosting up to brush at his hair.

“I did,” Remus breathes, still holding the bear mug in his hand. “It’s… ridiculous. And perfect. And so you.”

Regulus blushes deeper, but there’s a pleased sort of tilt to his mouth. “You like them?”

“I want to drink tea out of every single one of them,” Remus says, stepping forward, unable to help himself. “But only if you sit next to me in those stupidly soft pajamas and let me cuddle you like a human-sized stuffed animal.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, musical, and just a little breathless. Regulus lets him come closer, lets Remus set the mug aside and wrap his arms around his waist, his cheek pressing against the damp silk of his shoulder.

“You’re such a sap,” Regulus murmurs, but he buries his face in Remus’ neck anyway, and Remus can feel the smile there, soft and certain, "one condition though, there will be no decaf drank in my precious cups."

"We'll see about that," Remus chuckles as he mumbles into his boyfriend hair.

The next day, he called Lily. He wouldn’t tell her why. Not at first. Just that he needed the number of her friend who did pottery. After far too many smug guesses and one sly, “You’re making him something? God, you’re whipped,” she finally gave him Alice’s contact.

And that Wednesday, Remus stood in a small art studio, sleeves rolled up, trying to remember how to make his hands behave.

Alice had the patience of a saint. For three hours, she guided his large, clumsy fingers over spinning clay, helping him shape a mug that was more oval than round, with a rim that curved slightly too wide on one side. He painted it sparkly pastel green. On the outer surface, he painstakingly painted a miniature bookshelf, trying to make each rectangle look like one of Regulus’ favorite books. The Secret History. Wuthering Heights. Dorian Gray. Most of the titles came out as smudged blobs of ink.

Inside, he drew two constellations, Leo and Lupus, one in gold, the other in silver, twisted into each other like their lives had been for years without their knowing.

When he picked it up the next day, fired and finished, he wrapped it gently and left it on Regulus’ windowsill with a small card taped to the handle.

So you know that even if the cup runs out, my love for you never will.

Regulus didn’t cry. Not exactly.

But when he unwrapped it that evening, thumb brushing over the lopsided stars, eyes catching on the bookshelf and the unmistakably imperfect shape of the mug he now knew had taken hours of Remus' frustration and care, he looked up, and Remus saw it.

That beautiful, silent kind of joy. The kind you drink from every day, warm in your hands, steady in your chest.

And Regulus never drank his tea from anything else again.

[willowed-wisp]

relationship headcanons [ price ]

SFW

- He’s definitely your reliable neighbour who has become your impromptu repair guy whenever something goes wrong

- Whether you’re younger or the same age as him, you’re smitten by the man who wears fitted t-shirts and a set of dog tags

- Only at a summer barbecue, a few drinks deep did he finally make a move on you after you insult yourself, “Oi, for someone so beautiful you speak rubbish,” taking your face in his hands and giving a quick peck to the lips

- He was still your neighbour but you started seeing each other.

- Loves to cook for you, he’s romantic like that

- As well as living room picnics on the floor and candlelight homemade dinners.

- He’s not one for going out and buying food; he loves seeing you smile and hearing your laugh

- After getting home from being on base, he just wants to cuddle on the sofa with you in his arms and watch tv

- Blanket hog- you always wake up in the middle of the night cold

- Until he tackles you in a bear hug, forgetting about the blanket theft on the morning.

- A full English waiting for you as you get up, the sweetest look you’d ever been given.

- Loves matching pjs

- Drives whenever you go on trips with your hand on his thigh, “cheeky…”

- Definitely has a fireplace

- Lives in the country side and collects firewood from the forest nearby and teaches you how to chop the logs properly

- Takes you on long walks with his two dogs

- Yes they are rescue dogs

- And yes, they are tiny. A dachshund and a pug.

- You didn’t know whether or not you loved the dogs more or John

- Actually helped build his own house and decorated it by his own accord…

- Though, he’s glad when you add your own personal twist- new cushions, curtains…

- Everything so him, he fell in love the day you bought a new duvet set for the bed

- Always wanted to be a dad, it was never the right person or the right time

- He has a room not too cluttered for that exact reason- for a nursery.

- John isn’t a bath guy, he has a massive shower which can hold two people…

NSFW

- He was a gentleman when it came to sleeping together the first time

- Unfortunately for him, he didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into because you were far from gentle with him

- Nails scratching into his chest, riding him on the kitchen table the first dinner date. Dress and heels on, his shirt unbuttoned while holding your hips for dear life.

- That night you did went eight rounds with a bull, so gentle with his hands but yet so brutal using those hips.

- All culminating to lying by the fireplace, cushions and blankets dragged down from the sofa. Your head on John’s naked chest, drawing patterns on your skin. “Should’ve warned me…”

- You rolled to face him- hand firm on the hairs of his chest, “About what?” His finger wiping the hair from your eyes. A mischievous glint in those flame-kissed eyes.

- “About how fucking dirty you are…” His hands orchestrated you atop of him, cock steeled once more and with hunger driving you wild, hilted it inside of you. “That’s it, sweetheart…”

- So attentive during sex, if you ask to stop- it’s not even a question.

- Loves fucking you in his 1980s 4x4, specifically in the drivers seat- reclined and riding him.

- He may just love cowgirl a bit too much.

- He’s a tits guy, doesn’t care what size they are. He just loves to worship them.

- Loves your lipstick stains covering his neck and chest

- Blowjobs with lipstick on, he’s a gonna with that. Hands guiding you up and down, telling you how good you were doing.

- A big foreplay guy

- Eats you out for days and has very talented fingers

- He’s been with a few women so he knows what to do and has mastered the arts

————

cod m.list | request guidelines | price m.list

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 45

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

45. halcyon daze

With Christmas on the horizon you take a break from your Persephone-inspired series to work on a present for John. There’s not a thing in the world you could buy him that he couldn’t buy for himself; but you have two hands, some talent and creativity: things that can’t yet be bought on Amazon. You’d noticed that he’s been working on an old set of Russian Fairytales. 

It still never fails to destroy your heart, that John favors mending the binding of children’s stories, as though he can recapture and sew back together some aspect of his own broken youth. 

Some of the illustrations in this edition are faded, one is even half destroyed, the paper torn. The writing is in cyrillic, you haven’t learned to read it yet, but with some [you hope] casually peppered questions, you manage to glean enough information to look up what they’re supposed to be. You make some replacements for him, and in the case of the Knight of Night in the story of Vasilisa the Beautiful, the warrior in black might bear more than a passing resemblance to your own dark assassin.  

When he opens this gift the wonder in his eyes is priceless to you. “I didn’t make you anything,” he apologizes guiltily, and while you are sitting amidst the piles of your freshly bestowed loot, which you still can’t help but feel guilty about. He bought you a stylish new motorcycle jacket, a fresh set of artist series gouache tubes and paper, an antique gold art nouveau lavalier necklace in the form of a flowing narcissus flower with glowing enameled accents and a dangling pearl –you are filled with so much love you fear your heart might burst.

You crawl across the floor, into his lap. He barely has time to set the drawings aside before your mouth is on his, and you are toppling him back almost into the Christmas tree with your ardor. By the time you are finished with him, you’re pretty sure he knows how happy he makes you, but just in case you tell him for good measure. “I love you more than I know how to say.” 

***

As winter drags on you look to John’s in-house gym to get exercise, even though you despise running on the treadmill. You feel like a hamster, jogging your ass off to nowhere. You try to keep up with your yoga practice, though you rarely get to finish a session. Somehow, John always manages to time walking in on you when you have your ass in the air. “Have mercy, I’m only a man,” he teases you, like this is an excuse for toppling you over and pinning you down with his body and his mouth on yours. 

It’s hard to get too mad about it, considering. 

You suppose you do still get a stretch and a workout, not to mention a belly laugh, in the end. 

Continuing your training stays interesting, although he wasn’t lying before when he said he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of you. More often than not when you spar, you end up fucking on the floor. He’s never more beautiful than when his dark eyes glitter with anticipation of the hunt; you’ve learned a lot, but you know you stand zero chance against him. 

Maybe it’s not fair, when he loses patience and uses his experience and his size to put you down on the ground, sweeping your legs or twisting your arm behind you while he pulls down your leggings, baring your ass to the room. But he finds you soaking wet every time he claims his prize, guiding himself inside you, your growls quickly turning to moans for the way he fills you up and takes you down. “I fucking love it when you fight me,” he admits breathlessly, thrusting until you both cum loudly, your face pressed into the rubber floor.

It’s a game you love to lose.   

***

Winter starts to thaw, and you have cabin fever, ready to go outside. John is engrossed in a binding project: you finished your illustrations, and now he seems just as engaged in his side of the collaboration as you were yours. You find him smiling at a rendition of Dog as Cerberus with three heads when you pop into his workshop. “Want to go for a hike?”

He looks around at the mess he’s made on his worktable. “I’m not at a good stopping point,” he admits, and you understand that perfectly well. “You can go, just don’t be gone too long, alright?”

He could have pushed you over with a feather, you are so surprised to receive this clearance for a solo trek. 

You kiss him on the cheek in thanks. “I’ll be back soon,” you promise, still hardly able to believe your luck. 

“Y/n?” he calls as you’re at the door. “Take Dog?”

“I’m going too far for him.” Long walks hurt his paws.

“Then take your pistol.” You nod before disappearing up the stairs. Once upon a time, the thought of going around casually armed would have seemed like pure insanity to you. Now it’s simply a fact of life. You don’t have an official license for concealed carry, but after your intensive training at the Continental you feel perfectly confident that you won’t shoot anyone–unless you mean to. You live in John’s world now: survive first, worry about getting caught later…and pay off the appropriate officials if you have to.

That’s just the thug life, you suppose. 

The air outside is crisp and fresh, leaves and pine needles perfuming the woods in a way that intoxicates you more than any man-made scent. You take off down the trail at a brisk pace, feeling like you have wings on your feet. Knowing you could walk for miles and miles in this mood, you set a timer on your phone so you don’t forget yourself. Scaring John after he’s given you this confidence will not bode well for the future. Once upon a time such a leash would have chafed, but now you understand so much better what his fears are rooted in. You’ve peered into the darkness behind the curtain; there’s no going back. 

It’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week and you haven’t seen a soul, and on such a fine day as this, it is easy to forget that there’s a bustling, seething world of human strife out there. Or so you imagine, as you are sitting on the outcrop of your favorite overlook, your feet dangling out over oblivion. Yet, when you think you hear voices coming up the trail a sudden instinct kicks in to hide, to avoid being seen. Without really even thinking about it you tip yourself off the ledge, grabbing a branch of an ancient tree growing out of the rocks to break your fall, and dropping down to conceal yourself flat upon a narrow ledge.

“Dude, where’d she go?” you hear from above, your heart pounding in your chest, the blocky hardness of your little Beretta pressing into the small of your back as you lean against the stone face of the cliff a reassuring comfort. You realize then that John is not the only one with a residual paranoia from your misadventures. As you listen to the obviously harmless hikers above, you feel utterly ridiculous, and you wait for them to go so that you can make your way back in peace. 

Maybe it’s good to be alert, but at what point does one just have to get on with one’s life? If you live like a paranoid little rat scurrying around out of sight, then Dante has won in a different way. You think about this a lot, as you make your way home up the mountain. 

***

Perhaps it’s fitting, that with the renewal of spring all around you, John finishes the binding of your book. He calls you into the basement to inspect his workmanship, standing behind you as you behold the finished tome. The cover is embossed black leather with gold leaf. There is no title, just a design of an upturned skull grown through with blooming narcissus flowers. Slowly, you flip through the pages, enchanted with how he transformed your loose paintings into something so refined. 

“I love it,” you tell him, caressing a page bearing his likeness, the God of Death embracing his consort (that may bear a passing resemblance to you) in a Klimt-esque kiss. He nuzzles into your neck, kissing behind your ear. “But you didn’t sign it,” you complain, noting the lack of his usual This Book was Bound by John Wick plate. 

“I thought…we could do it together, as a wedding present?” he offers. You realize he means signing it with your joined name, and maybe it’s silly, but the thought makes your belly erupt into butterflies. You haven’t really talked about the wedding much. Though you wear the ring happily, he hasn’t really mentioned it at all, giving you space or otherwise occupied, you’re not entirely sure. 

“I would love that,” you agree, tilting your head for a kiss. His fingers dig into your hips as it deepens, a low moan called up from his throat. 

“Have you thought about what you might like?” he asks, kissing your neck again, his hands slipping under your shirt. 

“I don’t want anything fancy,” you admit breathlessly. “All I want is you.” You find the thought of bringing your dysfunctional family together in celebration only inspires anxiety. You have no lasting affiliations with any church–you do not feel the need to seek any god’s blessing of your union. You find you are just ready for it to be so. 

You feel him pause behind you, letting out a shuddering sigh. You wonder if he’s thinking about the journey you’ve taken, to get where you are today, together. You certainly are, looking at your book, and the allegory it tells of your tumultuous courtship. It wasn’t easy, and you can’t say anything so trite as you knew it would turn out–but you realize you did have the naivety to hope. For once…maybe your forgiving nature has finally paid off for you. You feel like you’ve been living in a halcyon daze, you are so happy. You hope it never changes, even if deep down you know it will. 

Change is the only certainty we’re ever afforded.

“Surely you want something nicer than a trip to the courthouse,” he pries, certain there’s something you’re not telling him. You do still feel embarrassed sometimes, about spending his money on things, even though he gives you free reign with unparallelled generosity. 

“I really don't want a big ceremony,” you assure him. “But…would you like it, if Winston married us?”

John huffs behind you, and you hear the smile in his voice. “I'm not sure that's something he does.”

You giggle at the thought, and you can tell John at least likes the idea of his father figure–one of his few remaining friends, being there. And, you like Winston too. “I bet he’d do it for you, John.”

“Hmm. We’ll think on that.”

It’s not a no.

“You know what I do want?” you pose, turning a page of your new book.This illustration is a rather explicit one, Death kneeling at her feet with his face buried in her pussy, her back bowed in sweet agony, the dark waters of the river Styx glittering behind them. He offered her the most exquisite pleasures, but withheld release unless she agreed to be his forever. Though deep in her heart she knew she loved him immeasurably, still she refused.

Neither John nor you are immune to the effect of perusing this pornographic work together; his long fingers dip into the waistband of your jeans, his fingertips just nearly caressing your mound.   

“Anything,” he tells you, nibbling at your ear. It takes you a moment to remember what you were talking about, your clit throbbing in answer to his seeking fingers and his other hand up your shirt. As a result your answer comes in breathy bursts. 

“I want…to go on an adventure with you. A long honeymoon,” you tell him, writhing against him as his hand finds your breast, toying with the taut peak of your nipple. You know he likes to travel as much as you do. Wouldn’t it be novel to go somewhere and not even need to assassinate someone in the interim?

You feel him chuckle behind you, more than hear it. “I might have guessed. Where do you want to go?” He asks you this while his fingers tease your curls, so close to touching you where you need him most. You are past shame, when your voice cracks. 

“Where can we go?” You assume most of Europe is off the table these days. 

“Hmm. You still have a yen for South America?” 

You nod, and he laughs again, though he catches your mouth in a tooth-counting kiss before you can answer–ie defend yourself from the usual allegations. At last his middle finger dips into your wet slit, and the sound of relief that escapes you is barely human.  

“Young lady…” he growls, nipping at your ear. “This is quite a dirty little book you’ve drawn. Do you know how many times I had to come find you while I was working on this?” You moan as he swipes up your juices, finally circling your clit as his other hand dips into your bra. You feel his erection straining against the curve of your bottom; you press yourself back against him, wanting what’s yours. Your answer is part laughter, part moan–for the umpteenth time, you feel like life is perfect with this man. 

“Probably as often as I had to come find you while drawing it,” you answer cheekily, arching back to hold his neck, opening yourself completely to him. Your knees threaten to buckle as he touches you, but soon you find yourself bent over his table, his corded forearms braced like columns on either side of you as he fucks you silly amidst the smell of old books, leather, and binding glue.  

It really doesn’t get any better than this.

***

When warmer weather comes you start to take out the bikes again. After a few outings you feel sufficiently refreshed, and more than ready to take your test. You make your appointment for next week, and you feel like a teenager again, full of nervous energy for the impending exam. John finds this amusing. “You can ride, sweetheart. And if you fail, you can just take it again.” 

But the perfectionist academic in you wants to ace it on the first go. When you express the desire to go for a practice ride while John is working on a new project he nods, not even looking up from his worktable. “Be careful.” 

“Take your pistol. I know,” you tease. This has become a broken record between you two–remembering a time when he wouldn’t have dreamed of letting you out of his sight, you do not mind. He narrows his eyes at you playfully, before letting you off with that slight smile that still squeezes your heart in your chest. 

You gear up in your kevlar jeans, boots and jacket, gloves and helmet. Concealed carry is ridiculously easy, with such bulk about you. You feel a bit like a commando, every time you put on the jacket with its armored panels. You fire up the Kawasaki and potter down the driveway. You like this bike, it’s been great to learn on, but John has been teasing you about an upgrade if you’re a good girl. 

Considering you feel where he’s been inside you every time you sit down, you’re pretty sure you’re meeting the requirements. You think about this with a smile as you hit a straightaway, and let the machine open up beneath you. 

It really is the closest you can get to flying on the ground. 

Exhilarated, maybe even feeling a little cocky, you make your loop of the mountain roads and then decide to make a quick stop down in town. You’ve worn out your three favorite paint brushes, the chisel tip, the angle shader, and the tiny 3/0 you favor for small details. Mr. Morton will get you squared away. 

You park in the lot behind the art store, and carry your helmet inside. You don’t dally long, even though the smell of oil paint and linseed oil inside the little store is a marvelous thing. You chat with Mr. Morton, pet the shop cat, and tuck your score into your inside pocket before walking back out to the parking lot. 

It’s totally cliché, but the rest goes by in a blur. 

A black SUV rolls up beside you, screeching on its brakes, a man jumping out of the backseat making a B line for you. Too late, you realize your rookie mistake. Your jacket is zipped up to your chin–you can’t draw your pistol under your arm in time. But you have your helmet in your hand, and without hesitation, you introduce it to his face as hard as you can. 

“At least offer a girl some candy first, asshole!”

The driver spills out next, cursing and trying to grab you, dodging your second swing with the helmet. You side-step him, but he manages to snag your jacket. Rather than pull against his hold you let him drag you to him, meeting his groin dead-on with your knee. As he crumples you hit him in the face with your armored elbow, and run for your bike while shoving your helmet onto your head. 

Maybe you should have run back to the shop, to the thoroughfare, to the safety of witnesses. But all you can think in that moment is that John might need you. You have a terrible feeling that something bad could be happening at home, and so you start your bike and tear off faster and more recklessly than you ever have before. The handlebars wobble in your haste but you manage to get a hold of the machine, concentrating on working the clutch and the gears to pick up speed as fast as you can. If you look back, you know you’ll crash. You run a stop sign, veering around a car by the skin of your teeth, leaving the sound of screeching wheels and honking horns behind you.  

Out of town, you drop a gear and take off like a rocket up the mountain, passing cars where you definitely shouldn’t. I’m coming, John. Maybe it’s ridiculous. How much help could you possibly be to John Wick? But you won’t rest until you set eyes on him again. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised, when the G Wagon roars up next to you again. In your peripheral you see the passenger in the window, his extended arm, the blocky black shape of a gun. They veer at you, trying to run you off the road. You brake the bike, letting them whip past you, nearly going off the pavement themselves in the confusion. You decide to turn off onto a sideroad, a winding death-trap of a paved goat trail that you know like the back of your hand, though you’ve never ridden it before, only drove. You hope you’ll lose them in the snarl of tight curves. It will take longer to get home, but if worse comes to worse maybe you can abandon the bike and lose them in the trees. 

Home turf advantage, you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. These guys mean business–and you’re fairly sure the driver’s accent was Italian. 

You don’t really hear it past the roar of your engine and your heartbeat in your ears, when they come up behind you. You do hear the shot, and you flinch, ducking low to make yourself a smaller target. But he wasn’t aiming for you. 

He was aiming for your tire, and when it blows the bike goes wild–and you really get to experience flying.

It’s almost exhilarating, sailing through the air, until you hit the pavement hard, skidding across the unforgiving asphalt, rolling to take some of the momentum. You lay there on the tarmac, alive, but completely stunned. You tell yourself to get up–but your body doesn’t listen. You see the shadow of a man over you. It’s Helmet Man–his face is a mask of blood; it looks like you broke his nose, and he’s pissed about it.

He kicks you in the side before shoving a needle through your jeans, into the meat of your butt. On the verge of puking in your helmet, the world swims, then goes black.

------------

*author's note: Full credit to @discoscoob for suggesting that Winston should officiate, I love it, you're brilliant! 😘 And the yoga scene is totally @treedaddymcpuffpuff 's fault. I love our unhinged conversations boo 🤣 The Brain Rot would not be so strong or so FUN without you!❤❤❤❤❤❤❤ :)))))))))))))))))

**maybe i should also add that certain eXplicit panels in the BRZRKR Bloodlines comic inspired a great deal of this dumpster fire 🥵🤣🤣, y'all should definitely check it out, the artwork is great!

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all chapters

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Book Cover

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover!” We’ve all heard the phrase and we all know that’s impossible. Because the cover of a book is the first thing a potential reader sees—it should stop them in their tracks. It’s a very powerful marketing tool; having a well-designed book cover is crucial.

Tips for Making a Great Book Cover Design

Using more than two to three typefaces on a cover is discouraged, as it can look really messy.

Keep things simple. Your cover will be in a sea of other covers so try to keep your design from getting muddy and make sure it stands out.

Show your designs to people who have a design eye and/or you trust. It’s great to get feedback.

If you hire a professional designer, write a brief and send them info. Be really clear on what you want. Designers usually do a certain number of design rounds included in the agreed upon fee and any extra rounds of design will be extra.

If you hire a professional designer, they will likely have ideas about printing and may have connections to printers. They are a resource so don’t forget to ask questions.

Don’t forget: a book cover is an important part of selling any book. Whether you decide to do it yourself or collaborate with a professional, pay special attention to this part of the process, as a great cover goes a long way.

6-Step Guide: Professional Book Cover

STEP ONE Generate Ideas. Look around at book covers you like. Go to a bookshop and peruse what’s currently happening in book cover design. Take notes of what elements you like on the cover image. A certain typeface? Color? Do you prefer an image or an illustration or something purely typographic on the cover? Another option is to create a mood board. You can use a platform like Pinterest or Evernote, or create a folder on your desktop, and pull book cover inspiration from the web. While you’re gathering inspiration, keep in mind what genre your book is and what kind of book design feels appropriate.

STEP TWO Find a Designer (Who Could Be You!). Do you have design skills? If so, your next step is to begin layouts and mock-ups of the covers. You should use whatever software program you are comfortable with. Most professional book cover designers use a program from the Adobe Creative Suite:

InDesign. InDesign is a multi-page design platform but can also be used for single page design.

Photoshop. Used to manipulate and experiment with photography.

Illustrator. Illustrator is a vector-based program, which means you can create graphic art that can be scaled up or down without loss of quality.

Photoshop and Illustrator. These can also be used together as you can bring your Photoshop file into Illustrator to set the type after you have worked with your cover image.

If you don’t have design skills, now is a great time to hire a book cover designer. The first step is to figure out what kind of budget you have for this. A designer’s fee will range depending on their expertise. Get a figure in mind and then write a design brief which should include the book specs:

Size

Print-run

Intended audience

Where and how the book will be published

Anticipated publish date

You should also include a summary of what the book is about and what you are looking for in a cover. Also share the inspiration you’ve gathered with the designer.

If you don’t have design skills but want to create the cover without the help of a professional, there are a few software programs you can use, such as Canva or 100 Covers, design tools that allow you to DIY the cover (for free or a fee).

STEP THREE Decide on the Dimensions. If you’re self-publishing and printing with a local printer you can work with them to make sure your book dimensions will fit on their printer (remember a book prints front, back, and spine in one sheet of paper). It’s also a good idea to find examples of books whose size you like and feels good to hold. Use that as a jumping off point for your book.

Book Cover Dimensions List. If you are printing for a specific market, from print to ebook, here is a handy list:

Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing File Format: JPEG or TIFF Cover Size (Recommended): 2560x1600 pixels Cover Size Requirements: between 1000x625 pixels and 10,000x10,000 pixels (one side must be at least 1000)

Apple iBooks File Format: JPEG or PNG Cover Size (Recommended): 1400x1873 or 1600x2400 pixels Cover Size Requirements: at least 1400 pixels wide

Barnes & Noble File Format: JPEG or PNG Cover Size (Recommended): Rectangle height and width, at least 1400 pixels Cover Size Requirements: Min. 750 pixels height and width

Kobo Books File Format: JPEG or PNG Cover Size (Recommended): 1600x2400 pixels Cover Size Requirements: Min. 1400 pixels width

Smashwords File Format: JPEG or PNG Cover Size (Recommended): 1600x2400 pixels Cover Size Requirements: Min. 1400 pixels width Draft2Digital

File Format: JPEG Cover Size (Recommended): 1600x2400 pixels Cover Size Requirements: Tall rectangle

STEP FOUR Choose Your Style

Photo-based cover. If you’re creating an photo-based book cover, you’ll need to source stock imagery. There are lots of great resources online to find stock imagery including ShutterStock, Getty Images, and Adobe Stock. (Keep in mind: most photography archives require payment to use their images. Always investigate the copyright of images you’re interested in using.) Look for images that convey or allude to your book’s genre. You can use programs like Photoshop to manipulate your image, making it black and white instead of color or cropping it in a certain way.

Illustration-based cover. If you’re considering a more graphic approach to your cover, Illustrator is the tool to use. You can bring hand-drawn drawings into it and outline them to create scale-able, high-res illustrations which you can manipulate within the program. You can also create shapes, patterns, experiment with typography within illustrator and play with color, transparency, size and much more.

Typography-based cover. Finally, many successful book covers use typography as the main graphic device. This takes some skill and knowledge of typefaces, the historical context of a typeface, and how to manipulate it thoughtfully. That said, using type as a graphic can be very impactful.

STEP FIVE Pick a Typeface (Font). No matter what kind of cover you are designing, you are going to need the title of the book and the author’s name on the cover. As mentioned above, picking an appropriate typeface is very important. You want to pick something that feels right for your book—is it a sans serif or serif? A heavy weight or lighter weight? You want to make sure it’s not something with a lot of baggage, like Comic Sans or Papyrus. It is a good idea to actually do a little research on when, where, and who your typeface was designed by to give you context and feel out if it will be right for your book. You might also consider using up to two different typefaces, one for the title and one for your name. A serif and sans-serif mix can give a bit of contrast and visual interest. There are some typefaces that pair really well together. Check out the website TypeWolf to get ideas of what fonts pair well together.

STEP SIX Test, Tweak, and Repeat. Once you have a few versions of your cover, print them out on your home printer and take a look with a critical eye. Does the type size feel chunky? Too bold? Too small? How does your image look? Is it cropped right? Are the lines of your illustrations too thin and not showing up? Go back and refine your design and then repeat! Don’t forget to look at your book cover as a small thumbnail as well. People are on their mobile phones and you want to make sure your cover still stands out and is impactful.

Book Cover - serves as your first impression with potential readers—and though book covers don’t always look the same, they do tend to contain the same essential elements.

Design standards may be different in the world of traditional publishing than they are in self publishing, and book cover templates for physical paper books may differ from those of ebooks—but they all serve the same purpose.

Some Functions of a Book Cover

A book’s cover provides essential information. At its most elemental, a good cover includes a book’s title, the author’s name, the publisher, and the price.

A good cover offers clues about your book’s content and tone. Your cover design indicates whether your book is a work of high-minded literary fiction, a pulpy page turner, or a compelling work of non-fiction.

A front cover reveals a book’s genre. You can usually tell if you’re holding a thriller, a memoir, a sci-fi epic, or a nineteenth century classic just by looking at a book’s cover art and typography.

A back cover offers broader context. It may feature quotes from reviewers and fellow authors. Softcover books may contain a plot summary or author biography on the back; those summaries and bios are typically moved to the inner flaps of a hardcover book.

How to Hire a Professional Book Cover Designer

Book covers are marketing materials, and a well-designed professional cover can make your book stand out among the competition. If you want someone with expertise in the realm of cover design to work on your book, you may want to hire a professional book cover designer. Here are some steps to consider when hiring creatives to design your book cover:

Hire a cover artist. A cover artist produces the cover art and imagery that will appear on your book cover, either on their own or with heavy input from an author or publisher.

Hire a graphic designer. Certain graphic designers specialize in layout; they incorporate cover art that you provide them—whether that’s an original illustration, photograph, or even a stock image—into the overall design of the cover.

Find a cover designer online. Reedsy is one of a number of online resources for independent authors, self-publishers, and anyone connected to the world of books. Many professional book designers list their services on Reedsy.

Use your personal network. Seek out writers’ groups, either locally or on Facebook. In these groups, people share professional referrals and help support one another when a member has a new book in the works. A group of like-minded individuals can be an invaluable resource when creating your own book cover for the first time.

When to Call a Pro:

You have a budget (a designer’s fee will vary depending on experience and location).

You have enough time to work with the designer.

You have a clear idea of what you want or at least what you don’t want.

You don’t have any design skills.

You don’t want to invest in the design software.

Your book isn’t selling.

How to Design a Book Cover Yourself

If you don’t have the budget for a pro designer or just have a DIY itch you want to scratch, it is easier than ever to design your own book cover. While it may not be quite as rudimentary as when you covered your textbooks in a brown paper bag back in fifth grade, modern technology has made cover image design accessible to anyone with a computer. Here are some tips:

Use a template. There are numerous websites that offer book cover templates and step-by-step tutorials covering basic cover design skills. Some even have a free book cover creator tool, along with cover ideas, design tips, pre-made design templates, and digital cover image tools.

Use standard design software. Book covers can also be made using standard home computing software including Photoshop, Microsoft Word, and even (with a little sweat equity) Google Docs. This is particularly easy if you are importing a pre-made cover image from another source.

Make a prototype. The process for assembling a book is straightforward and satisfying. If you want to test out how your book will appear in print, you can learn to bind a copy yourself.

When to DIY:

You don’t have any budget for design.

You have design skills to do it yourself.

You have the design software.

You have a template and know exactly what you want.

You have people with an eye for design that can guide you.

How to Make a Hardcover Book

So you’re ready to bind your own book. Here’s what you’ll need:

Content, of course.

Uncoated printer paper for book pages

Decorative paper for endpapers, such as wrapping paper or cardstock

Davey board (aka bookbinder’s board), thin chipboard, or cardboard for the book covers

Craft knife

Polyvinyl acetate (PVA) glue such as Elmer’s glue

Hot glue gun and glue sticks

Ruler or straight edge

A long stapler

Thin fabric or book cloth for cover

Binder clips

Thick decorative paper (optional, for dust jacket)

Paper trimmer (optional, for trimming book pages)

Paintbrush (optional, for spreading glue)

There’s more than one way to bind a book, and you’ll find tons of great tutorials online for making homemade books, including Japanese bookbinding and perfect bound softcover books. The most popular style of hardcover book binding is called case binding, which is traditionally done by stitching pages together with thread. Here is how to make a hardcover book step-by-step—no sewing or special materials required:

Assemble the content. The number of pages and the type of paper you work with depends on whether you’re binding a novel, a full-color photo book, or a sketchbook. Familiarize yourself with the format by taking some hardcover books down from your bookshelf and observing how they were made.

Format your pages. If you’re creating a blank book, you can skip this step. If you’re printing a book with text, you'll need to format the text so that you can print it into a book. You can get help with this at a copy shop, or you can download book design software and print at home. Eventually, you’ll end up with a PDF with a page count. This page count has to be divisible by four so that your book can be bound as folios made up of eight sheets of paper (32 pages) each. You may need to add some blank pages at the end of the book to keep your page count correct for the folios.

Print and fold. Once all of your pages are printed, fold pages in half and stack eight within each other, making sure the pages are in the correct order. Staple the folios together in the folds, alternating the location of the staples so that you don’t end up with a bulge in the spine.

Bind your folios together. Arrange all of the folios in the correct order and flatten them between heavy books. Once your folios are flat, it’s time to glue them together. Hold the folios together with binder clips and use a glue gun to glue the folios together along the stapled edge. This will become your book’s spine. Be careful not to overdo it on the glue: Use just enough to keep the folios together. Before the glue cools, use a thin piece of fabric to cover the spine only.

Even out the pages. Carefully trim the edges of the pages with a paper trimmer or craft knife, if needed.

Make the hardcovers. Cut two pieces of cardboard for the front and back covers of your book. For the spine, cut a piece of cardboard that is the same height as the front and back covers, with a width equal to the thickness of the spine plus the front and back covers.

Attach the hardcovers. Paint the cardboard (both covers and the spine piece) with a thin layer of PVA glue and attach to the cloth you’ll use to cover your book, leaving a space between the covers and the spine equal to one and a half times the thickness of the cardboard. Let dry.

Assemble the book. Use PVA glue to attach the fabric-lined spine of your bound folios to the cardboard spine. Keep the book propped up between other books while you wait for it to dry.

Attach the endpapers. Trim the paper lining so that it’s twice the size of the first page and fold it in half. Paint glue onto the inside of the front cover and the front page, and attach paper lining. Repeat with the back cover.

Make the dust jacket. If you’d like to cover your book with a dust jacket, measure a piece of thick decorative paper as tall as your book and as wide as the entire book, plus a few extra inches to fold over the edge of the cover. Fold the dust jacket over the bound book. Lay another heavy book on top of it to help the dust jacket keep its shape. This is the place to add a cover design, if you’d like.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

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The Zine Directive FAQ

We will update this information periodically, but wanted to "put some words on the page" so to speak. If we missed your question, please DM us!

So, what's going on here?!

Will the zine have a theme?

Will it be explicit?

What is the timeline?

How much will the zine cost?

How can I get a copy?

How do I become a contributor/Why wasn't I asked to contribute?

I was asked to contribute, but I haven't heard anything. Should I be worried?

How else can I help/get involved?

So, what’s going on here?!

We're making a fanzine with one mission: To pay homage to those who came before us in this wonderful, timeless fandom that is Star Trek. The goal is to produce something that will be directly comparable to the fanzines of old; Typed on typewriters, printed & copied at a print shop (yes, even those pages), bound by hand, and sent to recipients in the mail. There are some aspects that may not translate to the 2020s, but we will try our best to be as authentic as possible. Luckily, we've secured involvement from several of the lovely women who were actually there making zines in the 70s, 80s, and 90s to guide us :) More on this will be announced soon!

Will the zine have a theme?

Not exactly, but it will exclusively feature Star Trek: The Original Series (+ films). This is not done to exclude AOS, SNW, or other Treks, but rather to celebrate the one that started it all. However, it will be a K/S slash zine (mcspirk also welcome!) so if you're not into seeing Kirk and Spock smooch, this one might not be for you ;)

Will it be explicit?

Yes :) How explicit will depend entirely on our artists and authors. Purchase age will be strictly 18+.

What is the timeline?

The 60th anniversary of Star Trek is September 8th, 2026. So while the official release is TBD, it will be around this time. Fics (and other writing, like poetry) will need to be finished earlier than artwork so we have time to organize companion illos. We also need ample time to type everything by hand on our typewriters, leaving room for broken equipment and/or user error (both of which are equally likely to happen). We expect assembly to take several months since us editors are doing this for the first time and also have jobs/families/school to think about. Once we have a more concrete timeline, that will be shared directly with our contributors to include deadlines and check-ins.

How much will the zine cost?

To be perfectly clear, this project is 100% nonprofit. That is very important to us not just for legal reasons, but moral ones. This means the cost of the zine will not exceed what was put into the materials, assembly, postage, etc. Similarly sized zines in 1970 were in the range of $3-$5, which is about $25-$40 today. We will do everything in our power to keep the price as low as we possibly can.

How can I get a copy?

We will make several announcements leading up to sign ups. As of right now, it is very likely we will have to limit the zine to < 200 copies. After some time has passed we will release it digitally, so don't fret if you're not able to get your hands on one! If there’s enough interest we may also do a second publication :)

How do I become a contributor/Why wasn't I asked to contribute?

As of right now, we do not have an open submission process. We would love to include EVERY piece of art, but with a physical zine we are limited by physical space, so we will have to be more discerning than we might like. As time goes on and the table of contents is decided we will announce more opportunities to contribute, so follow the blog to be aware of those! You can always feel free to DM us if you're interested, but we can't guarantee there will be room for everyone who does this. If your idea doesn't fit exactly, we'll try our best to find a way for you to be a part of it.

I was asked to contribute, but I haven't heard anything. Should I be worried?

No!!! We are working diligently to get everything set up, we promise. We have not forgotten about you <3 Kat (spirk-trek) is dealing with difficulties on Tumblr at the moment, in that she's unable to send or receive messages. If you're trying to get ahold of her please do so through this blog or on discord (katruyck) until further notice.

How else can I help/get involved?

First of all, thank you for asking. This kind of question really warms our hearts! If we decide to take donations of any kind, we will share that further down the line. This would be to cover costs only, and any excess would be donated to fanlore or other archival efforts. We won't do this if we don't have to, and would really rather not. If you're interested in taking a more involved position in the process, please message us about becoming a mod, especially if you're good with discord, have experience making physical zines, have a working typewriter, or are really passionate about fanzine history like we are!

Thank you for reading, and for being here at the start of our journey :)

[igot-the-juice]

Blood of A Rose - Part 2 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - Following the events of their night together, (y/n) and Art explore their dynamics together to form a perfect duet of blood and beauty.

Notes - Was requested to expand on the relationship between Art and the reader and will happily oblige! It’s honestly so fun to write Art’s character, I hate how little there is out there for him. My man needs attention.

P.S - Might branch this into a series of one shots showing their relationship more and whatnot either from my own ideas or requests from you guys for what you’d like to see with them. Hell, might even make a whole blog based on them. Thoughts?

Word Count - 4,091

Warning(s) - Blood, gore, violence, morally ambiguous reader

Song Inspiration -

Cody Frost - Process

Screams were heard all around them, piercing and agonizing. Everything was set ablaze, yet she felt no heat. She felt no pain. Even as the smoke clouded, she could breathe without struggle. (Y/n) craned her neck to look up at the clown before her, eyes wide with wonder, with trust. Her life was in the hands of a murderer and yet she felt safe. She felt protected.

His usual grin did not show, yet he didn’t frown. His face remained neutral while his eyes said it all, filled with an untamed obsession, possessiveness and dare she say adoration. His gloved hands rose to her jaw, cupping it delicately as he guided her to train her eyes on him, to ignore all that happened around them. As she stared up at him, her hands came to rest over his own, and with a look of his eyes she was told -

He would be her past, present and future. 

(Y/n)’s eyes fluttered open, greeted by the soft light of the moon that peaked through the boards of the window. The colder air bit at her skin through her sweater and she shivered. 

She sat up and looked around curiously, seeing that she was now in the makeshift bedroom from before. She then looked down and saw that she was on the mattress, however a tattered blanket now lay on top of it beneath her, shielding her from whatever mold and rot had been on it. 

Her legs closed when she felt a light breeze brush against the tear in her pantyhose, heightening the chill. (Y/n) stretched her arms out and stood, then heard what sounded like someone hammering from a different room. Her mind raced with the events of what she assumed was still the same night. Her face burned, stomach fluttering as the ghost of Art’s caress tickled her skin. 

She took a deep breath and left the room, quietly making her way to where the sound came from. Mindful of the debris on the floor as she grew near, she entered the room with the workbench, Art hunched over it on the stool as he hammered away at something. 

When (y/n) stepped closer he paused. Her breath stilled as his head slowly turned to the side, yet not over his shoulder to look at her, letting her know that he knew she was there. 

Once he returned to work she released the breath she held and made her way over to him, seeing as he hammered a screw-eye hook of sorts into the end of a chair leg. 

His face was focused, not smiling or putting on his usual dramatics as he worked. It felt strange to her, seeing him this way. It reminded her that even if he was a murderer he wasn’t excused from putting in the work to make it happen, whether it was a hobby of his or not. It reminded her that he still had interests and needs just as everyone else. It was oddly humanizing and she couldn’t help but feel privileged to see him in such a state. 

He motioned to a nearby corner and (y/n) turned to see another stool placed there, then moved to bring it over and sat on top of it to continue to watch him. He then motioned to her - conversing as he worked - then symbolized sleep as if to ask how she slept, then proceeded to pick up an average sized chain. 

“It was actually quite nice. Best sleep I’ve had in a while.” 

With chain in hand, he clapped excitedly, happy with her response. He hooked it to the screw, bending and twisting the metal to make sure it was secure as (y/n) watched casually, as if it was just another day. 

“Is it… Is it still the same night?” 

He shook his head and her eyes widened. Art turned to see it and began to laugh to himself. 

“How long has it been?” 

He held up a finger after his laughing fit died down, going back to his work. 

“One day…? But how?” 

He nodded and glanced over at her, watching as she looked down, growing more and more confused. He patted her shoulder and she looked up at him, seeing him point to himself, then her. 

“Because of you?” Her brow furrowed, then her expression changed as she chuckled. “Are you saying I slept for so long because of what we did?” 

Art shrugged and made a cheeky expression, but she became confused again when he then shook his head. He motioned to himself again, then pointed to her head. 

“You… forced me to stay asleep?” He eagerly nodded, smiling and pointing at her to say she got it. “But how? Did you knock me out?” His head shook. “Did you drug me?” 

His head shook again and he rolled his eyes, arms falling to his sides in exasperation. He then motioned to his entire body, pointed to his head with both fingers, then to her head again. 

“You were in my head…?” He nodded and clapped. “How is that even possible?” 

Art shrugged dramatically with a mischievous smile. (Y/n) paused and slowly met his eyes. 

“The dream…?” She asked, and in the back of her head she already knew the answer. 

The clown only solidified it with a raise of his eyebrows, mouth forming an ‘o’ and shrugging as an ‘oops’. (Y/n) could only laugh, not knowing how exactly to react to someone with such supposed supernatural abilities. 

She wasn’t sure if she had finally grown to become insane or if it was all a hallucination, all in her head. But as she thought to the night before she found that it all felt too real, too vivid to be fake. 

(Y/n) suddenly felt exposed and crossed one leg over the other, tugging down the skirt of her dress as her face grew warm. Art looked over at her, face twisting into mischief as his eyes squinted with his smile. He wiggled his eyebrows when she looked at him and she turned her face away bashfully. 

He reached over to grasp her chin, coaxing her to look back at him. He nudged his head in her direction, grinning to encourage her to do the same. Once her smile returned and she giggled, he playfully booped her nose and turned back to his workbench, his smile now remaining on his dramatized face as he worked. 

The minutes seemed to drag on as he worked, but not once was she bored. She watched eagerly, fixated as his hands toyed and shaped the weapon he was creating. His actions were all well thought out and deliberate, masculine yet graceful as his fingers caressed the wood and metal. 

Deeming the weapon satisfactory, he raised it by the handle - the chair leg - and examined it carefully. Three chains hung from the screw-eye, knife tips, nails and spikes decorating the length of them. 

“Is that a flail?” (Y/n) gasped. 

Art’s head whipped over to look at her and patted her thigh, the hand holding the weapon shaking excitedly as he nodded. He watched as she eyed his new creation, then an idea formed in his head. His gaze shifted to look over at her, now smiling sadistically. She caught the change in his expression and she began to smile, catching on to what he was thinking. 

“I’ll get the camera!” She hopped off of the stool.

-

After some convincing from her end, they stopped by her house for her to quickly change into something more comfortable. It wasn’t until she began to beg sweetly that he finally agreed, unable to say no to her more innocent nature, regardless of her interests.

Not a person was in sight as they were shielded by the dark of the night, hardly any street lamps in the area they currently wandered. 

“Does the bag ever get heavy for you?” (Y/n) asked as they walked through the ghosted roads. 

Art shook his head, using his other arm to exaggerate flexing his muscles and she laughed. 

“I bet that bag is the reason you’re so strong, lugging it around everywhere and all.” He waved her off at the compliment and tickled her ear with his finger. “I’m serious! You make it look like it weighs nothing.” 

As they walked, they began to see the edge of the town ahead of them. Or rather, Art saw it. (Y/n) was too focused on the clown beside her, taking in all of his features under the starry night, the moon perfectly accentuating every curvature and jagged edge, every - 

She was suddenly yanked to the side of the sidewalk he walked on and she gasped, looking over to see a pole that she nearly walked straight into. She looked back over at Art who had a hand on his hip with a frown. He pointed at her, his eyes, then the direction they were walking in. 

“Sorry…” She giggled as she blushed, nervously fiddling with the camera hanging around her neck. 

He pulled back his arm and reached for her, pulling her to stand on the opposite side where he was previously walking to prevent it from happening again. He motioned for her to continue walking, rolling his eyes from behind her before he set his pace next to her again. 

As they reached the town, Art began to look around carefully, more alert in the brighter area while (y/n) had a mind of her own. While he kept an eye out for his next victim, she focused on finding her next inspiration. She supposed they went hand in hand, but she was never one to strive for the bare minimum. 

He then paused, holding his arm out for her to do the same, knowing she very well would’ve kept on walking. Hearing the voices of what seemed to be a couple arguing, he listened carefully to find where they came from. 

Then he spotted them. 

A man and woman arguing next to a car. The man was halfway in the driver’s seat while the woman stood next to it, flailing her arms. 

Art then heard a shutter sound from beside him, slowly looking over to see (y/n) holding her camera up, taking photos of the argument before them. She looked over at him and shrugged innocently.

She put down the camera and the two of them watched the pursuing argument, equally invested in the exchange. The man then slammed the car door shut. 

“They just broke up for sure.” (Y/n) whispered to Art and he looked down at her with a widespread grin, wiggling his eyebrows then nodding towards the woman who was now making her way into what seemed to be her villa. 

Art crossed the street, making his way over with (y/n) in tow and walking up the small set of stairs leading to the front door. He looked down at her, then turned to the door in front of them and tested the door knob, unsurprisingly finding it locked. 

He gave (y/n) a ‘wait’ signal and set down his bag, cracking his neck and stretching his arms out in front of him with linked fingers. Art then gave her a side smile, then suddenly kicked the door open. She froze with wide eyes, yet her stomach betrayed her as it flipped at his show of masked strength. 

He picked up his bag again and grabbed her wrist to pull her inside with him, closing the door behind them. Footsteps quickly descended the staircase in front of them and they looked up to see the same woman from before, chest heaving in fear at the sight before her. 

While (y/n) quickly snapped a photo of her expression, Art dropped his bag again and wiggled his fingers at her in a wave with a menacing smile. He then held up a finger to her and began to look through his bag as the woman remained frozen like a deer in the headlights, watching as he pulled out a scalpel and the new flail. He turned to (y/n) and raised his eyebrows, then bolted upstairs after the woman who fled. 

As they thumped around upstairs, she began to explore the villa, looking for things to use in her next piece. The woman’s screams and shrieks were muffled behind the door of the room they were in and were drowned out, inevitably useless. 

(Y/n) eyed a smaller box TV that sat on an entertainment stand in the living room, an idea popping into her head. She walked over to it and unplugged it in preparation, resuming her wandering when the noise above her suddenly stopped. 

She heard a door open upstairs followed by footsteps descending the staircase. (Y/n) looked towards it, seeing a now bloodied Art giving her the ‘ok’ to go upstairs when she was ready. 

“Could you do me a huge favor?” She asked as he made his way over to her, shaking off the blood on his hands and nodding. “Could you help take the TV upstairs for me? I want to use it as the head.” 

Art made a surprised expression, clapping his hands giddily at the idea. He then paused with a finger up, making a sawing motion and asked for her to wait a moment, disappearing upstairs. Not long after, he returned with his saw and put it back in his bag, happily walking over to the TV and tipping his hat at (y/n) when he walked by. He then picked it up as if it was nothing but a feather and made his way back upstairs, (y/n) following closely behind as she giggled. 

They entered the woman’s bedroom, her body splayed out on the bed with small to large chunks of her skin and fat missing, head nowhere to be found. 

As he placed the TV where the woman’s head used to be, (y/n) admired the slashes left from the flail. Some were rather deep, others shallow. Their marks tore at the dress that the woman wore, some simulating claw marks while other areas were simply shredded. 

“Could you move the arms to look like this?” (Y/n) posed her own arms to grab the sides of her head. Art carefully took note of the angle and position, then moved the victim’s arms to reflect it. “Perfect.” (Y/n) smiled, looking up at the ceiling to see LED lights lined along the edge. 

Art watched as she wandered to find the remote, smiling to herself once she found it and changed the color to red and turned off the main light. She looked around the floor, watching for anything she could trip on before lifting a foot onto the bed. 

Art’s face twisted into panic and his hands shook, stepping next to her and helping her up onto the bed. 

“Thank you.” She responded softly, one of his hands still holding her waist to help steady her as she readied her camera. He followed her as she captured different angles, some standing while others she crouched. 

(Y/n) took his hand to help herself down, smiling up at him as he grinned at her excitedly. Just as the night before, she flipped through the pictures she took, and just the same, she felt his closeness. 

The only difference was rather than nerves, she felt relaxed. She felt calm and comfortable despite the mess around them that he caused. His hand that rested on her far shoulder radiated heat through her layers of clothing and she subconsciously leaned into him, head pressed against his chest while he pointed at the photos he favored. 

His silent presence, twisted grin plastered on his painted face, drew her in like a moth to flame. (Y/n) found herself unable to refuse, an invisible pull guiding her to him. 

At first, their following encounters were just a few hours in the night together. Art would appear when (y/n) least expected, showing up at odd hours, his silent insistence drawing her out into the dark. However, she began to notice her sleeping pattern slowly change. She grew more tired sooner, falling asleep earlier and earlier, waking up in a strange nocturnal rhythm. 

At night, she would wake to find him waiting, patient but always silent, eager to lead her deeper into his world. (Y/n), feeling a strange sense of peace in his presence, began to follow him without question. And after only a few weeks of their odd relationship, she began to grow used to it. Comfortable with it. Comfortable with him.

“Hey, Art.” (Y/n) greeted him as she yawned, fresh out of bed to find him rummaging through her kitchen. 

He looked up at her and waved, a widespread grin bringing out her own smile in her vulnerable, post-dream state. He gushed at the sight, elbows resting on the countertop with his chin in his hands, blinking dreamily at her as she walked over to him with her arms out. 

Art popped up, engulfing her in his arms as she sighed happily at the feeling. He rocked the two of them slowly, the rhythm almost putting her back to sleep. 

Slowly, (Y/n)’s life became consumed by Art. The gruesome art pieces she crafted from his handiwork grew bolder, more disturbing, as if the dark side of her creativity was being unleashed by his influence. 

In her dreams, she would see him. His painted face looming over her, silent but omnipresent. At first, the dreams were disorienting. But over time, they became comforting. She would wake, feeling a strange longing for him, for the connection they shared in the darkest corners of her mind, weaving its way to the forefront. 

As the days bled into nights, (y/n) found herself thinking of Art constantly. He was always there, even when he wasn’t physically present; a haunting figure in her thoughts. His silence, once goofy, became a form of comfort. She began to crave his presence, yearning for their time together. 

And so (y/n) found herself growing dependent on him. Whether it was for her art or simply her attachment to him, how safe she felt with him. He understood her in a way no other person could, and she reciprocated. 

The way he was so brutal and aggressive with others, yet gentle and thoughtful with herself only drew her closer to him. He treated others as nuisances, problems to deal with and get rid of while he treated her as delicately as the rose that brought them together. The contrast was endearing to her, and she couldn’t help but be entranced. 

Though such treatment came with an undisclosed amount of protection and possessiveness, to which she learned rather quickly. 

“It just came out wrong, I’m sorry!” (Y/n) giggled. Art mocked her, rolling his eyes as his mouth and hand mocked her talking. The culprit of such a fit? 

She called his nose cute.

“Your nose is attractive, is what I meant. Believe me, you’re still as frightening as ever.” 

He threw her a side eye, then dramatically sighed and waved it all off. 

“Hey!” She stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk, a lit street lamp looming over them as they faced each other. “I’m sorry.” She gave him her best doe eyes, then stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. 

His grin slowly returned, hand coming over the top of where she kissed him and she giggled. He then took her hand in his own, continuing their nightly walk.

Later on, they heard slurred conversation ahead of them, seemingly male in nature. (Y/n) tried to slow their walk, but Art looked back at her and encouraged her to keep up with him. As they grew closer, they passed an alleyway that held a small group of drunks, hearing a whistle of a cat call. 

The clown immediately stilled, and (y/n) quickly grew worried. 

“Hey, where ya goin’ babes?” One of the men called, stepping out of the alleyway with a bottle in hand. “Not with the mime, I hope.” 

Art and (y/n) slowly turned to face the man, their hands still interlocked as she gripped his tighter and stepped closer to him, practically hiding behind him like a scared child. 

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you actually wanna be with the guy!”

“Ey, c’mon man, stop messin’ with them, she’s not worth it.” Another man stepped out, followed by a third to watch the scene play out. Art’s eyebrows furrowed in anger, twisted grin remaining as he set down his bag and quickly reached into it. 

“Obviously not if -“ Two shots suddenly pierced through the night air, the second and third men collapsing to the ground while Art aimed a handgun at the first who initiated. 

(Y/n)’s hold on his hand moved to his arm, clutching onto it as the bodies began to puddle with blood beneath them. She looked up at Art, his grin replaced with a frown and it sent a chill down her spine. She had only seen him genuinely angry maybe once or twice, and whatever followed was far from pleasant, to say the least. 

“H-hey, I was just jokin’ man, I was just jokin’!” The drunk held up his hands in surrender, but the clown wasn’t buying it. 

As he continued to ramble and apologize, begging for his life, Art kept the gun pointed at his head. He watched as the man slowly broke in front of him, growing increasingly desperate. Art’s grin then slowly reappeared, giving the man a glimmer of hope.

Then Art suddenly aimed at the man’s thigh and fired, doing the same to his other until he fell to his knees. Art tossed the gun into his bag and rummaged through it further, his face twisting into a sadistic expression when he pulled out a box cutter flashing it to the man as a tease before stalking over to him.

(Y/n) turned around, facing away from the chaos and gore as she plugged her ears to drown out the noise. Even still, the sound seeped through as the man struggled and cried out helplessly. His fight was futile compared to Art’s strength, and the latter simply ragdolled him as if the man was just a child. 

When the noise stopped, she unplugged her ears and felt a hand pat her waist, turning to see Art wipe off his now bloodied hands. She turned to see his mess, and his face suddenly grew concerned when she pouted. 

“I don’t have my camera.” (Y/n) nearly whined, and Art mimicked her frown. 

At first, (y/n) resisted the growing dependency, confused by her attachment. But he began to seep into her thoughts with concerning frequency. The dreams became more vivid, more intimate, filled with his silent adoration as he twisted her perception of reality until he became the center of her world, the only constant in her life, planting seeds of affection until it became impossible to imagine her life without him.

His obsession with her only grew. He would stand over her while she slept during the day, watching her with an almost childlike fascination. When she woke, his silent attention made her feel adored, special. The way he looked at her, possessive yet affectionate. His presence was her comfort, his protection her shield.

Eventually, (y/n) could no longer distinguish where her own desires ended and his began. The thought of being apart from him was unbearable. She began to seek him out during the day when she should have been resting, desperate to be near him. 

When they were together, it was a twisted dance of blood and beauty. A duet that no one else could understand. She would create art from his chaos, and he would watch her with silent adoration, the two of them locked in a world where only they existed.

They grew to share a dark, intimate bond. (Y/n), once a quiet and reserved artist, had become consumed by Art - both his work and his presence. He had molded her. And she, willingly or not, had come to love him for it. 

As their connection deepened, (y/n) knew that she could never return to the life she had before. The darkness was too intoxicating, the bond too strong. 

She belonged to him now, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

[hyacinthandmoss]

My Everything

Summary: You're Bruce Wayne's wife and a plus-size model. Tonight, you are attending a Wayne Charity Gala that you tenaciously put together! Bruce can't seem to take his eyes off you, and it's apparent that other affluent guests are equally captivated by you.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Plus Size Female Reader.

Warnings: Minors DNI! Fluff, and smut towards the end.

Word Count: 3,627

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing smut, and it's probably going to be my last. I much prefer writing fluff. Nonetheless, enjoy! x

Life as a plus-size model and being Bruce Wayne's wife often presented unique challenges. This year, you dedicated yourself to your modeling commitments for the Winter Season while actively participating in the meticulous planning and arrangements for the prestigious end-of-the-year Wayne Charity Gala. Balancing these roles was undeniably taxing, but the anticipation of quality time with your husband, free from his responsibilities as Batman, made it all worthwhile. 

After flawlessly applying your makeup, your stylist carefully guided you in putting on the stunning dress while you were blindfolded. You eagerly anticipated the first glimpse of the dress, specifically chosen and tailored just for you.

"Okay, love," Salah exclaimed excitedly, "you can open your eyes now." 

You gazed at your reflection in the mirror, and your mouth fell open in astonishment. The stunning silk dress draped in a luxurious emerald green hue was sleeveless, allowing the delicate stretch marks on your shoulders to peek through, a part of your beauty that you cherished and never concealed with makeup. The dress elegantly cinched at your waist, enhancing your figure and accentuating your bosom. With a playful and confident air, you kicked your leg forward through the intricate slit of the dress. 

"Salah, you have outdone yourself once again," you said with genuine admiration. "Your talent is truly unparalleled." 

You turned around to inspect the dress from behind.

"I don't recall seeing this exquisite piece on the runway this season. Am I the lucky one to be adorned in your remarkable prototype?"

"That's because it wasn't on the runway," Salah added. "And not a prototype." 

You turned to look at him with an eyebrow raised in confusion. 

"Who designed it, then?" You inquired. 

"Your husband did." 

"What?"

"A few months ago, he requested a custom-designed dress exclusively for you. I brought his vision to life."

A warm and tender sensation filled your heart.

"And," Salah began, " that's not the only thing he chose." His tone was mischievous.

"What do you mean?" you asked. 

"He chose that sexy lace set you're wearing underneath." he grinned. "He's so going to unwrap you after the gala."

You coughed softly and forced a smile, hoping to conceal the hint of a blush creeping up your cheeks.

—

Bruce had just finished getting ready at his office after several lengthy meetings at Wayne Enterprises and made his way to the manor to pick you up. He couldn't help but think about the elegant dress he had carefully selected for you. Knowing it was from your favorite designer and good friend made him hope you would love it as much as he did.

He dispatched final instructions to Dick, Jason, and Damian. They had been tasked with patrolling the city until his return from the charity event.

Just take the entire night off, old man, Dick replied. 

As he was getting ready to reply, he heard the door upstairs close. He instinctively slid his phone into his pocket and made his way to the base of the staircase, where the ornate wooden railing wound up to the upper floor.

Bruce found himself in rapt fascination as he watched you come down. Your gown was a work of art, embracing every curve of your figure with an effortless grace that demanded attention. A surge of longing coursed through him as he took in the sight of you.

Extending his hand, he met you at the final step, his touch both supportive and filled with quiet intensity as he assisted you.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat as he beheld you. 

"Wow, you are breathtaking," he stammered, his voice betraying his unsteady awe at the sight of you.

You smiled mysteriously as you gracefully walked away from him, and then, with a slow and deliberate twirl, you revealed every inch of yourself, captivating his attention.

"I hope this dress meets your approval, Mr. Wayne." Your voice was sultry and seductive, causing a surge of arousal in Bruce. 

"It more than meets my approval. You look positively stunning," he said earnestly, unable to take his eyes off you. 

He gently drew you close, pulling you towards him with a soft yet firm touch. His hands found their place on your waist as you responded by tenderly wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling the reassuring strength in his embrace.

As he leaned in closer, his warm and tender lips made contact with your bare, delicately exposed shoulder, leaving a trail of gentle, affectionate kisses.

He whispered in your ear, "What you're wearing underneath is for my eyes only," his breath ghosting across your skin, "a treasure that belongs solely to me."

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you experienced a momentary pause. Bruce's possessive nature emanated from a profound depth of affection, conveying a wholesome desire to protect and adore you.

He stepped back, gazing into your eyes with a tender intensity. 

"But I'm not entirely selfish," he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "I want the entire world to be captivated by the extraordinary beauty you possess," he confessed, his words lingering in the air. "But always remember, you belong to me, now and for all eternity." With a gentle yet firm grip on your waist, he drew you closer, his touch conveying both possession and adoration. Leaning in, he pressed his lips against yours. It was a kiss filled with passion and longing that conveyed all the emotions that Bruce had felt since he first laid eyes on you at the Art Gallery. And as you both pulled away, your eyes sparkled with adoration, your love for him evident in every gesture.

But your love for each other was not without its challenges. Your marriage was unconventional, but it didn't matter to either of you. Bruce had to balance his responsibilities as Batman and as your husband constantly. He tried to keep you at arm's length, afraid of putting you in danger, but you refused to back down. You were determined to stand by his side, no matter what, even if it meant sharing him with life as the Caped Crusader. 

But you couldn't deny that the dual life made things complicated. Whenever Gotham was threatened and needed Batman's attention, he had to leave abruptly, leaving you worried and alone. You also spent countless nights alone, only seeing him in the mornings. But you never complained. You understood the importance of Bruce's mission and always remained supportive.

Each time Bruce laid eyes on you, the world seemed to fade away, leaving behind a singular focus on you. In those rare, cherished moments, he had the opportunity to give you his undivided attention, and it was as if he was experiencing the exhilaration of falling in love with you all over again.

"Something on your mind?" You asked him because you noticed that he was lost in thought. 

Bruce shook away from his reveries. 

"You," Bruce replied. "And how badly I want to explore every inch of your body and show you how much you mean to me," he said in a low and husky voice. 

You blushed and smiled shyly at him. 

"I'll be patient, Mrs. Wayne." He looked at you and smirked as if reveling in your obvious flushed face. 

Bruce couldn't help but wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you closer as you both made your way to the car. 

—

When you arrived, a relentless barrage of camera flashes greeted you. Bruce appeared at the door, extending a supportive hand to help you up and guiding you towards him. His touch was gentle yet protective as his hand settled on your waist. He made it his mission to shield you from any potential dangers, including the relentless intrusion of the paparazzi.

"Can we get photos of you both individually?" One of the photographers yelled. 

Bruce got out of the way to let your photo get taken. 

You struck a pose, your hand on your hip and your head held high, exuding elegance and grace. The photographer snapped away, capturing every angle. Your smile was radiant, and it was evident that you were genuinely enjoying yourself. As you gazed out into the crowd, you could see the positive reactions from those around you. People were clapping and cheering, admiring your beauty and confidence.

The photographer asked for a few more poses, and you happily obliged. 

You shifted your gaze to Bruce and found him looking at you with an affectionate expression, a loving gleam in his eyes, and a gentle smile gracing his face. He had a tad look of mischief, likely undressing you in his mind. You returned the smile. 

"Now you, Bruce!" One photographer yelled, interrupting the moment you were both sharing.

"Not tonight," Bruce answered and walked away with you. 

Bruce kissed your forehead and wished you luck before leaving you to do your own thing while he mingled with the partners of Wayne Enterprises. 

The night progressed with a series of speeches by prominent artists. When it was time for you to speak, your words echoed through the hushed hall, reminding everyone present why they were there: to give foster children a chance at a better life. The funds would go to build an independent living facility for children, particularly teenagers who could not find placements. You shared your experience as a former foster child who aged out of the system, and you vowed to change that reality for other foster kids.

The crowd responded with a chorus of applause. Bruce cheered you on and felt immense pride for all the hard work you had done. 

The sophisticated guests wandered through the carefully curated art gallery, sipping fine champagne and other exquisite, high-priced liquors. As you contemplated a potential art addition to your office, your attention was drawn to a group of impeccably dressed women whispering and giggling, their envious eyes fixed on you. Feeling a pang of annoyance, you rolled your eyes and massaged your temples as their conversation reached your ears. It seemed like these events always managed to attract the same types of people: the typical wealthy individuals who generously spent money for a good cause to make themselves feel good, the ones who came with the mission to find any gossip, and those who murmured opinions on how you were an unlikely match for Bruce.

"Excuse me," you said in a warm tone and gave them a friendly smile, trying not to disrupt the moment. I couldn't help but notice that all of you have been staring at me." You uttered these words cautiously, in case someone discreetly captured the moment with their camera.

The women looked at each other, caught off guard by your courage to confront them.

"Oh, we couldn't help but notice your gorgeous dress. May I ask where you found it?" one of the women inquired, attempting to divert from their earlier discussion.

You let out a light chuckle, a knowing smile spreading across your face as you realize they are being untruthful. "Thank you for your kind words," you respond, unable to resist mentioning, "but I overheard your conversation."

The women's eyes darted anxiously, repeatedly adjusting their position to avoid meeting your gaze and showing unease.

"I couldn't help but overhear you discussing my husband, Bruce Wayne, and speculating about why he chose to be with someone like me," you said in a composed and collected tone, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you.

The women were visibly shocked by your unexpected confrontation. Their eyes widened, and their expressions turned to disbelief. They stood there, motionless, struggling to find the right words.

"I'm flattered…" you began.

The women gazed at each other, their brows furrowed in confusion as they exchanged perplexed looks, trying to make sense of the situation.

"You purchased a $15,000 ticket to this charity event, but instead of supporting the cause, you made my appearance the topic of conversation," you said calmly.

One of the women cleared her throat. As they sipped their drinks, a flush of crimson spread across their faces, betraying their unease.

Bruce's strong, comforting arm encircled your waist, and as he leaned down, you felt the warmth of his lips as he placed a tender and affectionate kiss on your cheek.

"Ladies," he remarked with a warm smile. "You all look lovely."

"Thank you", the women said shyly. 

"What were you all talking about, if I may?" Bruce asked.

"Love," you began. "The ladies were curious to know why you married me." 

Bruce's eyes met yours with a deep, enamored gaze.

"Yes, she is undeniably beautiful, and she's currently the most sought-after model," he said, pausing to gather his thoughts. "But my wife, she's not just outwardly stunning. Her compassionate nature, selflessness, and genuine care for others demonstrate that she possesses a heart that is truly pure and kind. She's an extraordinary mother to our children. I feel truly understood and seen for who I am in her presence."

You gazed at Bruce for a long moment, your expression tender. 

"I'm the luckiest man in the world." He leaned to press his lips against yours. 

"Mr. Wayne," someone from afar called him. 

"Excuse me, ladies." He turned to look at them. "Please enjoy the rest of your night."

Once Bruce reached a far distance, they turned to look at you. 

One of the women cleared her throat nervously before speaking with a shaky voice to apologize to you.

"Me too." The second woman said.

"So am I," the other one said. 

"If your apology is sincere, I will accept it as cash, credit, or check." You smiled and kept your tone neutral. 

Ordinarily, you wouldn't have directly addressed the situation. With age and experience, you worked diligently to develop self-love and gratitude for your body, so the pressures of society and critical gazes lost their significance eons ago. But you felt playful tonight, so you decided to leverage fatphobia to benefit the charity. 

—

The elegant gala was winding down, with most guests having departed. Bruce found himself at the bustling bar, conversing with a group of enthusiastic investors who had pledged generous donations to the charity.

Bruce excused himself from the gathering and found a quiet, secluded area. He reached for his phone and found a message from Dick: 

We're all fine. Goons being goons. Take the damn night, old man. Seriously.

Just as he was about to send a message, the murmur of the investors nearby caught his attention. Their conversation revealed their admiring remarks about your enchanting allure, casting a shadow of unease over Bruce's thoughts.

"How long do you give it until they split?" One said. 

"Trust fund kid turned CEO with a model?" one man quipped. "I give it two years at most."

"I can already imagine the tabloid headlines."

They laughed. 

"I call dibs."

Bruce's ears twitched. A flicker of anger crossed his face before he schooled his expression into one of haughty indifference. 

"Hey darling," you uttered sweetly and sat next to him. 

Bruce maintained his silence, offering no words in response.

"Bruce," you asked, your voice tinged with worry. "Are our sons okay? Did something happen to them?"

Bruce's unease dissipated as he gazed into your widened eyes, which had been filled with concern. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of guilt for causing you distress.

"No, the boys are fine."

He carefully observed the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, exhaling a sigh of relief.

"Then what's wrong?" You asked again. 

"I'm..." he hesitated. "I'm jealous." 

"What of?" you asked. 

"You see those men over there at the bar?" 

You nodded. 

"Your presence tonight set their tongues wagging." 

You chuckled. Your laughter was a sweet melody to Bruce's ears. 

"I belong to you, my love." You said. "And I always will."

He gently took your hand and led you away from the crowd and into a private space, away from prying eyes and ears. 

"You're intoxicating," his eyes smoldering with desire and a hint of possessiveness. "I can't bear the thought of you belonging to anyone but me." 

You smiled, your gaze locking with his. You caressed his face, savoring the fiery moment. 

"I'm terrified of losing you," he confessed, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "I constantly feel guilt and fear that I'm holding you back from a life of normalcy, perhaps with another man."

You were fully attentive while Bruce shared his thoughts, never interrupting him. It had taken him a long time to be vulnerable with you. Your unwavering resolve since the beginning gradually chipped away at his defenses. The once stoic, reserved man of few words, shrouded in an aura of melancholy and enigma, let his facade crumble until you saw the man behind the mask. You had become a balm to his wounds. 

"Bruce," the soft hum of his name escaped your lips as you gently reached out to hold his hand. "We are anything but ordinary, and that's what I adore about us. I don't crave a conventional relationship. I want you."

Enveloping him in your embrace, your love acted as a guiding light, casting out the lingering shadows that plagued his soul.

He leaned in to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

"Let's go home," he said. 

_______                           

You and Bruce retreated to the privacy of the opulent Wayne Manor. As you gracefully slipped out of the designer gown, revealing your ample body, Bruce's gaze lingered on you with unabashed desire.

You made your way to him, sat on his lap, and helped remove his tie. 

"you're stunning," Bruce breathed.

His hands explored every dip and curve with a reverence that made you feel worshiped.

He marveled at the feeling of your softness against his firm touch, the contrast between you igniting a fire within him.

"As much as I love this lingerie on you, I think it would look even better on the floor," Bruce whispered in your ear. 

With a flick of his fingers, he undid the clasp of your bra, letting it fall open and reveal your breasts. He ran his hands over them, feeling the softness of your flesh, and then leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. You let out a soft moan as he teased your nipple with his tongue. 

You reached down and started to undo his pants, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. You stroked it gently, feeling it twitch in your hand as he moaned with pleasure.

You kissed Bruce, his lips soft and gentle against yours. He could feel your body responding to his touch as your breath became increasingly ragged. He felt the heat between you two building, and he broke the kiss to look into your eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he reminds you again.

Then he lays you back gently, and you look up at him with desire. You help him unbutton his shirt and take it off, revealing his toned chest, and you can't help but run your hands over it, sending shivers down his spine. 

He moved down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He reached to your belly, leaving trails of kisses.

'I love your body,' he murmured. 

He continued down, teasing you through the fabric of your panties. You gasped, your hips bucking as he finally slipped a finger under the fabric and into your wet heat.

He slowly fingered you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit as you moaned and writhed beneath him. You were so wet, so ready for him. He couldn't wait any longer. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down, throwing them aside.

He climbed back up your body, his hardness pressing against your wetness. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, urging him on. With one swift thrust, he was inside you. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as he began to fuck you with long, hard strokes.

Your bodies moved together in a rhythm, your moans and gasps of pleasure filling the room. Bruce could feel an orgasm building inside him, tightening as he slammed into you again and again.

You pushed him off of you before he climaxed and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and grinding your pelvis against his hard cock. Bruce could feel the heat radiating from your wet pussy, and he ached to be inside you.

'I love how you feel on top of me,' he murmured, his breath hot. "I love your softness, your curves, your warmth."

You reached down and guided Bruce's cock inside your wet slit. He groaned with pleasure as you sank down onto him, taking him all the way in. You began to ride him, your hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. Your hands braced on Bruce's chest. You began to ride him harder, your hips slamming down onto his cock with force. Bruce could feel himself getting close to the edge, feeling himself tighten with pleasure.

With a final, powerful thrust, Bruce came hard inside you, his cock twitching as he filled you. You collapsed onto him, your own orgasm washing over you in waves.

"I love you,' he gasped, his breath hot against your neck. 'You are my everything."

In that intimate embrace, he held you with a fervent tenderness, a sensation he never wanted to fade from memory. His heart overflowed with a desire to immortalize this profound moment: the gentle weight of your presence in his arms, the vulnerability shining in your eyes as you yielded to the depth of his affection, and the unspoken declaration of love reflected on your radiant face.

"I love you," you whispered back, your voice choked with emotion. "I love you so much."

[guaxinimraccoon]

Hi Guax, i would like to ask for some G/t advice. I'm trying to figure out how to make some more G/t art, and I would like to ask how you make your G/t art. How do you make G/t characters who big inside of rooms or how they are big around other characters? Do you use any references or have templates to help make your G/t art? If so then thank you Guax

- ⚡️Anon

Hey bud! That's such a cool ask aaaaaaa lemme see

The tool I most use to figure sizes and proportions is Comparing Heights, which I believe is already well known in the community. You can have multiple figures and multiple sizes at the same time and see how big or small they look compared to each other, its very useful!

I also take pictures of my hands or myself to draw some poses when I can't find specifically what I'm looking for. That's how I made Brad's pose in my tumblr header art for example!

And sketch thumbnails! Sometimes I'll make over 10 versions of a complicated drawing, just exploring the possibilities of a composition until I come to a satisfying solution

But honestly? When making g/t art the thing I less worry about is if the characters sizes are proportionally accurate with how they'd look like next to each other if they were real.

Like, I dont worry about that AT ALL. Yes I have set specific heights for them to have a general rule to keep faith to, but I think what really matters is to draw something cool, satisfying and aesthetically pleasant for yourself.

What I mean is: if the tiny looks way too small and too hard to read or if the giant is too big to create a nice composition, adapt it. Change it. Make them slightly bigger or smaller. "Oh but if I change their size it'll be proportiornally inacurate with the height I set for them", it doesn't matter! This is not as important as you think it is. It's better to make a good shot and composition that values your character and the situation you're portraying than to be """"scientifically accurate"""", it's all fantasy dude!

So my golden rule is: the specific heights aren't sacred laws that can't be broken, they're just guides for the general proportions. Artistic freedom is more important than numbers.

When I realised this my G/t art became more flexible, authentic and expressive!

As a final note, I recommend checking @territorial-utopia's quick tutorial that you can check here on how to approach g/t art. It's short and fast and practical!

[motorsportszine]

MOTORSPORTS ZINE JAM!!

Calling all motorsport enthusiasts! Do you want to express and share your love for Formula 1? Or maybe you'd like to work with other creatives passionate about MotoGP? Or perhaps you want to promote a racing series like Super Formula or IMSA? This is the zine jam for you!

We (a few of us on F1twt) are hosting a digital motorsports zine jam to foster creativity in our community and would like to extend the invitation to motorsport lovers on Tumblr. All types of art for any motorsports series are welcome in this jam!

This zine jam will likely be taking place in either June or August depending on participant responses in the interest check. There are basic rules and an FAQ under the break below to learn more! We hope you join us!

Complete the interest check, whether that be participant, moderator, or just a reader! This form will close in a week!

Rules:

We don't have many rules for this jam as we want to encourage creativity and collaboration! That being said...

Hate speech of any kind (racism, homophobia, transphobia, etc.) will not be tolerated.

This event is SFW, and there are minors involved. Shipping content is allowed as long as it remains SFW.

Do not use Generative AI to create your works. If you are found to use GenAI you will be barred from participating now or in the future.

FAQ:

Q: What is a zine/zine jam?

A: A fanzine is a non-professional and non-official publication produced by enthusiasts of a particular cultural phenomenon. A zine jam is a period of time, (in our case one month), where participants will be tasked with planning, executing, formatting, and posting a zine.

Q: Do I need zine experience to participate?

A: No! We aim to make this experience as accessible as possible and will be posting guides and resources to help with zine creation. You also do not need any experience in art, design, or writing to join this jam. We just want to encourage creating cool motorsports stuff!

Q: Is there a size/length limit to the zine I can make?

A: There are no limits! We have resources and examples that can be shared if you would like some guidance or inspiration.

Q: What if I want to make a physical zine?

A: You are absolutely allowed to make a physical zine if that would be preferable. However, as this is a digital event, we would ask that you create a zine that can be easily transferred online, whether that be taking photos or scanning and uploading your physical zine.

Q: How will communication be done for this jam?

A: Communication will be through a Discord server we are currently setting up. We will also be posting updates for Tumblr users on this sideblog. You can also keep up with general happenings on the organiser Eames' Twitter which can be found here.

Q: Why is July not an option for this zine jam?

A: Eames is really busy and hosts events for other fandoms in July. If this first round of this event goes well, we may consider moving the jam to a more accessible month.

Here is a Twitter thread with more questions that have been asked.

If you have more questions/concerns and have already filled out the form, please direct them to Eames @/porgerussell on Twitter or to their Strawpage here! As Eames is the organiser we would prefer you direct your questions to them as they would have the most complete answers. However, we are also able to respond to asks and questions on this sideblog if you really don't want to go on Twitter.