#I might try to work on it a bit today actually...

[seumyo]

husband!kageyama taking care of your nails for you.

“You know, when you told me you were going to clip my nails, I didn’t think you meant it seriously.”

Kageyama gave a small grunt, not looking up. “I always mean it seriously.”

“That’s what worries me a little.”

He blinked, pausing to glance at you. “Why?”

“Because you have your ‘actual game face’ on. Like you’re about to hit the ball through someone’s soul—my poor finger’s soul.”

His brow furrowed. “This is delicate work,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have to focus. And I’m careful.”

You laughed, watching him lift your hand like it was a precious object. He took a long moment to examine your fingers—turning them slightly, his thumb brushing along your knuckles in slow circles. It’s gentle and careful, and it warms your heart to see your husband so loving like this.

“You have a hangnail here,” he muttered, frowning. “Were you picking at it again?”

“I got nervous during that meeting yesterday.”

He clicked his tongue quietly. “Stop doing that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t know I’d be getting a full checkup afterward!”

“You don’t need to be nervous. You’re… good at what you do.” His voice dropped a little as he said it, like it embarrassed him to offer praise so directly. “I’ve heard you on the phone. You’re smart. And brave.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. Your smile softened. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said all week.”

“I said you looked pretty yesterday.”

“You said I ‘looked rested.’”

“…Oh. Well, you look even prettier today.”

You laughed, and it made his ears turn pink.

He clipped your nails gently, his hands steady, fingers long and precise. He held each of yours securely, guiding you through the process like a practiced routine. It wasn’t rushed; Kageyama took his time, carefully aligning the clipper, checking the angle twice before making a cut. After each nail, he paused to brush the trimmed bits into a little ceramic bowl they kept nearby.

“Do you do this often?” You asked after a long pause. “For yourself, I mean?”

He nodded once. “Every few days. I have to. My fingers are everything. If I don’t keep my nails short and clean, they can catch on the ball or split. It’s stupid how much one little crack can mess with your whole game.”

You gave him a look, eyes wide with something like quiet awe. “You take this so seriously.”

“It’s part of taking care of myself,” he said, and his gaze lifted to yours. “And now it’s part of taking care of you too.”

Your breath caught for just a moment. How did you ever get so lucky to snag this man?

Kageyama picked up the small file next and began to smooth the edges with slow, even strokes. The motion was rhythmic and tender. You watched the way he focused so intently on the task—the slight pinch in his brow, the way his lower lip pressed into a thin line when he was trying to be especially careful.

“You always do this when you’re nervous,” you said softly, brushing your free hand against his hair.

“Do what?”

“Zone in. Like the world disappears except the thing you’re trying to control.”

Kageyama was quiet for a moment, then exhaled. “That’s… true.”

“Are you nervous right now?”

He hesitated. “Not nervous. Just… I want to get it right.”

“Because it’s me?”

He gave the tiniest nod, eyes still trained on your thumbnail. “You’re important. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his for a beat. “You won’t.”

The silence between you grew comfortable. The kind of quiet that speaks in glances and gentle touches. After he filed the last nail, he gently ran his thumb across each fingertip, checking for snags, tiny splinters, anything he might have missed. Then he reached for the cuticle oil and unscrewed the little bottle with a slow, almost reverent motion.

“I’m going to massage this in,” he said, almost shyly—yet still determined.

You nodded, watching him carefully as he dabbed a small dot of oil on each nail, then rubbed it in with soft, circular motions. His touch was warm, so warm, like the atmosphere during mornings in a bakery. The way he held your hand wasn’t just careful—it was reverent. As if your hands were something sacred. Something worth protecting.

“I like your hands,” he said suddenly.

You scrunched your nose, barely. “Really?”

“They’re soft. And warm. And… I know them.” His voice dropped lower, murmuring. “I know the way you hold my wrist when I’m anxious. The way you press your palm to my back when I come home late. How you run your fingers through my hair when I can’t sleep.”

You swallowed. Your chest ached in that lovely, terrible way when someone says exactly what you needed to hear without knowing it.

“I want to take care of them,” he added, brushing his thumb along the side of your pinky. “Because they take care of me.”

“Tobio…”

He looked up then, eyes a little wide like he was afraid he’d gone too far. But you leaned forward before he could pull back and kissed him softly. When you pulled away, your voice was barely a whisper. “You are the gentlest man I’ve ever known.”

He shook his head, a breath of laughter escaping. “I’m not.”

“You are. Maybe not with words. Or… you know, strangers. But with me? You’re gentle in all the ways that matter.”

You sat like that for a long moment—hands still entwined, foreheads nearly touching, the world outside fading into white noise. Then Kageyama cleared his throat. “I could… maybe paint them next time? If you want?”

Your eyes lit up. “You’d paint my nails?”

He gave an awkward little shrug. “If you like it. I’d have to practice.”

You hummed, pulling him forward into another kiss, lingering and full of affection. “You’re already perfect.”

Kageyama flushed from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears once again. He’s so easily flustered—it’s almost illegal to be this cute, you think.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[rimqueen]

ROUTE 69 !

ft. di!leon kennedy x woc!reader

tags. piv, smut, cop!leon, ignorance/racism but not on purpose 😭, leon woc fetishiser, blowjob, public sex, car sex, creampie

notes. im scared 2 post this all I have to say is im a fat brown woman and um my belly fat is going to shield me from any backlash.. this fic was much worse and then I changed it to di leon and made it more of him being ignorant without realising n having a fetish. readers race/ethnicity isn’t specified but since im south asian i did write it w myself in head .. reading this back it’s very south asian actually wow. some bits r taken from my old n deleted fics if they sound familiar 😴 i’ve been writers blocked 4 months so this is clunky n disjointed,, feedback n rbs always appreciated :3 UNEDITED!!!!!!!!

You get pulled over beside a cornfield—Where Leatherface met Sally. 

Okay, sure, you were speeding, like, a little bit, but it’s not like there’s anyone to crash into, there’s no schools around here so no kid is going to wander into the road and splat against your windshield like a bug, and there’s no deers so you really don’t see the problem. This road is long and winding like an unfurled spool of silver ribbon, it’s scary, and the only source of light is the fucking moon, and while there’s probably only a 0.01% chance of something happening to you—This is Midwest America you’re talking about - land of the free, birthplace of literally every serial killer like ever.

They have it all here: killer clowns, rapists, somebody’s coworker, zodiac killers, night stalkers, mommy’s boys and cannibals. 

An entire carousel of freaks.

He’s just a cop, you tell yourself, some overweight, gun-slinging, bible-thumping degenerate that has to pick on generally polite and law-abiding women like me to feel good about himself. 

You press your face against the wheel and try not to think of Jason and Michael Myers and that terribly evil, big-nosed clown with his stupidly small top hat.

Tap, tap, tap. 

You don’t even look when you roll down the window, not until he sighs deeply and gives a pointed, “Ahem.” 

Don’t look at him wrong. Don’t smile at him wrong. Don’t even breathe wrong. Don’t give him a reason.

When you lift your head you're met with his crotch. It’s not exactly a sight for sore eyes, but it’s not exactly unwelcome—You can tell by those hands and those thighs and—well—that dick that you’ve got him all wrong. He’s not fat or ugly. He’s a hot gun-slinging, bible-thumping cop, and somehow that’s even worse. 

“Do you know how fast you were going—“ He adjusts his belt, probably shifts his dick from one side to the other side of his obscenely tight uniform before he bends down to peer into your window. “—ma’am?” 

Oh god. 

He’s like hot hot. 

Somewhere between retired underwear model and vintage pornstar hot. His eyes are the type of blue you'd like to dip your toes into, and his name badge says Kennedy. 

“Fast enough to get your attention?” You smile at him hopefully, sitting up straighter and shifting your body towards the window to show him your perfectly planted cleavage. 

Officer Kennedy seems to take that into consideration, nodding thoughtfully while he looks right down your work blouse and at the scalloped cups of your lucky lace bra. It’s always been there to get you out of a pinch—like that presentation today, if you hadn’t stood directly under that spotlight with that bra and that sheer blouse, you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be getting a promotion and such a glowing recommendation. 

When he’s done checking you out, Officer Kennedy asks for your license and registration, you rifle around in the glove compartment and pretend not to notice a pack of condoms falling to the ground. 

He leans forward, peering through the open window, yoi catch sight of the ID clipped to his shirt. “Think we might have a code M&M on our hands,” Officer Leon Kennedy says. 

“A what?” You dig out your insurance papers and hand them over, fingers trembling when you go to get your license from your card wallet—You haven’t done anything bad, you went over the speed limit, it’s not like you’re lying about your papers, it’s not like you have a body in the trunk—It’s just the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s speaking to you. 

“Y’know, Mexican or Muslim—Aw, don’t look at me like that, it’s just a joke, don’t make me feel bad about a joke.” He clicks his tongue like he’s embarrassed. “I’m not like that,” Leon continues as he squints at your license, “I don’t have a problem with anyone or anything, it’s just how we talk down at the station.”

You just blink at him. What are you even meant to say to that? 

“Tough crowd.” He shrugs and hands everything back to you, for just a moment you think you might be able to get away with a slap on the wrist, but you don’t go to his church, you don’t sound like him, you don’t wave around little flags on the Fourth of July, you’ve never even had a casserole, and you most certainly don’t look like anyone he would call a friend. “Here ya go.” He sticks his hand through the window, waving around a fine.

“I can’t pay that,” you blurt out, and you want to be smart and tell him that you know speeding doesn’t cost that much, he could just give you a point on your license and it would all be fine and dandy, but you’re panicking. 

“Didn’t think so.” Leon gives you a pointed look—Like, like he planned this, like he’s setting you up, and he is, he so is—You’re tired and upset and wary about the gun he’s wielding on that belt. “You know,” he sighs, glances at your strategically unbuttoned shirt, “there’s something else you could do for me.” 

Okay, this is good, it sounds more like the start of a bad porno than a horror movie and you’re alright with that. You can do porn, you can take dicks, but you can’t take chainsaws or hooks or needles or anything of the sort. 

To be coy, you blink at him slowly, tears beading your lashes like morning dew. “I have a boyfriend, Officer.” 

“Ah…” Leon seems to take it seriously, like abusing authority is fine as long as a woman’s single—but the moment she’s taken? He’s got morals. “Arranged marriage, huh?”

You blink at him. Again. And again. And again. 

“No…” You say slowly—Oh, what the hell. “Yeah, forced marriage, it’s a whole thing, if I don’t make it back tonight I'm in for a beating—That’s why I was speeding actually, officer, I just want to get home before it’s too late.”

“Damn shame.” Leon shakes his head, the gravel crunching under his boots as he shifts. “Treating a pretty girl like that…Nice skin, pretty hair, big eyes—That’s just not right.” 

So he’s like that - the type to call you a princess in bed and a terrorist at the airport, the type to fuck you and let you know that his buddies can’t find out about this, he doesn’t change the radio station when a rap song comes on when he drops you two blocks away from your house. 

“Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a good girl, girls like you, they're good in school, study hard, doctors, lawyers, all that stuff—“ He makes a vague hand gesture that is neither here nor there. “—So I don’t wanna give you a ticket or a court date, but, uh, that doesn’t come for free.” 

“I understand, officer.” You bat your lashes at him, biting back a smile. This isn’t so bad, you got a promotion and now you’re getting laid. There’s no axe murderers or rapists in sight, just a cop with his dick in the right place. 

“Good girl.” He nods, pleased, and then he switches off his radio. “So, you do that for that prick at home or me?” Leon’s eyes drift to your cleavage, to your thighs in that short skirt, it keeps riding up the more you squirm in your seat. 

“I like uniforms,” you tell him innocently, “can’t help it.”

Leon laughs, slow and knowing. “I bet you do.” His fingers brush his belt, not to reach for his gun, but to unbutton them. You poke your head a little further out the window, his hand finds the back of your head, guiding you to his dick. His gun-slinging, bible-thumping dick that you fully intend to put in your mouth - you’ve made your bed and now you're kneeling in it. “I don’t have a breathalyser with me, so this’ll do.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as your warm mouth closes in on the tip, he’s big, but not in the way that makes your jaw ache—If he wanted to do that he’d find better luck shoving a gun in your mouth. 

“Fuck, wait.” He lets out a soft grunt and pulls his cock from your mouth, smudges of red lipstick and strings of spit keeping his tip and your lips together.

“What’s wrong?” You ask him, heart thumping out of your chest—Did he change his mind? Did he have, like, an epiphany? Was it bad? Oh god, what if someone saw you? What if there really is a murderer out here and everybody knows they always go for you when you’re fucking—

Leon opens the back door—You were worried about murderers and hillbillies but your doors weren’t even locked. “Get in the back.” 

“Oh.” You let out a breath of relief, climbing over the handbrake and losing a heel on the way over to meet him. He braces an arm against the roof of your car as you kiss the tip off his cock, letting dribbles of pre wet your lips. 

“Fuck,” Leon groans, one hand rests atop your head, “you’re trouble, I should’ve cuffed you.” 

“I would’ve liked it,” you mumble around a mouthful of fat cock, you should be ashamed of soaking through your poor thong, but you’re not. That ticket would feel a hundred times worse than a sore throat. 

“Speak English.” He gives you this cheeky smile when you let out a noise of surprise, but you’re too concerned with taking him deep in your throat to start an argument—So he gets away with it like he has a million times before. If it were any other day you'd give him a piece of your mind. Really, you would. Honest. Once his tip knocks the back of your throat, you start speaking his language, gagging wetly as you swallow around him, one hand trailing down to grasp his heavy balls. You feel him pulse, and he curses under his breath. “That got you going, huh?” He snorts, amused and all sorts of turned on.

When you pull off with a pop, you go straight to licking up the seam of his balls. “You having fun down there, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” It’s muffled as you take one into your mouth and then the other, you like to play with your food, and sucking up (read: off) took you so far in school. 

“C’mon, enough of that,” Leon hums, pushing you off gently like you’re a kitten clawing at the hem of his trousers. You go to whine and then wonder what your parents would think of this and zip your mouth shut. Your grandmother came to America for what? For this? For you to let any old pig put his dick in your guts? Whatever. Whatever. He’s a hot pig. He’s like the cutest guy you’ll find for miles, and you’ve already gone to college, you’ve got a good job, why can’t you indulge? “Scooch over.”

You shuffle back, skirt hiking up your thighs until it’s more of a belt, he wedges himself between your thighs—Your legs dangle out the door, and you're still worried something or someone is going to come out of the cornfield waving around a scythe and cut up both your bodies like a canvas, but you’re wet and he’s on top of you and there’s no going back now.

“Wait—Keep it on,” you gasp softly as he lifts the hem of his uniform shirt.

“Why? You like it?” He asks, blinking at you with those big blue eyes, they’re clear like a summer afternoon. 

Obviously. 

“I dunno…I kinda like it, feels wrong.” You take his hand in yours once he drops the bunched up fabric, bringing it to feel how wet you’ve gotten. 

“What? The badge? The uniform?” He looks smug, like you're some kinky act of rebellion for him—Well, you don’t really have the right to speak on things like that. 

“The gun,” you say softly, flashing him your sweetest smile. 

“You're dirty,” he tells you with a groan, lining up his cock with your soft cunt, dragging the fat head up and down your folds, letting it brush over your throbbing clit just to see you writhe. 

“Hurry,” you whine, digging your nails into his biceps, you want him to split you straight down the middle. “Wait—Are you married?” 

“Does it matter?” Leon asks before he pushes in with one single glide, you're so wet there’s no resistance, just the slight stretch of a pleasantly big dick, tip nudging your cervix. 

“Oh my god.” You drag your nails down his back, legs going rigid as pleasure prickles your spine. “I was just—just wondering.” You bet there’s someone. Blonde, short, small, the kind he can bring home with no judgement. 

“Probably should’ve asked before you sucked my dick.” Leon huffs out a breath as he shifts his hips, angling deeper, making you sniffle as he drops his sweaty forehead to press against yours. He’s so deep you feel him everywhere, you can’t escape him and you don’t want to. 

His cock drags in and out of your slick cunt, one of his hands is by your head and the other settles on your tummy, trailing down until he finds your swollen clit. The pad of his thumb rolls over the soft bud as he fucks into you, pussy clicking wetly with each sharp thrust. 

If you had any dignity left, if you weren’t twenty seconds away from gushing all over him, you'd probably be embarrassed by the noise. The wet squelch each time he bottoms out, the smack of his balls on your ass, the way you’re whining like a fucking, boot-licking idiot. 

“Wait—Wait, I can’t—“ You push at his abdomen, wanting him to ease up as you feel the pressure build deep in your gut, there’s no time to feel guilty when it feels so fucking good, when your cunt tightens and he presses down on your clit and your poor Honda Civic—She’s been subjected to a lot tonight. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, sweetheart.” Leon cups your cheek, his hand is softer and smaller than you expected, gentler than the one that’s pinching your clit and making you sob into your fist. “Go on, good girl.” 

You think you black out when it happens, and you don’t know why. It was good, sure, but it wasn’t, like, deserving of a pornstar reaction, and you just gave that—Boosted his already huge ego, made a fool out of yourself, disappointed whoever in your line of ancestors decided the shift to America was a good idea. 

“You do that for your husband?” His voice is strained, his thrusts are sloppy, his mouth is hanging open as he ruts into your messy cunt. 

“I don’t actually have—It’s the uniform.” You think about the box of condoms on the floor and hook your legs around him, digging one kitten heel and one regular human heel into his ass to keep him from running away. 

Leon’s eyes go wide, he opens his mouth to protest, and then you squeeze his dick so tight it empties his brain and his balls. He even looks good when he cums. Adam’s apple bobbing, lips parted, a perfectly timed rivulet of sweat drips down his temple as he fills you up. 

The quiet after all of it is said and done kind of makes you wish you did hear a chainsaw revving somewhere in the distance. He buckles his belt as you pull your thong back into place, dried cum sticking to your thighs, dripping onto your poor old car. You have driven a million relatives back and forth in this little thing, you take your mom to the doctors and your grandma to the grocers and now she’s ruined. 

His radio is switched back on, you find both your shoes and place them on the passenger seat. You can’t drive in this state, not when your legs are wobbling so bad you wouldn’t be able to step on the brakes. Maybe that’s what you need to do. Drive head first into a wall. 

“I can drive you home,” Leon offers after he watches you stare at the windshield blankly, “Can get somebody to bring your car over in the morning.”

You accept and wonder who he voted for as he drives. His pinned radio stations are all some sort of rock, but there’s no country and that makes you feel a little better. 

He grabs your wrist before you get out, all blue-eyed and earnest. “I hope…I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with your folks, I know how they get, your people, I don’t want, uh, anything to happen to you.” 

You look at your house. All the lights are off. There’s not a single car parked in the drive. There’s nothing because you live with no one but yourself. You thought cops were meant to have deductive skills. 

“And if your husband gives you any trouble, you can call me, for real this time—Not, not for that, but for help,” he finishes clumsily, like he didn’t raw you in the middle of an open road while he was on fucking duty.

“I don’t have…” You look at him, like really hard, remnants of red lipstick on the collar of his blue uniform, his seed staining your panties white. “I’ll tell you if he gives me any trouble,” you say, only because you know he needs a reason to come and see you, he couldn't be casual with somebody like you. He’s going to knock on your door with a warrant just so he can fuck you into your mattress. 

“Okay.” He nods, lips twitching into a smile. “I’ll bring the handcuffs next time.”

I’ll bring a fucking veil next time so I can hang you or myself, maybe an anklet or two if you’re into that officer.

You fix a smile onto your face. “Goodnight, Officer.”

[noahwylie]

I wanna lay out everything about the robbycollins relationship because the timeline is confusing and they fascinate me

Explicit canon info:

Adamson died in September 2020.

The single shift takes place in September 2025.

Dana tells Collins that Robby hasn’t worked this day in four years because it’s the anniversary of Adamson’s death, and that he might be a little prickly that day, but to give him a pass because he’s still blaming himself for it.

Collins is in her 4th year of residency, which means (if they go by how residents usually start their year in July) she started as an intern in July 2022.

Collins says “We [her and Robby] dated, briefly, a million years ago. Never again.”

At some point during this brief dating period, Robby got her pregnant.

Collins “gave up on him.”

She aborted without telling him because she wasn’t ready to be a mom and wasn’t even sure about the relationship.

He never knew until she told him.

Collins has done IVF on her own at least twice since then.

Two of the gossipiest nurses, who were working in the ER at the time of their relationship, don’t appear to know that Robby and Collins had a relationship at all.

Apocryphal info (stuff the creators have said but isn’t explicit canon)

This is Collins’s second career.

Robby’s relationships tend to last around six weeks because he has a hard time opening up to people emotionally.

Adamson’s death was part of the reason Robby and Collins broke up.

So based on this, I’m going to make some inferences. This is all technically my headcanoning, but it is based on the above info.

For Adamson’s death to affect their relationship, they were probably dating in the second half of 2020, maybe early 2021; meaning Collins was likely an MS3 when she and Robby were dating and not his direct employee. Collins’s statement that they “dated briefly” lines up well with Noah’s assessment that Robby’s relationships have an expiration date of about six weeks. (Since he was obviously with Janey for much longer than that, I assume that relationship took place entirely before Adamson’s death; and therefore, that death is likely a major reason his relationships no longer last beyond two months.) I assume also that Collins is not aware of the significance of Adamson’s death to Robby, because Dana has to explicitly warn her about why Robby might be off today.

So if Collins was not aware of the extremely psychologically damaging effect of Adamson’s death until Dana told her five years later, and Robby had no idea Collins was ever pregnant or that she aborted the fetus until she told him five years later… That does not speak well at all of their communication skills with each other on a personal level (though professionally they seem to work well together). It also doesn’t give me a picture of a deep, strong relationship; based on all of this, plus the fact that Perlah and Princess don’t know about them dating, this relationship feels, to me, like barely more than a fling. And as I’ve said before, Collins gives Moved On to me; like, even beyond my interpretation of her demeanor in their interactions, it’s canon that she’s attempting IVF alone. She wants to be a mother now, but NOT with Robby. I think she enjoys the occasional flirtation (see her little smile when Robby admits to trying to impress her) but that’s as far as it goes for her.

I think Robby’s behavior can be interpreted many different ways, but the way I interpret them is that he still wonders What Could Have Been. I don’t think they ever got far enough that either of them actually fell in love; but he feels there was potential there that got lost. And he sort of plays in the space of being her friend and boss and ex-lover all at the same time and he’s awkwardly trying to set her up on dates, and also still flirting a bit, and giving her leeway to work on her own.

I dunno, they are interesting to me because their relationship is sort of undefinable. It’s not really romantic, at least not anymore, but it’s also not really platonic; it’s professional but it also crosses that boundary in big ways. They have this weird combination of like, knowing each other very very deeply in one sense but in another sense not really knowing each other at all. As a sidenote: I wonder what Collins’s confession will do to that dynamic, because Robby seemed pretty torn up about it. Like the confirmation that there was in fact a Could Have Been and Collins didn’t want it… that’s painful.

[monbons]

Stitchy Sunday Musings

Thanks for the tag @thewholelemon. I also don't really have an update, but I did have a bit of a reflection I wanted to share today that I hope will speak to some of you---and selfishly---also keep me motivated on the days that are hard. So, with that, story time...

Exactly a year ago, I started my doll-stitching journey and the very first set of dolls I ever gifted were mermaids. I was inspired by @iamamythologicalcreature's gorgeous mer-May art.

This first set was entirely hand stitched because I did not have a sewing machine, nor did I think making dolls would become something I actively pursued in any real way. It was just something I did for fun---a way to channel my creative energy when the words wouldn't come while also paying tribute to some of my favorite fics and their authors.

Fast-forward to my newest dolls and the growth is almost unbelievable. You can see aspects of my final style in my very first dolls, but everything about this last set has evolved. This particular set represents just over 24 hours of work (a significant chunk of them on that tail that boasts 600+ hand-sewn sequins). I also experimented with new hair textures and colors, and apparently, I embroider eyebrows now. (As if making the eyes symmetrical wasn't hard enough!)

It may sound like I am boasting. I swear I am not. Instead, I wanted to post this because this is just one year of committing to a thing and working really fucking hard at it. It is also the kind of visible "success" that is so hard to get elsewhere.

When I first started contributing to fandom, it was as a writer. If your primary contribution to fandom is writing, it can be really hard to do a side-by-side comparison like this. As a result, we often rely on measures of growth or success that can be compared: kudos, reblogs, and comments obviously, but also word counts, fics published per year, etc. Honestly? None of those are reliable (and dare I say worthy?) measures of how beautiful a piece of work is, let alone a journey of growth and joy. It isn't to say they don't have their place, but "the numbers" aren't everything...and they can often feel disheartening.

Anyway, I've been feeling really down on myself recently for a whole host of reasons, but a huge contributor is that I've been having so much trouble with writing. For weeks, "the numbers" have haunted me. Not just the public numbers (I've wanted to scream into a pillow about kudos and likes more than once this year), but the private ones (I'm "behind" on words from this same point last year).

And then I took this humble doll offering to a book signing this past week and the author cried tears of joy, which made me cry. Several people in the signing line gasped when they held up my little merman and his love. Several others came up and talked to me about my art and wanted to know more. For the first time in months, I felt really proud of something I had made, and I guess this post is about holding on to that feeling. When I made these dolls, I wasn't trying to meet some external metric or creating for audience consumption. I wasn't even sure I would post my dolls anywhere since this isn't SnowBaz. I was simply making for the joy of it, and that night, which cannot be quantified in likes or comments or numbers of any kind, filled me up in a way I desperately needed.

Anyway, if you are still with me after this long ramble, thank you. Like I said, it was mostly for me. I wanted to remember that the beauty of my work actually can't be measured, no matter how much I try to do so. That I may not always be lucky enough to see the impact on others like I did with these dolls, but that doesn't make the effort any less valuable. And most of all, that none of that is the point. I wanted to make these dolls, I enjoyed making these dolls, and I am getting better at it because making dolls makes me happy. I needed to remember that. And if that was the case for me, I figured someone else might need to remember it too.

It feels weird to tag people in this, but hellos and high-fives from the philosophical doll factory anyway. May your creative endeavors bring you joy today and every day.

@alexalexinii, @argumentativeantitheticalg, @aristocratic-otter, @arthurkko, @artsyunderstudy, @bachusekart, @best--dress, @blackberrysummerblog, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @bookish-bogwitch, @confused-bi-queer, @cutestkilla, @drowninginships, @emeryhall, @facewithoutheart, @harrie-leithillustration, @hushed-chorus, @iamamythologicalcreature, @ic3que3n, @ileadacharmedlife, @katatsumuli, @larkral, @letraspal, @mooncello, @noblecorgi, @orange-peony, @prettygoododds, @raenestee, @rbkzz, @roomwithanopenfire, @run-for-chamo-miles, @rimeswithpurple, @shrekgogurt, @skeedelvee, @stitchyqueer, @supercutedinosaurs, @talentpiper11, @the-beard-of-edward-teach, @twinkle-twinkle-up-above, @theimpossibledemon, @thewholelemon, @wellbelesbian, @whatevertheweather, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold, @jyae23, @j-trow-95

[legendarycherryblossomlove]

Can you do a Ultra Magnus/minimums NSFW that mech deserves much appreciation pls?

Stress relief

[Ultra Magnus x Reader +18.]

.

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[Warning: Fluff sex]

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It was like any ordinary day for Ultra Magnus, he had to take care of Rodimus' bullshit for the whole 24 hours shift. No rest, no breaks cause he knows how damn reckless that flaming Prime could be. Good thing he isn't the only one though, Megatron's scowled face during the entire day says so.

But today, you wanted to help your beloved Magnus. You notice how distant he was lately because of the endless reports given by him.

So you thought why not give a little visit? You know, catch up. It feels like forever. You guys haven't actually had such intimacy around the ship..

.

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Knock knock

"Rodimus, if you're here to annoy me. I do not need your constant ya-" Ultra Magnus was cut off when he saw you at his office door.

"Dear? What are you doing here?" He was shocked. Well, not much shocked more like surprised. He didn't expect you to visit him during his work hours. Or so he thought..

"I came here for a visit. Can I not visit my darling?" You said with tease but Magnus wasn't having it.

"I'm busy. Your constant yapping will have to be rescheduled next week."

But you whined at his words. He's always making up plans and never has the time to spend with you!

"Magnus please. Just this once?"

You pleaded with your gigantic conjunx. He was about to decline but since he's very busy, he sighed and lets you stay with him.

"Fine. But don't dilly dally on my work or my desk." He scolded lightly.

.

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.

You could hear how Magnus would grunt and groan everytime Rodimus would assign him with anything.

"Are you oka-"

Boom.

Magnus' servos fisted up into a ball and hit it on his desk, breaking it into pieces.

"My love, calm down." You tried to ease his stress but he didn't listen. His frown deepening as stress overcomes him.

He lets out a sharp vent to calm down for a moment.

"I need to relax..." He unclenched his fists.

With empathy filling in your spark, you volunteer to be his little stress relief.

You placed a servo over your chest plate where your spark is.

"Ruin me, break me. Do whatever you want with me. In exchange of hoping it will help you relax, Magnus." You said with pure determination.

Magnus looked at you with a bit of horror but mostly it's just concern etched on his faceplate.

I mean, he was flattered with the offer. But the way you said it with raw words/affection without any hesitation, caught him off guard.

He was about to say something but was again cut off when you sat on his lap.

"And remember. Don't hold back until you're satisfied." Magnus was shocked due to your confidence.

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Hot vents and moans filled his office as he gently ram his spike into your inviting valve.

Ultra Magnus' voice hitches. He's trying to warn you. He wants to warn you that he might break you just by his spike!

But you brushed it off with a soft caress on his cheekplate.

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.

Between the soft and gentle fragging, Ultra Magnus would slow his pace. Even though his stress levels is on max.

Everything was going soft until...Rodimus started throwing in new reports for Magnus in his audio sensors. He can hear how many he needs to accomplish WITHIN A DAY.

In anger, his pace started to become rough and frantic.

"MAGNUS~! s-slow do-down ahh..."

You pleaded between your moans. His sudden rough pace caught you off guard, making you choke.

"I'm so sorry, dear. Its just that..- ah.." Magnus tried to apologise for his rough pace. But this is a life crisis. His stress is on the line and he isn't risking his mental health again.

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After his overload. He quickly made sure that you were taken care immediately. Kisses, cuddles and words of assurance. He even offered a cloth to clean you up.

You then placed a servo on his cheekplate.

"Better?"

"A bit. But next time let me know if I was being too rough or much earlier..." Magnus said sheepishly

"I will, don't worry handsome."

"Love you."

"I love you too, dear."

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

just a quick message to new blogs and or new people that don't know tumblr etiquette yet!

let me preface this by saying by no means this is supposed to be hateful, I'm just trying to educate those who might not know this

with that being said, typically, writers, artists, people who work hard for tumblr don't like blank blogs. by blank I mean no bio, no posts, no profile pic or customization at all. (at least for me and most of my fellow mutuals)

personally, i don't like it because A: I don't know if this is a real person or a bot and B: it feels shitty knowing I spend hours on something only for somebody to like it and not put enough effort to put a profile pic on there blog

but mostly it's the whole bot thing.

I get a lot of bots following me and liking my stuff, and I've resulted to blocking them because I want to know how many people actually read my stuff.

being a blank blog can result in unintentially being blocked because the user thinks you are a bot.

I was there for a long time as well, I had a completely blank blog for like 2 years before I even figured out I could customize my character so to speak, but now, doing this for almost a year, I realize how important it is to not have a blank blog.

not only does putting a little bit of effort to have a profile pic and a bio saying something simple like 22, not a bot!! can help your fellow tumblr creators very very much!!!

same goes for reblogging!! another thing I just want to add is the importance of reblogging with tags. if you dont know how to do this I actually have a tutorial on how to properly reblog a fic right here :)

at the end of the day, it's your blog and nobody can tell you what to do with it. soooo yeah :) hope that helped somebody idk I was just thinking about it today in class and now idk how to conclude this 😗🫰🏻

[robinvomit]

I come with an idea for John Constantine. What if like the reader comes home after an exhausting day of work to find John did something stupid like almost burn down the house or summoned literal satan into the living room but is just too tired to deal with him.

[ this is actually a fucking mess and i.. the end might be a bit jumbled. i am exhausted. enjoy, or try to. ]

you pause the moment you try to open the front door and it sticks. the wood is warped and you want to blame it on the weather or spontaneous freak of nature thing - something that won't make you drop your head back and question your life choices. the moment you finally step in, you're met with the smell of burnt fabric, smoke and something sulfurous that suddenly makes you feel like you're standing in a rotting cathedral instead of your apartment.

you look around, lips pursing in thought;

the curtains are singed, no longer the soft color they were the day you bought them. your couch is half burnt and you don't even ask how that happened. you stop at the floor - the dark wood now split open in a violent, gaping hole. you nod, slow, like you're debating how to react.

everything makes a lot more sense when your gaze shifts to the other side of the room and lands on lucifer, settled at your counter with a far too amused smile. he goes to speak and you hold a hand up, shaking your head. you aren't sure if you've got the patience left to hear whatever he may say. you don't even have the energy to be surprised when he doesn't comment on the audacity to silence him.

not too far away is john, slumped against the wall. his coat is scorched and dusted with soot, his hair a mess and sticking up like he'd tried fixing everything by pushing his hands through it. you spot the ash that's smudged on his cheek, the way he's avoiding eye contact. "...didn't go how it was meant to," is all he says, like that alone will somehow explain why it looks like you're standing in the middle of a spiritual war zone.

thirteen hours on your feet. under eight hours of sleep prior. no good food, no caffeine and not a single person who'd made your day easier - you were not in the state to deal with any of it. utterly drained and numb from work, you just started walking towards the hall, pausing only long enough to ask, tired and flat; "you takin' him with you?"

"not today." lucifer raises a finger like he's on a game show, the amusement bringing a grin to his features. "he said the wrong thing," he offers, waving the hand he'd lifted. "i decided to drop by. for the ambience."

you nod again. "ah, yes.. the entire devil is in my kitchen for.. funsies.. because my boyfriend.. is an idiot." you sighed, knowing it wasn't the first, nor the last, time you'd walk into such a situation.

you return your attention to heading to the hall, finally lifting your bag off your shoulder. "this is not my problem, john," you call over your shoulder. "but i swear if it's not fixed by the time i get out of the shower, i will let him take your corpse."

john flinches like the words physically hit him. his mouth opens, closes. no argument. no snarky response. no plea. something told him, for once, that was the best route to take. he'd never heard you so done with him before and it left that broken look. like the only person whose forgiveness he'd do anything for just walked out of the room without bothering to spare him a second glance.

♡

two hours.

you gave him two hours to at least get rid of the hole in the floor and figure out what to do with the couch. get lucifer out of your house. you notice it's gone quiet - too quiet. the kind that settles after disaster and lurks, waiting to see if forgiveness or resentment will follow.

taking a deep resigned breath, you step out of the bedroom and make your way to the living room once more. more awake, feeling less grimy and not so much like you might punch the next person that breathed crooked.

the salt is gone. the floor is finally in one piece, no more marks and smoke. your couch can't be fixed but there's now a throw and two pillows trying to hide the ruined fabric and metal skeleton. the curtains have been replaced with a bedsheet pinned up unevenly. and lucifer? long gone. no note. no trace. no lingering anxiety. only the faint scent of brimstone and that awful aftertaste that came from only certain beings.

john's not on the couch, but back on the floor. back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up with your mug in both hands. it's empty now but held like it's the only warm thing left in the room; like it's the only thing he hasn't touched and destroyed.

you note that his knuckles are scraped up and decorated with a smear of red. his eyes are red rimmed; not from crying but from wearing the weight of his own mistakes and repeating every wrong thing he'd done since he opened his eyes earlier that morning.

he looks up when you step into the doorway. doesn't speak. doesn't try to explain. just watches you like a kicked dog, too proud to beg but too tired to pretend he doesn't want you to stay. he can see you evaluating everything and he's waiting to be cussed out, lectured or for you to start with; "maybe this won't work."

you don't say anything at first, thinking over what to say that won't make his shoulders drop any further.

"you didn't have clean everything, just wanted to not, i don't know.. have a hole in the floor."

his voice cracks on the first syllable. "didn't want you to come back out and have to see it."

"i already saw it."

"yeah." he sighs, head dropping back against the wall. "just... didn't want you to be reminded of who you live with."

you cross the room without a word and sit beside him. not to comfort, not fix him, but just to exist shoulder to shoulder. it's quiet for a few minutes, everything settling in. his hand moves and his knuckles brush against yours and you don't pull away.

the words that follow are ones you could have predicted. they're low, a little bitter. "y'don't have to stay." he says it like he's trying to protect you from all the awful things you'll walk into in the future. like he believes it was just annoying enough to make you regret it.

you shrug before tilting your head to rest on his shoulder. "kind of do," you mumble, hand sliding to press your palm to his, lacing your fingers together. "i pay half of the rent, babe."

the breath he lets out tells you he doesn't know if he should laugh or sigh. his eyes flick to you in a quick glance because the response lands hard. you're not gone. you're not angry. you're not afraid of the mess or what fresh hell might crawl through the floor next week. you're here... and you're joking.

for a second, he stops. something low, brief, almost disbelieving behind his eyes.

"christ," he mutters, rubbing at his face. "you're a bloody nightmare."

you smile to yourself and squeeze his hand, eyes closing as you answer; "takes one to know one, yeah?"

the silence after that isn't cold. it's tired. worn in and painfully familiar. it's a safety he isn't sure how to sit in. he squeezes your hand back in a wordless thank you, gratitude he won't say out loud. not to tonight.

he won't verbalize it. not tonight - but when he finally peels himself up from the floor to nudge you to bed and turns off the lights, he reminds himself to be more cautious about having you walk into a warzone. he crawls into bed beside you after a moment, sinking against you as he whispers, just loud enough to reach you in your dozing state;

"thanks for staying. rent or not."

because deep down, he knows. you didn't stay for the lease. you stayed for him. scars, smoke, lucifer and all. it makes no sense, but he can let that go for the next several hours.

[dr-jingles]

I gotta know (if you want to answer, that is): How was Huche immediately after the break up?

Not very well! Emotions play a heavy role in the stability of Obectum cores, and with the break up being as sudden and abrupt as it was (Cen and Huche had been together for 12 years up till that point) it was a, uh, lot for him. Funny enough I've actually been working on a little comic for it here and there for fun so here's a little preview WIP!

[normaltothemax]

Ok so maybe a coffee, 2 large teas, and 4 redbulls yesterday was a bad idea….

[pastelpousay]

HI EVERYONE IK NO ONE ASKED BUT YEA!!

OKAY SO IM GOING TO BE TAKING A BIT OF BREAK FROM MY ART SO I CAN WRITE MY FIC (should probably start referring to it by it’s title 💀) but uhhh yea I’ve been microfocusing on my art for a moment 😭 I’ll probably make more Hadina art but at a much slower pace cuz I’ll be in school and ‘won’t say I’m in love’ chapter 2 will be in the works and I’m still mapping out the plot and things as it goes along.

SO YEA ILL TRY AND MAKE MORE ART BUT IM TRYING TO NOT OVERWHELM MYSELF BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS SO YEA!! :D

[ambersky0319]

Okay I genuinely need to get shit done tomorrow and Friday

Like. I have so much I've been putting off (burnout but we gonna ignore that)

I'm gonna block my hours lol (is it weird i like planning out what im gonna do instead of actually following it?)

And MAYBE take the bus home tomorrow. Maybe. it IS gonna be super fuckin hot tho (considering bus cause uber be damn expensive and i also have a book i need to read for fiction class)

[doubleedgemode]

super shitty mspaint doodle to check if I still got it in regards to drawing with just a mouse. The answer is no, and my hand hurts.

She started to run out of hair dye.

[thebardisabird]

Sorry to bother you about this. I left some asks for daddy matsus stuff months ago. I also asked some normal stuff and n s f w asks too. I still haven’t seen you answer for them.

I know you are busy. I don’t want you to feel annoyed for getting asks like this. I’m only asking cause you are my favorite matsu blog that does daddy matsu stuff.

Like I said, sorry for bothering you about this. I don’t want to force you to answer my asks.

Let me see what I can get to today, darling.

If I could show you my inbox, love, it is...overwhelming to say the least haha. And if I could tell you how my last 5 months have been - you would honestly cry. So I really do apologize for not being able to get to requests that you may have asked me a long while ago. Aside from being regularly busy with real life things (work, my relationship, moving to a new home, applying for grad school, etc.) there's a lot I don't share that I deal with on a daily basis that makes it less than easy for me to do the things I love (like writing for this blog and fandom), but I am trying where I can! Plus this is not the only blog I run now either ahh 🙃

That's all to say, I am doing my best and I will try to get to your requests as soon as I'm able. I'm sorry it's taking so long, but thank you for the kind words you did give and for sticking around so long - it's still surreal when people say I'm their favorite anything, that title feels very undeserved since I'm not as consistent as I used to be. And you're not annoying me nor are you forcing me to do anything, please don't feel that way, because I definitely do not think you are. 🙂

[the-kipsabian]

aight im looking at my wip list rn (like actual work i have started so far)

[hotroadkill]

today 2 years ago i was in america and i had the worst hangover of my life and i was in a waffle house with my friend in awkward silence bc we’d fought in a stranger’s kitchen the night before and the server refilled my water for the 5th time while i fought to swallow half a forkful of hashbrowns and she said “i know that look, y’all had a good time at the superbowl last night” and i was thinking actually we had a mediocre time at a nerd bar where u throw darts and all the drinks r named weird things and anyway my friend gives the fakest laugh ive ever heard followed by “yep we sure did” like are we in a CW show right now what was that line delivery and also what even is the superbowl i was born here and should know but honestly i’ve always just pictured everyone gathering at a comically large bowl of cereal but her nametag says leslie and she’s really nice and she’s refilling my water for the 6th time so yeah sure whatever i’m a red blooded american i’ll be anything for leslie in this moment and she tells us stories about working at bars downtown and my friend tells me bad jokes and i feel a little better even though my heart is kind of withering away because my flight is in 17 hours and theres not enough time never enough time i won’t see him for another year and a half and i won’t ever see leslie again and if i ever run into the italian stranger who fell in love with me over darts then it won’t be the same because we won’t be dancing and i’m sitting in a waffle house while the sun sets and i’m sweating gin and tequila and my flight is in 16 hours and i have so many goodbyes to say in this

city because when i was fifteen somebody threw my glass heart onto the floor of my childhood house and bits of it shattered everywhere and fell into the cracks of the floorboards and behind the fridge and i’ll never ever get them out much less back together but i feel like ive been trying for eight years all the same and my flight is in 15 hours but maybe if my friend brings me home now i can spend three of those looking for more shards even though i’ll cut my hand because time never wore down any of the hurt because time might heal wounds but it cant really do jack shit about a metaphysical glass shard its still gonna make me bleed and my friend brings me home and we curl up beside each other in my childhood bedroom thats too small for us it was really a supply room but it became my bedroom when i was eleven and i painted it blue and put up stickers of fish and never took them down but someone someday will take them down and hopefully the house burns to the ground before anyone can touch them theyre mine i grew up here theyre mine dont touch them dont please dont please please please i grew up here and my flight is in 12 hours now because i fell asleep beside my friend and he let me because he knew i needed it he kept watch even though we dont have time we never do because he has to go now and all i can give him is a hug and my hoodie to keep safe until i can see him again and fight him in a stranger’s kitchen again and the sun is gone now and i go and i sit with my dad and my flight is in 10 hours and im trying

not to cry im trying to stare at the stickers because maybe if i look at all of it hard enough i’ll get to stay but i dont because thats not how it works and now my flight is in 4 hours because i fell asleep in my childhood loft bed and now i have to leave i have to pack up and go for the fifth time and it never never gets easier and i know i only have a few more trips left until someone takes my stickers down and paints over my ocean but for now my best friend’s stepmother comes with me and my dad to the airport because my best friend is in college two states away and my flight is in 3 hours and i cry i cry so much and she cries too because she loves me and i think it is such a beautiful blessed thing that i am so loved but oh it is so painful too because i spend more time in its absence than its presence and my flight is in 2 hours and i have to go and my dad is waving goodbye and i see it because i looked back because im stupid i always look back i never look forward i’m forever walking blind through my life because i’m looking back and i can tell my dad is crying and now i have to go through TSA sobbing and it’s awkward because they ask are you okay kid and im not but i cant tell them sorry its just that when i was fifteen somebody threw my glass heart onto the floor of my childhood house and bits of it shattered everywhere and fell into the cracks of the floorboards and behind the fridge and i’ll never ever get them out i cant tell them that so i nod yes im okay and i go and my flight is in 1 hour and i hope it fucking crashes and my flight is in the air and im so far away from all those shards on the kitchen floor now but they’re hurting me all the same and i think i look kind of insane sobbing in the middle seat but how can i miss so many people and so many rooms at once and not lose my mind a little bit? i was going to tell you a short witty little joke about the time i realized i was 21 and didnt know what the superbowl was but i think i slipped on a shard. i’m sorry. maybe next time i’ll get it right. maybe in another two years. maybe you’ll never see me again. maybe this is all the time we had.