#I think it’s the texture of it and the pieces being hard and sharp?

[niyana-the-ambiguous-mobian]

I love how this scene changes with each new film. Every new family member has a moment on the couch, complete with watching a movie and the eerily similar bowls of popcorn XD

[zrvllya]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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do u really want to hurt me?, nessa barrett

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james potter x reader ! one shot ⏾

in my heart, the fire’s burning

ᵎ!ᵎ enemies to lovers, sexual tension, mild violence/aggression, wand threats, physical confrontation, explicit language/swearing, mild blood mention, possessive behavior, forbidden relationship, competitive rivalry

word count [ 3,100 ]

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the tip of your wand presses into the hollow of james potter's throat, hard enough to make him swallow. his adam's apple bobs against the wood, and you watch the way his pulse jumps—not with fear, no, never with fear. james potter doesn't do fear. he does arrogance, he does recklessness, he does that infuriating fucking grin that's spreading across his face right now like he's not seconds away from being hexed into next week.

"say that again," you hiss, your voice low, venomous. "i dare you."

james' grin widens, something dangerous flickering behind his glasses. "ravenclaw's seeker's got the reaction time of a concussed kneazle," he repeats, slow, deliberate, like he's savoring every syllable. his breath ghosts across your skin, warm despite the distance you're trying to maintain. "what, you gonna deny it? saw her miss that snitch by a mile last match. even hufflepuff was laughing."

you press your wand harder until a small red mark blooms on his skin. "you're such a prick."

"yeah," he agrees, shameless, voice dropping to something that sends unwelcome shivers down your spine. "but you love it."

you don't. you don't. you hate the way his stupid, messy hair catches the sunlight, hate the way his glasses are always slightly crooked, hate the way his fucking eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. hate that he's still smiling now, even with your magic crackling at his throat. hate that you can feel the heat radiating off him, that your fingers remember the exact texture of his jersey from that one time you shoved him in the corridor and your hand lingered for a heartbeat too long.

"wink at me again," you say, voice trembling with fury, "and i'll hex your eyes out."

james doesn't blink. doesn't even hesitate. "then what are you gonna look up at when you're down on your knees, darling?"

the words hit you like a bludger to the chest. but you can't look away from james, from the way his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. your stomach twists, something molten and forbidden pooling low.

"i hate you," you spit, but the words come out breathless, betraying you.

"liar," he says, soft, the single word wrapping around your throat like a vice.

your breath catches. something in the air shifts, crackles, like the moment before lightning strikes.

and then—

sirius' hand clamps around your wrist like a vice, yanking you back so hard you stumble. the sudden movement breaks the spell—literally, your wand jerks away from james' throat, leaving behind a faint red mark. james doesn't even flinch. just watches you with those eyes that see too much, that always have.

"what the fuck do you think you're doing?!" sirius snaps, his grip tightening. his eyes are wild, flicking between you and james like he's trying to piece together a scene that makes sense. it doesn't. none of this does. none of this ever has, not since that first day on the train when james looked at you like he'd been waiting his whole life to find you.

you wrench your arm free, glaring. "hexing your new brother," you sneer, the words tasting like acid. "since you've so carelessly replaced me and regulus."

the words land like a curse. sirius' face goes rigid, his jaw tightening. for a second, you think he might actually hex you. but then james laughs—light, easy, like he's not standing in the middle of a fucking landmine.

"mate," he says, clapping sirius on the shoulder, "relax. we were just having a chat."

"a chat?" sirius repeats, voice sharp with disbelief. "her wand at your throat isn't a chat, james.”

"it is when it's her," james says, and something in the way he says it—like it's a secret, like it's a confession—makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"he's right," you mutter, crossing your arms to hide the way your hands have started to shake. "we were just talking."

james grins. "see? she gets me."

"oh, for fuck's sake—" sirius drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "you two are impossible."

"takes one to know one," you shoot back.

sirius glares at you, then at james, then back at you. "i don't know what's going on here," he says slowly, "but i swear to merlin, if this is some fucked-up, tension-filled—"

"it's not," you cut in, too fast, too defensive.

james raises an eyebrow, something knowing and wicked in his expression. "if it was?"

sirius looks like he wants to strangle both of you. "right," he says flatly. "well, if you're done trying to murder my best friend—"

"attempted murder," james corrects, and you hate the way his voice curls around the words, like they're some inside joke only the two of you share.

"—then maybe we can all walk away before someone ends up in the hospital wing."

you scoff but lower your wand. james, the bastard, winks at you again. slowly. deliberately. like a promise.

sirius groans. "i hate you both."

you don't look at james as you walk away. you don't. but you can feel his smirk, like sunlight on your skin—warm, relentless, impossible to ignore. feel his gaze burning into your back, leaving invisible fingerprints you'll never be able to wash away.

the quidditch pitch, two days later.

the roar of the crowd is deafening, a tidal wave of sound crashing over the pitch as you tighten your grip on your broom. the wind whips through your hair, sharp and biting, but you barely feel it—your blood is too hot, your focus razor-edged. across the field, james potter grins, spinning his bat in one hand like he's already won.

you hate that grin. hate that it sends liquid heat sliding down your spine, hate that you can't look away.

"black!" your captain barks. "eyes on the quaffle, not potter!"

you tear your gaze away, jaw clenched so tight it aches. it doesn't matter that james' laughter carries on the wind, bright and taunting. it doesn't matter that every time your brooms pass within inches of each other, your pulse stutters, your breath catches, your body remembers something it shouldn't. none of it matters.

because quidditch isn't about him.

madam hooch's whistle shrieks, and the game explodes into motion.

james is good.

you always knew that, of course—everyone at hogwarts knows james potter is the best chaser gryffindor's had in years. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. he moves like he was born in the air, all reckless speed and impossible precision. when he dives, the crowd gasps. when he scores, they scream.

and when he looks at you—just once, just for a heartbeat—as he soars past, you forget how to breathe.

you don't watch. you don't care.

you steal the quaffle from a distracted gryffindor chaser and tuck it under your arm, spiraling into a sharp turn. the goalposts loom ahead, and you can already see the keeper bracing, but you don't hesitate. you feint left, then twist right at the last second, hurling the quaffle with all your strength—

a blur of red and gold slams into you.

the impact knocks the breath from your lungs, your broom lurching violently sideways. you barely manage to stay on, gripping the handle until your fingers ache. when you look up, james is right there, so close you can see the flecks of gold in his stupid, infuriating eyes. so close you can count his eyelashes, can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip, can feel the heat of him even through your quidditch robes.

"nice try," he says, breathless, grinning. "almost had me."

for a split second, you're not sure if he's talking about the quaffle or something else entirely.

you snarl, shoving past him. "fuck you, potter."

he laughs, loud and bright, and then he's gone, streaking back toward the action. but the ghost of his touch lingers, burning through layers of fabric like a brand.

the game is brutal.

gryffindor's up by thirty when you finally get your revenge. james has the quaffle, weaving through defenders like they're standing still, but you're faster. you cut him off mid-dive, shoulder-checking him hard enough to send him veering off course. the quaffle slips from his grip—

you catch it.

the crowd erupts. you don't hear them. all you hear is the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart as you race toward the hoops. james is already recovering, already chasing you, but you're not letting him win. not this time. not ever.

the keeper lunges. you fake high, throw low.

score.

the ravenclaw stands go wild, but you don't celebrate. you just turn, meeting james' gaze across the pitch. he's not smiling anymore. his eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on you like you're the only thing that matters.

good.

the game doesn't end.

not for you. not when the quaffle is a burning weight in your hands, not when the wind screams past your ears like it's begging you to go, go, go. james is on your tail, always, always there, but you don't look back. you don't have to. you know the exact shape of his frustration in the way he swears when you fake left and barrel right, when you twist midair and hurl the quaffle through the center hoop before the keeper even blinks.

score.

200 to 80.

the stands are a blur of blue and bronze, roaring your name, but you don't stop. can't stop. not when james is breathing down your neck, not when his voice cuts through the chaos—"you're not getting past me again, black."

you laugh, sharp and breathless, adrenaline making you reckless. "watch me."

the next goal is harder. gryffindor's keeper is pissed now, eyes locked onto you like you've personally insulted his entire bloodline. doesn't matter. you feint high, drop low, and when james lunges to block you, you spin, robes snapping against the wind, and pass to your teammate at the last second. they score before gryffindor even realizes what's happening.

score.

230 to 100.

james' jaw is clenched when you fly past him, his usual smirk wiped clean off his face. it's the most satisfying thing you've ever seen. almost as satisfying as the way his eyes follow you, dark and intense, like he can't look away even if he wanted to.

you lose track of time. of everything, really, except the quaffle, the hoops, the way james' shoulders tense every time you dart out of reach. you score again. and again.

280 to 120.

the crowd is losing their minds. even the gryffindors are staring at you like you've grown a second head. you don't care. you're untouchable.

then—

a flash of gold in the corner of your vision.

the gryffindor seeker plunges, hand outstretched, and the world seems to slow. you see the snitch flutter, trapped between their fingers. hear the deafening shriek of the whistle.

150 points.

the scoreboard flickers.

280 to 270.

silence. then—

"ravenclaw wins."

and the second the whistle shrieks, james potter snaps.

his gloves hit the grass before the crowd's cheers even reach their peak. his chest heaves, not from exhaustion—no, james could fly for hours without breaking a sweat—but from something darker. something raw. his fingers curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white, trembling with the force of holding himself back.

and his eyes—merlin, his eyes.

they're locked onto you like you're the only thing left in the world— this time, in the most negative way possible. like he wants to ruin you. like he wants to take you apart piece by piece and put you back together with his hands, his mouth, his teeth.

you don't flinch. you tilt your chin up, meeting his glare with a smirk still sticky with sweat and victory. but inside, your heart is pounding so hard you think it might crack your ribs.

sirius is suddenly between you both, hands up like he's trying to ward off an explosion. "james—"

but james doesn't even look at him. doesn't even blink. his voice is low, rough, a blade dragged over gravel. "you."

one word. that's all it is. but it feels like a curse. like a confession. like a prayer.

you raise an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "me."

for anyone else, this would be the moment james loses it. for anyone else, he'd already have them pinned to the ground, wand at their throat, voice sharp with hexes. but you? you're different. you've always been different. and that's the worst part.

he could lunge at you. could scream, could shove, could make you regret every fucking point you scored today.

but he doesn't.

because james potter is a storm held back by a single, fraying thread—and that thread is you.

his jaw works, his breath coming in sharp bursts. then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off the pitch, shoulders rigid with fury.

the crowd parts for him like he's something dangerous.

maybe he is.

sirius lets out a slow whistle, glancing at you. "you're gonna be the death of him."

you watch james disappear into the locker rooms, your heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the game. your skin feels too tight, your breath too shallow, your blood singing with something you refuse to name.

"good," you mutter.

and the second the words leave your lips—"good"—something in the air shatters— james stops dead.

his back is still to you, shoulders heaving, fingers twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from turning around and ruining you. the crowd's cheers fade into white noise. the wind dies. even sirius goes unnaturally still beside you, like he's holding his breath.

then—

james turns.

slow. deliberate.

his glasses are slightly crooked from the game, his hair wilder than usual, sweat glistening at his temples. his lips are parted, his breath uneven. but his eyes—fuck, his eyes. dark with something that makes your stomach twist, your thighs press together, your breath catch in your throat.

he takes a step toward you.

then another.

and another.

until he's so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, can smell the leather of his gloves, the sharp tang of broom polish, the sweat and adrenaline clinging to his skin. his gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up, and you feel the look like a physical touch.

"you think this is funny?" his voice is low. rough. barely recognizable.

you swallow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "a little."

his jaw clenches. "you think i'm joking?"

"i think," you say, your voice betraying you with a slight tremor, "you're pissed because i beat you at your own game."

a muscle feathers in his cheek. "you didn't beat me."

"ravenclaw won."

"that's not what i meant."

the words hang between you, charged, dangerous. his chest brushes yours with every ragged breath he takes, but he doesn't touch you. not yet. the anticipation is a living thing, crawling beneath your skin, making every nerve ending tingle.

you can feel it, though—the tension, the want, the way his fingers twitch like he's imagining wrapping them around your throat. or your waist. or your hair. pulling until you gasp, until you arch, until you admit what you've been denying since the first time you saw him.

"what did you mean, then?" you whisper, the words barely audible over the thunder of your pulse.

his eyes burn into yours. "you know."

"i don't."

"liar."

the accusation hits like a slap. because he's right. he's always been right. from the first day on the train, when he looked at you like he'd found something precious, something his, and you looked back like you wanted to set him on fire. you've been lying to yourself, to him, to everyone.

you open your mouth to argue, but then—

his hand snaps up, fingers tangling in the front of your quidditch robes, yanking you forward until your lips are a breath from his. his other hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth, rough, possessive, claiming.

"this," he growls. "this is what i meant."

and then—

he kisses you.

not sweet. not gentle.

hard.

hungry.

like he's been starving for it.

like he's done pretending he doesn't want you.

your fingers curl into his jersey, clinging, as his teeth graze your bottom lip, as his tongue slides against yours, as he ruins you in front of everyone. as he claims you, marks you, takes what's been his since the beginning.

when he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his lips swollen, his eyes wild.

"still think it's funny?" he murmurs, his voice wrecked in a way that makes heat pool in your belly.

you're too busy trying to remember how to breathe to answer. your heart is pounding, your lips tingling, your body humming with a need so intense it's almost painful.

your fingers tighten in his jersey, yanking him back before he can pull away completely. his breath hitches—just once—before you crash your lips into his again, harder this time.

you bite his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan, and he loses it. his hands drop to your waist, hauling you flush against him, his grip bruising. you can feel the furious pound of his heartbeat where your chest presses against his, can taste the sweat and adrenaline and anger still coiled on his tongue. can feel every hard plane of his body against yours, every place where you fit together perfectly despite years of pretending you don't.

when you finally break apart, gasping, your lips brush his as you murmur—

"this was never about quidditch, was it?"

his grip tightens, fingers digging into your hips like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. "no."

"then what was it about?"

his thumb drags over your bottom lip, smearing the blood from where your teeth caught it. his voice is wrecked, raw with a vulnerability you've never heard from him before. "you know."

you do.

you always have.

[dworkism]

hiii junoooo my husbands wife!! (and mine) i’ve been thinking about hanta growing out a little mustache stubble moment and he’s sooo proud of it (bc ofc he would be) and reader kinda teasing him about it but secretly really like it. if you could do something with that it’d be amazing i know you can get me right ok love u bye

BLOOM YES YOU ARE A GENIUS this idea is #PEAK

it ain't much, but it's honest work.

there's always a first time for everything. for hanta, it was growing a stubble.

pairings : hanta s. x gn!reader

cw / notes : fluff! established relationship

511 word count!

It’s been almost a week since Hanta started doing this… thing. 

First thing in the morning, he’d kiss your cheeks hard. Then spends at least three extra minutes in the bathroom, before coming out all grinning and whistling that telenovela soundtrack he loves. 

At first, you thought his mother probably sent him new clothes from his hometown. He always gets giddy for that, but nope, he hasn’t even worn anything new these past three days. Deciding to drop it, you settled it was probably him being happy from climbing the hero charts. 

That is until you were talking to him one evening, and that was when you spotted it. 

His hand—restless and looked like it wouldn’t stay still, always rubbing somewhere between his chin and under his nose. 

Oooohhhh, so that’s why. 

You snickered, the slight coarse textures of his stubble now obvious to your eyes. It wasn’t much, but hey, at least it was honest work. 

“Whaatt?” He grinned, as if he didn’t notice the way your eyes were on his chin.

“Nothing,” You brushed it off, waving your hand with a grin you couldn’t hold back. “Continue, continue.”

He cornered his lips, narrowing his eyes with a skeptical gaze, before he continued. “Well, I was saying, my gear broke mid swing! Like—literally!” His hand found its way back to his jaw, rubbing it again as he chattered away.

You blinked, stifling back a smile every time he smiled a bit wider when he touched his slight stubble, like a boy beyond proud of his newly crafted toy robot. 

With his third time of lifting his hand up from his lap to his jaw, your laughter barked out. He stared at you dumbfounded, “Whaaattt?” He whined, flopping his hands down to the couch. “You keep laughing at me!”

“You keep–” Giggling, you copied his motions. “Doing this! Every five seconds!” 

“No I don’t!!” He argued, cheeks a faint tint of peach. “It’s not that often,”

“Yes you do,” You scoffed, chuckling at his weak protest. “You look like you have a secret evil plan.” 

Hanta’s groan was muffled by a pillow, lifting up to his face as he sunk down the cushions. “So whaaat, I like it, okay?” He drawled, pulling down the pillow just enough for you to see his eyes only. “I’ve been trying to grow it, now it’s here, let me have my moment,”

You smiled, shuffling closer to his spot. Gently, you pried away the pillow, letting him show his reluctant pout to you. “I’m not teasing you because of it, silly.” Your hand found its way to his jaw, cradling his face to look at you properly. “I’m teasing you ‘cause you look like a kid who just got a piece of candy.” 

“I like it, swear.” You murmured, brushing your thumb over his slight stubble, coarse and a tad bit sharp. “You look nice with it,”

He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before letting his smile bloom to a grin, popping back up onto the couch to sit up straight again. 

“Okay, well as I was saying–”

dworkism | do not repost!

imagine him being SOOO brutal about it too like he'd kiss you HARD on purpose just cause you'd complain about it

taglist : @bloomness @deepinthegroves @insomniatears @coldnightshark @lilac-heartz @love-me-satoru @antriimx @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @xolunlun @idexmids @idkidk32

be a part of the tag list!

➤ masterlist!

[tux1i]

Oof rip quality, jusaa click the pic to make it good noice quality which idk why my quality goes wack

If he was in game, yeah his sprite would be either have this more space to show in the dialog story, A lovable guy that only cherish on person (that is you) and mostly uses Shadow Milk Cookie as his punching bag (if any case If Shadow Milk Cookie tries to raid the kingdom)

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• His limbs are all stretchy not that hard tough crispy cookie kind of texture. He has that those dough cookie (that are edible) and how it makes him that stretchy. His easily to melt and well freeze, but though freezing him is what makes him an actually tough cookie but yknow not crispy. Just hard cookie texture. If a sharp object inject or stab, it felt nothing to him or makes this hole in his dough to avoid it. Pretty much OP if his dealing with a beast cookie. His flexible and stretchy ofc. But it doesn't mean his that OP, of course he can crumbled someways.

• If his actually facing his counter part (Shadow Milk Cookie) he will absolutely destroy him legit. He really does not like Shadow Milk Cookie. For a reason (which is unknown for now). And if any case scenario if Shadow milk Cookie attempts to raid Caprice's kingdom (mostly your kingdom that Caprice is currently living in) Then of course, easy one on one battle for Caprice and Shadow Milk Cookie.

● His weapon is a hammer, yknow like Amy rose. But the handle part of the hammer is this flimsy like not stiff how it can bend. And it's Hella huge compare to Shadow Milk Cookie's tiny staff of his.

• His boing boing bouncy, can jump real high lol

□ Tbh The black dots on his hair sorta fits him, lady bug like with those two piece of hair he has as the antennas lol. Even there was this concept that his beast form is either a Ladybug or a..firebug? And it was supposed to be. .like this protection kind of symbol how his basically protecting the kingdom (which is yours) but he I remember his not a beast, his a special type of cookie so sadly scrap that idea.

□ Another scrap is that he can clone himself, how his so stretchy and able to heal himself. He can just grab a chunk of himself of his dough and using his own magic to clone himself a mini version of him. Or even a clone of him of the same size as him. But I scrap that idea how I'm not sure about that idea.

☆His class was either a assassin or magic (idk lol I sorta forget that I didn't play cookie run kingdom for weeks almost a month since I sorta lose interest playing it.)

♡ by his stretchy dough limb, he would absolutely help you whenever your in cramp schedule. Just stretch here or there to grab and give it to you.

♡ His pupils can change shape and show his energy, like If his pupil were have to his low batter typa display in his heart eye that would mean his low in energy and pretty much being lazy or tired. His only energy is by love and just fuels that energy from you. And he gets hyper from being overwhelmed by love from you. And he doesn't really require to eat (I think?) But if you do make meals or bake, I guess he will try to eat it, but it doesn't make him feel different like feeling full or feeling hungry. His built different for real

• Doesn't like Shadow Milk Cookie. Would throw him in the river

• The swirls are his blushing or embarrassed display, Rather then hue spread in a cookie's face. Just swirls appear and glows if his blushing, embarrassing or flattered.

• The amount of love letter he has for you. Just..tons... he just likes to write, or writing fanfics of you and him xdd also his allergic to flowers. So no flowers, if you don't like flowers then it's good for him since his allergic to any kind of flowers.

♤ Why does he has a love letter on his eye? From what I mention that the witch who created this cookies to life has a little young sister. And when making the creation of Caprice, she accidently knock out a love letter that is a decoration icing for cakes. And yeah.

♤ I forgot also why his head has a cracked part but must've been permanent from his backstory, reference how gems (Steven Universe) having to have a bad experience that cause that part of their body permanently. And it displays there forever.

□ Speaking of Love Letter in his eye, there is a concept of him losing his right eye. For...bad reasons. Or part of the story that I decided to not add it. That I go with the idea that is above this text.

♧ Fact that he can curl himself into a ball or well shape into an armadillo by using his hair. 👍

I sorta like this one, just the curious sprite but up side own

[slattlicker]

can u write maybe some comfort fluff for reader going trough a depressive episode (totally not projecting wdym)

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * a low spoons sort of day ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: a rough morning, a quiet lunch, and a long-distance boyfriend who shows up on your doorstep—and stays. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: this one’s for you, babe. for the days when it’s hard to cry, hard to eat, hard to answer a text—you’re not broken, you’re just tired. and you deserve love anyway. and remember: you are kind, you are smart, you are loved. don’t let anyone dim your light—not even yourself. ♡ i know the original request was for something fluffy, and i hope the comfort & fluff still shines through even if it leaned a little more hurt/comfort than expected.

warnings: hurt/comfort · long-distance relationship · therapist · y/n has depression · depiction of a depressive episode · executive dysfunction · intrusive thoughts/self-isolation themes · difficulty expressing emotions · eating struggles (not ED-specific) · emotional vulnerability/tough conversation · tenderness, softness, and healing cuddles

✧✧✧

you wake up because the light’s too bright.

not because you’re rested. not because you want to.

the sun’s hitting you directly in the face—low, late morning maybe, and sharp enough to hurt. you squint against it but don’t move. not really. just pull the covers a little higher and let your eyes fall shut again.

the room smells stale. your water bottle’s empty. something vaguely crusty’s on the nightstand from two-days-ago's attempt at dinner—probably takeout. you don’t remember. it doesn’t matter.

your phone buzzed sometime around midnight. schlatt’s name lit up the screen with a message that read:

gonna be real busy tomorrow, babe. not sure i’ll be able to call til later. love you. talk soon <3

you’d typed out “it’s okay, good luck <3” and then erased it.

typed it again. erased it again.

settled on a heart emoji and turned your phone face-down.

it wasn’t that you were mad. you weren’t. it just felt like... too much effort. everything does lately.

you know what this is. it’s the weight. the fog. the numbness and the ache. you’ve been through this before—hell, you’ve even sat in the therapy chair and named it. depression. clinical, cyclical, chemical. you know the words. you’ve done the reading.

it still doesn’t make mornings easier.

still doesn’t make the thought of brushing your teeth any less impossible.

you breathe out, long and quiet. your chest feels heavy. your head feels heavier.

but eventually—because you have to—you sit up.

not all at once. just enough to lean forward, elbows on knees, palms to your face.

you don’t cry. that would take energy. all you do is sit there, eyes open, breathing, trying to find the strength to stand up.

✧✧✧

you’re halfway through your soup when your therapist asks, casually:

“so, how’d the sandwich experiment go?”

you sigh. shrug. pick at the bread crust you’ve been slowly tearing into pieces.

“i stared at it for twenty minutes and then put it back in the fridge.”

she hums. not judging. just listening.

“you still have it?”

“yeah.”

“maybe toast it tomorrow. new texture, new try.”

you nod, knowing damn well it’ll sit untouched for another two days before you throw it out. but it feels nice to be given a gentle solution instead of a lecture.

she’s halfway through her tofu rice bowl—same thing she always gets on tuesdays. she’s always warm about it, too. offers you bites even though you never accept. makes quiet comments about the sauce being better this week, or how someone finally fixed the squeaky door to the front office.

she’s easy to be around. familiar.

“you seem... heavier today,” she says eventually, tearing off a piece of your untouched bread and dipping it in her bowl. “wanna talk about that?”

you stir your soup.

“i think i’m the reason i’m alone.”

she doesn’t flinch. just lets the silence breathe for a moment.

you keep going—slow. hesitant. honest.

“i—i told myself i needed space. from people. from everything. i thought i was doing the right thing, you know? like, letting myself rest. not forcing it.”

“and now?”

you press your spoon down. feel it scrape the bottom of the cup.

“now it feels like i never learned how to come back.”

her eyes soften.

“i push people away,” you admit, voice smaller. “and then i punish myself for it. like—of course no one’s here. you made it this way.”

“self-sabotage is sneaky like that,” she says. “feels like protection at first. then it builds walls you forget how to climb.”

you nod. swallow. stir.

she waits a beat longer, then adds—gently:

“but you’re not trapped. not really. just out of practice.”

you glance up.

she offers a small shrug. “you isolated to survive. that’s not weakness. that’s strategy. now we just need new strategies.”

you blink at that.

she nudges your arm with hers.

“start small. text one person when you think you don’t deserve it. let someone see you before you’re ‘fixed.’ remind yourself—connection isn’t a reward. it’s a need.”

you’re quiet. still chewing.

“hey,” she says softly. “you’re here. that matters.”

you offer a crooked smile.

“only because i was bribed with soup.”

she laughs. “see? new strategy already.”

you huff a laugh—small, but real.

for the rest of the session, she keeps it light. talks about a book she’s reading. mentions how the neighbor’s cat keeps sneaking into the front office. you listen. you sip. you chew.

it helps. it's nice to have a conversation with someone who isn't your boyfriend.

when it’s time to leave, she presses a granola bar into your palm like a secret mission and says, “for post-session blood sugar.”

you thank her. she tells you she’ll see you next week.

you nod.

but your smile fades the second you hit the stairwell.

✧✧✧

you sit in your car with the door still open, keys in your hand, soup-to-go container cooling in your lap.

you don’t start the engine. don’t even close the door.

just sit there—half in, half out—like the drive home is some far-off thing you don’t quite have the energy to reach.

your fingers dig into the steering wheel like it might anchor you. like holding onto something will keep you from dissolving.

your phone is face down in the cupholder. still on do not disturb. you haven’t touched it all day.

you know exactly what’s sitting in there.

a text from your mom, asking if you’re mad at her.

a message from robyn, still unread—from three weeks ago.

a photo in the group chat from an inside joke you weren’t part of anymore.

a voice memo from emily that you said you’d listen to “when you felt better.” you never did.

three emails from work. one of them marked “urgent.”

and schlatt—probably just a little heart in response to yours. maybe an “i love you.” maybe nothing, this time.

you can feel your face tightening, your throat closing. you tell yourself not to cry.

you don’t deserve to cry. crying is for people who still try. you haven’t tried. you haven’t reached out. you haven’t done your dishes. you didn’t even put the soup in the fridge last night, just left it on your desk until it curdled.

you’re disgusting.

your chest starts to heave—quiet, shallow hiccups of air you can’t quite catch.

you grip the wheel harder.

you remember the voicemail from your cousin. the one you deleted without listening to, because she always talks for ten minutes and you couldn’t fake interest for ten minutes.

you remember the birthday party you skipped. the friend you “forgot” to text back.

the way you didn’t answer the door when someone came by to check on you.

you remember schlatt asking “are you sure you're okay?” a few days ago—and how you smiled, tight and fake and practiced, and said, “just tired.”

you feel your lip wobble. you dig your nails into the heel of your palm.

you used to cry all the time. when you were a kid. when you were softer. you used to sob in bathrooms and hallways and curled up on the couch with your mom’s old sweater.

now you just… stare. glassy-eyed. stunned.

your body doesn’t know whether it wants to scream or disappear.

you rest your head on the steering wheel. it’s warm. it smells like your skin.

your vision starts to swim.

you’re a terrible friend.

you’re a terrible daughter.

...probably a terrible girlfriend, too.

you’re lucky anyone even wants to text you.

and still, you ignore them.

still, you disappear.

and then you have the audacity to feel lonely.

your breath catches on a sharp inhale. almost a sob.

but no tears come.

not even that.

your chest tightens, rises, falls—too fast, too shallow—but your eyes stay dry.

you press your palms into your eyes anyway, like you can force it out, like pressure might trigger emotion. like grief is a switch you can flip if you just press hard enough.

nothing happens.

you sit there, hunched over the wheel, trembling—not from sadness, exactly, but from the sheer weight of everything you’ve refused to feel.

you want to scream.

you want anything to break the silence inside your head.

but instead, you just sit.

silent. stiff. breath catching like a misfiring engine.

you used to cry easily.

now?

you can’t even muster that.

and the numbness feels worse than the pain ever did.

eventually, your hands fall back into your lap. your grip loosens on the soup cup. the lid’s a little warped now, thumbprint pushed in from holding too tight.

you stare through the windshield—vacant, blank.

you are not okay.

…but you have to keep going, you guess.

✧✧✧

you unlock your door. red key. black door. drop your bag by the shoe rack. kick off your sneakers, one at a time. brace yourself for the stale quiet, the faint funk of laundry that needs folding, the dirty dishes you left in the sink yesterday because you’d “do them tomorrow”.

you don’t brace for this.

the smell hits first—garlic, roasted something, maybe herbs—and your brain short-circuits.

you freeze in the doorway.

the lights are soft. warm. the overhead one’s off, just the little lamp by the bookshelf on.

and your apartment? clean. 

your throw blanket’s folded. the counter’s wiped. the dishes are gone. the trash has been taken out. your couch even looks fluffed.

and then—

“hey, babe.”

you turn, wide-eyed.

and he’s there. he’s here.

schlatt—real, in your kitchen doorway—grinning like he knows he just turned your whole day upside down.

he’s wearing your apron. the ugly one with the cartoon sheep. holding a wooden spoon in one hand and a potholder in the other.

“don’t freak out,” he says, totally unbothered, “but i made chicken parm and also maybe reorganized your fridge.”

you blink at him. your mouth opens. nothing comes out. you feel like your body is buffering.

“how—what—?”

he shrugs. “caught a flight. figured i’d surprise you. you didn’t really think that i wouldn’t want to talk or even text you all day?”

you should smile. you should run to him. you should fall into his arms and laugh and kiss him and say thank god you’re here.

instead, your eyes blur.

your chest goes tight.

and the inside of your mouth tastes like panic.

he steps closer—tentative now, spoon still in hand.

“hey,” he says again, gentler. “you okay?”

you nod, quickly.

then shake your head.

then nod again.

“i—i’m fine,” you whisper. “i just… it’s a lot.”

he sets the spoon down. crosses the room to you slow, careful.

“too much?”

you shake your head again, even though—yeah. it is. it’s all too much. too clean, too warm, too loving, too good.

he stops in front of you. doesn’t reach for you yet. just looks.

you try to smile. it comes out warped.

“i’ve been barely holding it together all day,” you say, voice wobbly. “and then i come home and it’s clean and it smells good and you’re here and i—i’m not okay, and i should be, and that makes me feel like—like a horrible person—”

he catches you as your voice breaks.

wraps you up without hesitation. presses your face to his shoulder.

“hey, hey,” he murmurs. “stop that. don’t do that to yourself.”

your arms wrap around him slowly. your fingers curl in his shirt.

“you weren’t supposed to come today,” you mumble. “i didn’t get the chance to be… better.”

his hands rub slow circles on your back.

“you don’t have to be better,” he says, voice low and steady. “i'm just glad that you're home...would've been really awkward if you had hid out in your car for a few more hours…i probably would have burned dinner."

“…how did you know that i hide out in my car, schlatt?”

he exhales—quiet and sheepish. “because i do the same thing, baby.”

you blink against his chest. something in your ribcage shudders.

he rubs your back again, slow. “sometimes it’s the only place that feels… silent, y’know? like nothing’s expected of you in there. no dishes. no conversation. just…quiet.”

your throat tightens.

“so yeah,” he murmurs. “when you didn’t come in for a while, i figured you were out there, just… trying to be okay.”

he doesn’t say hiding. doesn’t say stalling.

just trying to be okay.

and for some reason, that’s what does it.

not the dinner. not the clean apartment. not even the smell of roasted garlic that’s still floating in from the kitchen.

it’s the quiet recognition.

the unspoken i get it.

and suddenly, your face crumples.

there’s no lead-up. no gasping breath or dramatic sob. just—release.

your shoulders cave inward. your fingers tighten in his shirt. the first hot tear slides down your cheek, then another, then another, and you just let it happen.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t freeze up.

doesn’t try to shush you or fix it or talk you out of it.

he just holds you.

softly. firmly. like you’re soft and warm and real, not just a rapidly deteriorating body.

his thumb grazes the back of your neck. his other hand cradles your waist, keeping you grounded while your chest shakes and your eyes spill and your words fall apart before they even make it to your mouth.

you’re not even sure what you’re crying about anymore.

it’s not just the depression.

not just the fear or the shame or the aching weight you’ve been dragging around.

it’s the relief too.

that he’s here.

that you don’t have to carry it alone tonight.

eventually, when the tears slow and your body’s less curled up and more leaned in, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “you hear me?”

you nod into his shoulder. he smells like your detergent.

“and hey,” he adds, a little lighter, “i made garlic bread too. with cheese. so i’m basically a five-star restaurant who's also your boyfriend.”

you sniff out a weak laugh. “you’re silly.”

“and you’re underfed. let’s fix that.”

✧✧✧

you eat in comfortable silence.

well—you eat.

he scarfs down two pieces of garlic bread and half his plate in ten minutes flat. you take smaller bites. the chicken’s soft, the sauce a little sweet. he must’ve used your good oregano—the one in the back of the cabinet, the one you keep forgetting you have.

you’re halfway through your food when he leans back in his chair, eyes soft, voice careful.

“can i ask you something?”

you glance up. nod.

“was today one of the bad ones?”

you lower your fork.

“yeah.”

he doesn’t push. just nods. lets you take your time.

you pick at the corner of your napkin.

“i’ve just… felt really alone lately,” you say. “and i keep trying to tell myself it’s temporary. or logical. or earned. but it doesn’t help.”

he nods again—not like he understands everything, but like he’s willing to try.

“i’ve been pulling away from people. even you,” you admit, quieter now. “and i hate it, but it feels like… like i don’t deserve anyone when i’m like this. like, i know it’s messed up thinking, but it’s so loud sometimes, and i just…i believe it.”

“can i say something?”

you nod, cautiously.

“you gotta stop thinking everyone’s gonna leave.”

your stomach twists. not from the food.

you stab at your chicken. “i’m not—i don’t think that, i just... i don’t know. i’ve been left before.”

“i know,” he says gently. “and that sucked. but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen every time.”

you shrug. “it kind of does, though. it’s a pattern.”

“or maybe it’s just fear talking,” he says. “fear has a way of convincing you that it’s a fact.”

"yeah, but...my fears have been confirmed before, schlatt. more than once..."

“i know they have,” his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “but baby... do you ever notice how you stopped giving people the chance to prove you wrong?”

"the only one who proved me wrong...was you, honey."

his mouth quirks—just a little, just for a second.

“then let that count for something.” his thumb keeps tracing, slow and steady. “’cause i’m not the exception. i’m just the start.”

you laugh a bit at that, shaking your head. "schlatt, it's not...it's not going to work like that. so easily..."

“i know,” he says, no hesitation. “i’m not askin’ you to flip a switch. we both know that relationships...romantic and platonic, take a ton of work.”

he squeezes your hand, just enough to ground you. you squeeze back, a little frustrated.

"everything is work, it feels like. i'm just...a huge work in progress. never to be completed. never to be fixed."

“you’re not broken,” he says, without missing a beat.

then, softer—more certain:

“you’re growing, and it is going to be tough to work through,” his fingers curl around yours, gentle but sure. “but you gotta understand something: i’m not here because you earned it. or because you were happy. or easy to deal with. or perfect."

he reaches for your hand. warm. grounding.

“i’m here because i love you.”

your breath catches.

“and yeah, sometimes it’s messy. sometimes you push me away. sometimes i have to step in before you spiral. but that’s not a dealbreaker, baby. that’s just... love.”

you don’t say anything. not yet. you just stare at him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of that sentence.

and he keeps going, quieter:

“i know it’s hard to believe. but people like me? we’re real. and we don’t just leave because things get hard. we stay. we show up. and you need to stop holding your breath waiting for that to change.”

your eyes burn. you try to blink it away, but it’s no use. the tears are already gathering.

“i don’t know how to believe that yet,” you whisper.

"let me ask you a really simple question, y/n. do you want me in your life?"

your voice catches in your throat. it takes a moment before you can answer.

“…yeah,” you say, barely audible. “of course i do.”

"good. because i want you too. and i will always want you in my life."

his forehead tips against yours, eyes closed like he’s sealing a promise.

“no version of you scares me off,” he murmurs. “not the tired one. not the sad one. not even the version that forgets she’s worthy of being loved.”

his hand squeezes yours again—firm, warm, anchoring.

“i’m not going anywhere. you got it? you're my girl.”

your breath catches.

not from the weight of your sadness—but from the warmth of his words. the certainty in them. like there was never a doubt. and it's really hard to try to argue with. because no matter how much your brain starts fishing for the rejection in his tone, you can't find anything.

"schlatt..."

"y/n, you're my girl because you're always there for me too. you're not some parasite, stuck to me, stealing all my energy and love. you're an amazing girlfriend who cares for me too. you're there when i'm having a tough time, you make me smile with all your stupid jokes, and you're always cheering for me on the sidelines."

your lips part—but no words come out.

not because you don’t have anything to say, but because he just said everything you never let yourself hope someone would.

your chest tightens, but not the way it usually does. this time, it’s not panic. it’s pressure—of something cracking open. something soft. something healing.

“you really… think that?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

he huffs a quiet laugh. “baby, i know that.”

he pulls your joined hands to his chest, right over his heart. “you love hard, y’know that? and yeah, sometimes you get scared, and sometimes you spiral—but that love of yours? it’s never been a burden. not once.”

his voice dips. “you’re not hard to love, y/n. you've just got to let people in.”

✧✧✧

the dishes clink quietly in the sink.

you’re not really talking—just standing side by side, sleeves rolled up, warm water running. you wash. he rinses. sometimes your arms bump. sometimes he hums a bit under his breath. it’s not awkward. just soft. simple.

you cried again. of course you did. he didn’t say anything when you did—just handed you a towel, kissed your forehead, and asked if you wanted to help clean up. so you did.

now the plates are stacked, the counters wiped, and your kitchen doesn’t look like a war zone anymore. neither do you.

you let out a long, quiet breath, drying your hands on a dish towel. schlatt leans against the counter, watching you. something fond tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“what?” you ask, self-conscious but curious.

he grins. “i was gonna wait ‘til we were under the blanket, but i’m too proud of myself.”

he crosses the room, crouches by his bag, and—very dramatically—unearths a large, black garbage bag from within.

you stare at him. “what the hell is that?”

“no questions,” he says, tugging the knot loose. “just…have faith.”

and then—

out comes your 1-foot tall, soft-as-sin, midnight-colored rammy plush. a little wrinkled from travel.

you gasp. “you hid him?!”

he looks smug. “had to. no way i was gonna walk through airport security with that thing under my arm.”

“you flew with him??”

“he had his own seat.”

you laugh—one hand to your chest, the other reaching for rammy like he’s a long-lost limb.

“i thought i left him forever…”

“you did,” schlatt says, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder. “and i rescued him from the side of my bed. like the brave, selfless man i am.”

you melt back into him, plush squished between your arms, giggling.

“you know,” he says, “he kept fallin’ over on the plane. guy’s got no balance.”

you laugh—real and loud and unexpected. “he’s got noodles for legs.”

“he’s got your sleep habits, too. zero posture. just collapses.”

“shut up,” you snort, cuddling rammy tighter.

you’re quiet a second.

then, softly: “thank you.”

his voice dips. “anytime, baby.”

✧✧��

you pull your knees up, scoot a little closer to him on the couch, rammy tucked beside you so you can still cuddle with schlatt.

and schlatt—without hesitation—pulls the blanket off the backrest and drapes it over your shoulders like muscle memory. like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“so,” he murmurs, voice dropping low and fond, “you gonna let me watch some stupid reality show with you now? or are we cuddlin’ in complete silence like psychos?”

you laugh. “i mean, you are kind of insane.”

“and you’re emotionally avoidant,” he shoots back, smirking. “we balance each other out.”

you roll your eyes, but it makes your chest feel lighter.

he settles beside you and nudges your arm with his. “hey. got your phone nearby?”

you groan. “schlaaatt…”

“just hear me out,” he says, voice soft. “text one person. just one. someone you miss. even if it’s just ‘hi.’ that’s what your therapist suggested, yeah? you should try it.”

you make a face. “they probably think i’m ignoring them.”

“or,” he says, “they probably think you’re struggling. and they miss you, too.”

you fidget with your sleeve. “what if they don’t want to hear from me?”

“then they won’t answer,” he says simply. “and that’ll suck. but it won’t kill you. and you’ll know how they really feel. but if they do answer?”

he smiles. “you’ll remember how many people don’t want to leave.”

you chew your lip.

then—tentatively—you pick up your phone.

type out a simple message.

hey. i know it’s been a while. i miss you. hope you’re doing okay.

your thumb hovers.

he watches you, patient.

you hit send.

“okay,” you mutter. “done. no turning back.”

“atta girl,” he grins, kissing your temple. “now pick a show with at least one toxic relationship in it. i need to feel morally superior.”

you scroll through a few options, then pause on one. “this one has people getting engaged after like… thirty-six hours.”

“perfect,” he says. “set the bar low. i’ll look amazing by comparison.”

you nudge your shoulder into his. “you already do.”

he quiets at that. just for a second. but it’s a warm kind of quiet. like he heard it. like he’s storing it somewhere safe.

you hit play.

and for a while, it’s just easy. the couch is soft, the blanket is warm, rammy’s squished between your hip and the cushion like he’s always belonged there, and schlatt’s laugh rumbles low against your side every time someone says something outrageous.

you don’t even notice how relaxed you’ve gotten until he reaches for your hand again—and this time, you meet him halfway.

thumbs brushing. fingers interlocked.

no big speeches. no heavy moments.

just… ease.

and then your phone buzzes.

you glance over, expecting maybe a news alert or spam—

but it’s a reply.

from robyn, who you texted earlier.

you blink.

then read the message again.

hey! i’ve missed you. i’m really glad you reached out. wanna get lunch this weekend? my treat :)

your stomach swoops.

you stare.

schlatt notices. “what’s up?”

you show him the screen.

“well,” his whole face lights up. “would you look at that!”

you’re quiet a second���biting your lip, trying not to cry for the fourth time tonight.

“i guess… maybe i don’t have to start over,” you murmur. “maybe i just have to start again.”

“babe,” he says, pulling you in tight, “that was poetic as shit.”

you snort. “shut up.”

“no, no, keep going,” he grins, smothering your face in kissy pecks now. “say something else profound. i’m in the mood for growth and domesticity.”

you giggle, swatting at him, squirming under the affection.

he doesn’t stop. not until you’re laughing again—like really laughing.

and then he pulls you in, settles the both of you under the blanket again, and murmurs:

“see? not so hard to let people in.”

and this time, you don’t argue.

you just squeeze his hand. and let yourself feel loved.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * end notes ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ thank you for being here. if you saw yourself in this piece, i hope you also saw the care you deserve. you are not a burden. your softness is not a flaw. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

[slutforalastor]

you never thought this day might come, sat down with the Radio Demon's head in your lap, his gaze lazy and half-lidded as he allows you, generously, so generously, to touch the pronged antlers that extend from the top of his head. His lips pass soft white noise as you run a finger from the base to the tip of his antlers, the vibration that you can feel beneath the hard exterior somewhere between the hum of a domestic appliance and the throb, throb, throb of a heartbeat

You can feel Alastor's shoulders tense up whenever you put too much pressure on them, his calm breathing briefly interrupted every time you push his sensitivity past his tolerance. Each time you find yourself being too exploratory, you correct yourself back to the safety of gentle strokes, letting your fingertips soak in the unique texture. They are somewhere between the firm smoothness of exposed bone, like his teeth when they drag across the topmost layer of your skin, leaving perfect streaks too shallow to bleed, too pronounced to refute their creator, and the spongy give of delicate flesh. You know the trust he's imparted to you to be given this kind of access; not only does he so limit incoming touch, but resents any reminder of his reincarnation as a prey animal.

"I'm surprised you're okay with this," you murmur to him, so unwilling to compromise the sanctity of this moment.

"Only because it is you," Alastor assures you, his tone just as hushed.

You continue, relishing in this opportunity. You explore every hook and divot of the black extensions, marveling at the current of demonic energy that pulses through them. It was your impression that they only grew when Alastor was angry, but not quite: any overwhelming passion, be it joy, theoretically speaking, or fear, or sadness, and they will billow out. You wonder if you can elicit such a response. Your opening gambit is strong: you lean into his ear, whispering "If anyone else were to do this, you'd tear them apart, wouldn't you?"

"For even less than this, dearest. I'd assumed that was obvious."

"But not me?"

"But not you."

"Maybe I want you to tear me apart, love."

The first sign; you feel a shift through the skeletal system they're connected to, a tremor of recognition, of sudden awoken desire.

"I'm sure you just aren't aware of what you're asking for."

"No, I'm all too aware. You want something deeper, too, don't you? It can't be enough just to meet in such a temporary union, only to separate. I want you to bring a little piece of me along with you, knowing you've claimed more than just one part of me, but any you desire."

He shudders, deeper this time, and you feel growth. Sharp edges and deeper curves sprout like curling ivy where there had once been certain ends, like a blossoming tree bursting into life. Your loving strokes down the length of his antlers grow deeper, more pronounced, almost incessant.

"What game are you playing at?" Alastor pants, his breathing hitching every time you push against them with any kind of firmness.

"I love seeing what you do."

His body has seized, but doesn't do anything else. You can feel the efforts of the sinew across his back against your lap. Best of all are his facial expressions; his initial contentment has evolved, firstly into surprised, the edges of his bladed grin peeking out from his thin lips, his eyes squinted and playful. Now it's become a look of desire, his mouth open slightly, droning a steady song with no melody but a captivating refrain, nonetheless. His eyes plead with you; so uncharacteristic, for him to be putty in your hands. To think you could hold the high ground in any situation, much less as a result of this.

"Don't toy with me," he warns, but his voice doesn't sound assured. It sounds needy, like a request for more.

"I would never, love."

"Then end this teasing," he begs.

You do as he asks, taking your hands away from his antlers. With some strain, he manages to get his breathing back under control, his antlers receding like the retreating tide, back to their typical size. "Did you enjoy yourself?" you wonder, after he's calmed himself.

He looks at you with mischief etched in his features. "Not as much as I'm sure I will soon enough." ~~~

[a-suspicious-number-of-ducks]

Hermit-a-Day May, day 11: Cub + Corporate Memphis

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Minecraft YouTuber Cubfan135 in the "Corporate Memphis" style. His head is incredibly small for his body, and his legs are incredibly large and long. His form is made up of oversimplified shapes and unrealistically smooth angles. The drawing is mostly lineless and the colors are flat and solid with no shading. Cub has one leg straight and one bent at the knee, as if he has been flying and is about to land. He has blue batlike wings that are flared out behind him, resembling a vex mob from Minecraft. In his left hand, he is holding a gold tier Hermit Permit from the Hermitcraft server (a scroll of paper with a red circular seal and a gold ribbon). His right hand is making a thumbs-up. His skin is also blue like a vex mob, and he is wearing long khaki pants with a black belt, a black shirt over a white collared undershirt, a red tie, a gold nametag, and black shoes. His hair is black and forms an exaggerated swoop on each side of his head; one of the swoops fully covers the left side of his face. His right eye is a simple black oval, and a slanted white half-circle represents his grin. Behind him is a teal circle slightly smaller than his body. The background of the image is pale teal. A signature runs down his leg, reading "a-suspicious-number-of-ducks." ./End ID]

Today's style/medium is Corporate Memphis, aka Alegria! If you think you're unfamiliar with this style, you're probably wrong--you've most likely seen it in advertisements, marketing, and even internal training materials for large companies (or small ones who want to seem trendy). You can just look it up and see what I mean, but in short, Corporate Memphis tends to be used for images, particularly depictions of people, that are meant to be quick and cheap to make and "universally appealing" to a customer base. That means that it's rare to see diverse body types or skin tones in this style--many examples even use bright, unrealistic candy colors for people's skin to avoid the "issue" of racial diversity entirely. That's part of why I made Cub blue for this piece (the other part is the vex lore, of course).

Bodies in Corporate Memphis are usually incredibly disproportionate, with tiny heads and massive, long legs. Angles are swoopy and smooth instead of sharp, limbs are noodle-y, colors are flat and lineless, and backgrounds are often abstract and geometric.

Now, there's been a lot of debate about this style. Many people think it's soulless, cheap, and sanitized. Others think it's a legitimate art movement and shouldn't be demonized. Personally, I'm on the soulless side--I don't hate the art style itself, conceptually, but I hate what it represents and how it's used. You're free to disagree with me, however!

As for why I chose this style for Cub, well. Can you get more "soulless corporation" than the Permit Office? (A bit more rambling under the cut!)

Making this piece was, like the Rainbow Fairy!Doc last year, an active struggle in making my art... not worse necessarily, but different. I say this not to brag, but I had to fix the proportions multiple times because I was making them too realistic. My shapes kept being too complex. It was honestly hard for me personally to make something that looked good while also making it something that followed the specific conventions of this style. It was a constant exercise in smoothing, simplifying, and removing all traces of uniqueness or texture (both metaphorical and literal).

Now, I'm sure there might be someone out there reading this who draws like this naturally and that's just their style. And that's so incredibly valid. I'm not trying to shame every artist who draws things that look like this--actually, I'm not trying to shame artists at all. It's more a matter of being frustrated with exploitative companies who only want to wring every drop of profit out of their clientele, without caring about the implications of what they're doing OR about the artists they're paying (probably not enough) to design these things. If you draw in a style that looks like this and you put your heart and soul into it, I couldn't be happier for and prouder of you. You're not the problem. To you, and everyone else who's read this far, thank you! And happy arting.

[zoropookie]

WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR LOVE (WYWDFL) — EIGHT

YOU couldn't be having a worse halloween night. choose your fate with your fellow readers and see if it gets better!

chapter seven — 7.5 — chapter nine

soulmate!wanderer x gn!reader

There were a lot of things people called you.

Many not nice, many just condescending...you definitely weren't known for being wise. You acted off of impulse, and maybe that was why you're always getting in trouble. Whether it be in school, financially, or...right now.

At least in those past instances, though, you weren't in a life or death situation. Maybe that's why you thought you could do this on your own, kick your own mind into gear and take it by the hind legs. Maybe it was because you tried to outrun him before and it backfired.

You didn't want to give him that victory again.

As your darling chaser cradled his new wound, hissing in light defeat as he reeled from the cut, you jumped immediately from the boot and gave yourself pressure to your bare feet. They sent an agonizing ache up to your calves, but you grit your teeth and grind them together, running towards the driver seat.

Your feet felt the sharp gravel bite into your soles, each step sent screaming nerves in your body, pushing with adrenaline fueling you forward. Even if this were kind of hot in theory, you couldn't let him recover.

The keys were still clutched securely in your hands bound together, metal edges also stabbing into your palms and giving you a crimson trickle that wet your forearms. You reached hastily to open the driver's side door, in a panic, fumbling the keys in your hands but to no avail. Putting each key in the hole of the now locked car. Your bound hands fumbled awkward enough to drop them on the floor, an inward gasp exuding immediately.

"Come on," You muttered with tears in your eyes, the rope tightly bind on your wrists while you wiggled your fingers to try and rip the door out of its place. Your fingers clumsily attempted to use what strength you had to force the door open, but it was almost like trying to thread a needle with mittens on.

Just as you were able to start booking it, your current kidnapper's hand shot out and grabbed at your covered wrist. You shrieked, using all of your might to try and struggle your way out, but he was just too strong for you. Your grip began to slip from the keys, and he sighed tiredly.

"This game is tedious," He said lightly. "You may as well do what you do with everything else, and give up."

"You don't even know me!" You yelled back at him, your voice scratching from your constant screaming but you didn't relent whatsoever, "Leave me alone!"

You were so unsettled by the next look he gave you that your chest started to tighten, like the breathing you were initially holding had been dragging itself back to your lungs. His violet eyes were darker, and colder than when he did look at you. Like he lacked a core emotion. After what you saw from him, you were unsurprised and it wasn't a stretch to believe he didn't actually have them, but it was still eery to look at considering the silence between the both of them.

"I don't have anything for you." You compromised. "Just let me go. I won't fuck with you, even if it kills me."

"How predictable," He spoke lowly, almost a sharp whisper, but it had carried a more hostile edge that made your blood run cold in seconds. "You're not hard to know. I've been looking for someone like you for ages, always thinking they can outrun their problems. Always thinking they can solve all of their problems by walking away from it. Walk away from this."

You didn't even see his hand reach into his pocket before there was already a steely glint against your throat, the cold texture on the skin of your pharynx. Your breathing became erratic, chest rising and falling in gasps of desperation. But even with this in mind, he still stared at you with an unsettling intensity. Like you were some type of puzzle piece that was lost after six months of completing the picture, intending on putting you back. You tried to pull away again with a violent jerk, but his hold was unyielding against you, iron shackles.

"Just let me go!" You cried, "Okay?! I won't say shit, I swear. You'll never see me again!" You spat out, your voice shaking despite the valiant effort to sound resolute. To sound like you were trying to fight for your own life. You lost your voice a few times, trying to keep yourself from shivering against the very threatening knife too close for comfort.

His silence was terrifying, defeaning in your eyes while he studied you, sizing you up. You knew the wheels were turning, which meant he was considering your plea for a split second. But just as you thought that, a gladdened smile spread on his face, teeth slightly baring as he sucked at his teeth.

You had no idea what was going on until you heard the low rumble of an engine resounding from afar. Both of them paused, their eyes narrowing towards the noise as a rusty, light blue vehicle moved to a slow stop across from the two of them.

Slowly reaching for the window to unwind it, the woman who seemed to be in her early fifties pulled her glasses up to her face at the two. "Is... everything okay?" She asked with mild confusion. "I heard screaming all the way from here while I was on my way home."

You stopped in your tracks, looking slowly at your kidnapper who was looking at you already with a squint as a warning.

taglist ♢ @kinvasions @kazumiku @animeobsessed56 @levianamor @auroratumbles

@mellowberrie @scarawiki @xxxion

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

I Can’t Stand It

Rosie’s tantrum in the park, reminds Sherlock of his own childhood. It’s strange that so much of what the little girl says and does resonates with him.

“She’s not yours,” several voices inside his head tell him.

Still, he can’t shake off the feeling of being something more to her than just…what is he exactly to her? She calls him Lock; he calls her Watson. He desperately wants her to call him something else, which he only allows himself to think about when he’s alone.

“I can’t stand it, daddy!” Rosie exclaims and stomps her feet.

“But, sweetheart,” John tries to reason with his four-year-old daughter. “You were perfectly fine eating this last week.”

Rosie rolls her eyes and throws her arms in the air. Sherlock can see that John’s mouth twitches slightly as he’s supressing a smile. Sherlock hears his mother’s voice filled with delight in his mind.

“She’s so much like you sometimes, darling.”

“There are big pieces in it,” Rosie explains to John. “I want smooth ice cream.”

John looks over at Sherlock for help, but Sherlock has long ago decided to never lie to John again. He shrugs apologetically and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John inquires, his tone exasperated now.

“It’s quite normal for children her age to change tastes and react to new textures. I was the same.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not…”

“I know, John!” Sherlock snaps. “You and everyone we know keeps telling me that.”

He turns on his heel and walks briskly out of the park. Behind him the two Watsons call after him, begging him to come back but he can’t. Sherlock can live with everyone else claiming that he’s not Rosie’s father, but it hurts when John joins the choir. Of course, Sherlock knows he has no biological connection to her, but he’s raising her together with John, isn’t he? She comes just as willingly to him as to John. 

“Protect your heart, brother mine,” Mycroft told him after John and Rosie moved to Baker Street, and not for the first time. His brother knew that Sherlock’s heart belonged to John and had for a very long time.

***

Where are you? I’m sorry, Sherlock. We need to talk. Are you coming home soon?

Sherlock’s heart races in his chest when he reads John’s text. He barely registers the apology. All his brain is capable of is trying to deduce what John wants to talk about.

Are they moving out? Does John want him to spend less time with Rosie? Won’t he be allowed to do children safe experiments with her anymore?

He pulls his hair in frustration. Why is it so hard to figure out what John wants? Sherlock’s able to read anyone but John. Why?

“Hi, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were here,” Molly says when she walks into the lab at Barts.

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock tells her and walks rapidly out of the room.

***

Sherlock stands and watches the Thames float by. The London Eye is coloured in pink in the far distance. It’s getting dark and he’s got no recollection of the last hours. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he suddenly remembers that he’s forgotten to answer John’s text.

“A bit not good, Sherlock,” John’s voice scolds him.

Can I call you? Rosie wants to say goodnight.

Sherlock feels his face soften. The Watsons are probably still at Baker Street then. He doesn’t hesitate but calls John’s number.

John’s voice sounds relieved when he picks up, but it’s tinted with worry.

“Hi. You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, and it comes out more clipped than he intended.

John sighs and apparently gives the phone to Rosie.

“Lock!” the little girl exclaims.

“Hello, Watson. Ready for bed?” Sherlock inquires softly.

“Yes. Tired,” she tells him and yawns.

Sherlock feels his throat thicken, and he must swallow hard and close his eyes to keep his tears at bay. Without thinking he uses the endearment only Rosie has heard.

���Goodnight, my heart.”

“Night, Lock. See you tomorrow,” Rosie slurs, clearly almost asleep.

Sherlock ends the call before John gets a chance to ask him humiliating questions. The sharp intake of breath from John when Sherlock bid Rosie goodnight didn’t go unnoticed.

“You’ve ruined it now, Holmes,” he tells himself.

***

Aldi is still open, and Sherlock buys two boxes of ice cream for Rosie without any pieces of fruit, berries, crunch, chocolate or other abominations.

He takes a deep breath before locking himself into Baker Street, and he ascends the stairs silently. John sits in his chair, reading one of his medical journals. Sherlock just nods and walks to the kitchen with his purchases. He places the boxes in the freezer before walking to the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John calls after him.

“Shower,” Sherlock answers.

The shower does wonders, and Sherlock feels quite refreshed and relaxed when he puts on a t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his maroon dressing gown. John stands just outside Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock startles a bit.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Watson?”

“She’s fine, Sherlock. Soundly asleep. I just want to apologise properly to you. I was way out of line earlier. No, Sherlock, listen. I need to say this. Please.”

John’s expression is pained, and Sherlock doesn’t know what’s to come next. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“I know it’s no excuse that I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but that’s the defence I have, and it’s appalling to say the least. Rosie…she is…just as much yours as she is mine. You care for her just like any parent. She loves you, we both do, and…”

“John?” 

Sherlock’s voice is trembling, and he feels his balance is about to fail him. Warm and steady hands are placed on his upper arms and when John speaks again, his voice is warm with affection.

“Forgive me. Please?”

Sherlock just nods and lets himself melt in John’s embrace.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @raina-at @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @7-percent @ninasnakie

[tinycozycomfort]

where you sleep

pairing: jackson era!joel miller x f!reader

day three of @pascalisbaby and i's joeltober: hand kink -> read her day three here

summary: When you swing your neck to face him, he’s already cocked his chin over the hill of his left shoulder to await your gaze—beaming. He knew you’d been watching since you approached the room. Worse, he wanted you to see. 

warnings/tags: pwp!, hand kink, oral sex (m recieving), dom/sub dynamics, masturbation (m), exhibitionism, misuse of underwear/underwear play, pet names (honey, sweetheart, etc), creepy!joel (/dark!joel?)

word count: 1.7k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: gotta give an extra kiss to @pascalisbaby for not only saving this from the delete button more than once but for always being the best person alive!!!

main masterlist

You hear him, first—the end of a damp squelch, the sharp intake that breaks between coupling breaths, on a loop—from your place at the front door. It’s only clear enough to be interpreted as motion, disjointed pieces of noise that make you think he might be struggling, or hurt—so you follow. 

Padding lightly down the hallway in the dim afternoon, a twinge of anxiety leans lamely against your heart with all its dead weight; guilty already, even with no cause. Your chest thrums as it tries to hold up, picturing all of the ways he could have ended up wounded while trying to fix your shower, but when you reach the bathroom, it’s empty. No blood, no horrific scene, just a pile of loose tools and a smattering of fine plaster from where he’d dug around in the wall—yet the sounds persist somewhere further. 

You continue down, not quiet by any means, a little disturbed by his lack of interest in your arrival. He’s in your room, you deduce—the only occupiable space left in the home—coming into view now with the aid of long, heavy steps. Announcing yourself, just in case.  

The door is split open enough to see a long strip of empty space—the corner of your unmade bed, the swirling edge of your dresser, a sliver of mirror posed straighter than usual. 

As you sidle up to the frame, the sounds pitch up—strained hissing and sloppy glide of skin reaching a peak—and so you risk a deeper lean to see what it is he’s gotten himself into; what it is that isn’t worth hiding. 

A weak wash of daylight squeezes through the kinks in the blinds, allowing you only the fuzzy edges of what he’s doing. 

Joel sits on the far side of the bed, body angled so that you can see just a little more than profile, hunched roundly over his lap. He’s almost fully dressed—button-up intact right up to the neck, crinkled tops of his jeans still upright on his legs—everywhere except his center. 

He has one hand braced on his stomach, wide and solid and threaded with thick cords of vein, the fabric of his modesty folded up into his thumb. The waistline of his pants is zipped and peeled open at the thigh, the buckle of his belt jolting with faint clinks on every off-beat. A crude frame for the action resting within it.

His cock is slick in his right hand, a band of bright wet flashing between his fingers as he makes rough passes along it, stuttering minutely when he moves down to the base. He fucks the column fervently, the hard muscle of his clutched fist sending a push of arousal between the tops of your thighs. 

He touches himself as roughly as he seems able to tolerate—the sinew between his first set of knuckles dipped harshly, peaks white from strain, the tips of the hand on his stomach turning in against his own flesh enough to ripple.

Something pink, unnaturally so, peaks between his fingers every so often, calling you away from your observation of his abdomen. He’s particularly enamored with whatever it is—panting every time it swirls over the head, dulling the sheen of his pull. 

Fabric, you realize, absorbing the slip on his skin. You squint, assessing the texture of the material as it darkens with each stroke. Lace fabric; scallop-edged lace fabric that looks starkly familiar to what had been discarded in a shallow grave on top of your too-full hamper the night before. 

He shoves into the cloth, webbing it around the points of his fingers like a pocket, canting his hips off the bed to slot into it and he huffs in frustration when he manages to miss a few times, stunted. 

You glance up to see he’s maneuvering himself blindly; despite his intricate goal he looks straight ahead, eyes still open from what you can make out, concentration elsewhere as he fumbles against the make-shift cunt. 

You track his focus, only half-way across the room when you remember just how much the door had been left open, the crease of the frame very visible in the newly-positioned mirror at your bedside—the intention of it. 

The realization rushes between your ribs like ice-water, little knocks of frozen pellets as they swim between the bones on the way down. The force is so fast you feel like you’re going to keel over—not assisted by the way your knees already feel tight from the strain of keeping yourself motionless. 

You hit the end of the line, his expression wild where he meets you in the reflection, pleased.

“You just gonna watch, sweetheart? That’s all?” 

When you swing your neck to face him, he’s already cocked his chin over the hill of his left shoulder to await your gaze—beaming. He knew you’d been watching since you approached the room. Worse, he wanted you to see. 

“Joel—Fuck, I’m… I didn’t mean to-” 

He uses his unoccupied hand to help him rise to his feet, his right not ceasing to work himself as he rounds the edge of the mattress. You cower, still mostly inaccessible behind the wood, so he reacts accordingly—slows, tames his grin, knits the inner corners of his brow to look disarming. 

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. You caught me in a bit of a bind here, honey,” he pumps lazily, head bowing to direct your attention as if you would need the assistance, “No big deal. Wouldn’t hurt if you offered to help—might as well work for the show.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, afraid to pierce the illusion, the dream in front of you a few words from melting away, and he pouts something disappointed.

“Don’t need to invite you into your own room, do I?”

“Joel,” you try again, weak. 

“Heard you the first time—didn’t mean to. We’re past that. I forgive you. Now c’mon, come take a closer look—like I know you want to.”

Hesitantly, you hook an ankle around the edge of the door, willing yourself forward. Joel nods encouragingly before cutting the distance with his own wide steps. 

He uses his clean hand to cup the swell of your cheek, thumb twisting to dig into the fullest part, the pads against your neck pressing down like a suggestion, and you fold without question, tucking a knee beneath you to guide yourself to the floor. 

Joel releases you, draping the curve of his shirt up into his palm again to reveal what had been only momentarily concealed beneath it. Even so, your eyes stay fixed on the spread of his fingers against his belly, right past the place where his cock hangs between his legs. 

“Didn’t seem to have a problem looking when you thought I didn't know. Don't be shy.” His words are encouraging but his tone is laced with annoyance, frustrated maybe that you aren’t responding with the enthusiasm he wants.

He resumes playing with himself, the stretch of lace in his clutch not enough to claim your favor—the way his nails pierce his stomach far more intriguing. 

He seems to understand, trailing his palm up to his chest, still holding the hem, a smile curling on his lips when you follow the movement. 

“Oh, that’s what you like?” 

He releases his length, letting the lace slot between the crease of his thumb like a bracelet. “You want me to touch you with these, sweetheart?” He waves the wet hand lewdly before offering it to you, “Want me to put them in your mouth?” 

You nod, and he lets the rough tips of his pointer and middle tap on the center of your bottom lip, watching shamelessly as you open up for him on instinct. 

“Look at that. I think we can figure out something here that works out for both of us, hm?” 

He doesn’t bother letting you answer, lining the row of his longer fingers outward against your lower lip, his thumb braced against the upper. You stick your tongue out, curling it around his first finger to try and coax him inside but he has another idea. He spreads his legs, settling his weight before leaning to feed the tip of his cock through the channel he’s created with his hand, breaching the open space of your mouth. 

You take him enthusiastically and he makes a choked sound, the plane of his chest pushing out hard between firm breaths, a stripe of pink crawling up his neck and across his face. He’s ruffled, composure broken, his own mouth agape in veiled mockery.

“There you go. So pretty. You wouldn’t say no if I asked you to come down your throat, would you?” 

You do your best to shake your head, working him deeper, the row of your bottom teeth secure under the line of his pointer.

He shudders, the nail of his thumb pushing you open wider as he slides in as far as he can manage at this angle, with so much already occupying the inside of your face. 

“That’s right, honey. Good girl for me, aren’t you? Walked right into my little gift, eager. Let’s reward you, hm?” 

You hum in response, lost to anything other than the brush of his hand against your chin when he thrusts too quickly, the drag of the inside of his knuckles against your tongue. 

“Fuck. You like it, too. Should’ve come by sooner.” 

Pressure builds in the pit of your stomach, hot and rolling as where it falls over into the cradle of your core. You rub your legs together in an attempt to relieve it and he whines, bucking up quicker into the hollow of your cheeks, the fabric of your forgotten underwear slipping in with the rest of his mess on a jostled punch. 

Joel starts to unwind, heaving in hard gulps and elbow craning out in a jagged, rhythmic sway. He unhinges his jaw like he wants to say more but you bend, taking more of him than you should be able to, the soft wedge of his head prodding your throat and he grunts, rounding out his spine as he comes as far down as he promised to. 

You puff up your cheeks around him, an almost-smile, swallowing as much as you can before pulling off of him with a gentle pop, your own palm sliding up to take hold of his forearm. He lets you, deflated from his orgasm, and you run your tongue over what you couldn’t catch on his skin. 

“Should’ve known,” he chuckles, peering down at you between soaked lashes before assisting, sliding two fingers into your parted lips, “Let’s find out what else you like.”

[akpaley]

Oh Sensation Sharp and snapping Long companion Hold me close Tell me I am bleeding slowly Torn to pieces Broken bones For all of that is just Sensation To hold, to love To live, to know

So the above artwork is a visualization of the above poem, but this whole thing is also... more than that?

Kaijja as a character in her current form draws a lot from my experiences with pain therapy and managing a chronic pain disorder. Half the prompt for her magic was this set of gifs and the other half was my experience of the psychological element of pain. Which is to say that pain is a response to a certain kind of nervous system activation and how manageable it is often depends on whether your brain thinks there's actually something wrong that needs fixing. Pain in erotic circumstances (not a thing I'm into, but) is often converted to pleasure because brain perceiving strong sensation as pleasurable and pain is strong sensation. I have dealt on and off with a chronic pain disorder for years now, and it is never so bad as when my nervous system is highly activated and I am afraid.

When you are thinking about pain all the time and experiencing sometimes very severe pain all the time and you are aware of that psychological piece but your thinking self still can't quite internalize that nothing is actually physically wrong with you, the concept of erotic pain becomes something of a power fantasy. Imagine you could feel this way, register all the sensations, and be able to treat the whole thing with the kind of joyous curiosity or even pleasure that would make this experience empowering instead of scary. Imagine that instead of making your world smaller this kind of sensation could expand it.

Kaijja was always going to be some kind of flesh paladin, but a lot of what is very core to her comes from that power fantasy, the pain that makes me visualize things moving under my skin or my flesh peeling away being both true and also beautiful. Kaijja isn't someone who doesn't experience pain, but the type of neutrality I have spent the last couple years learning and still don't have all the way down is her default. The bodily warning systems are sometimes informative, the texture of the sensations is interesting, and through the last decade or so she has been conditioned to find the extremes of both erotic. When Kaijja is in too much pain to function well it's because the experience is overwhelming and distracting, not excruciating.

Which presents a problem when the cause of that kind of overwhelm is suddenly actual bodily harm instead of being safely taken apart and reassembled by someone who loves you, and all of your instincts still say this is interesting and lovely and you should settle in and ride it out. When you are aware that there is a difference between your body signals and actual reality and on an emotional lizard brain level you can't tell the difference.

This poem is about not being able to tell the difference.

It is also about me. Not being able to tell the difference.

I don't think it would be so gentle as it is if it weren't also a kind of soft, self-soothing reflection. For her, it's the quiet acknowledgement that this is real. For me, it is the gentle reminder that it is not. A statement that I am in love with the wondrous thing of living, even when the hard parts speak to me from underneath my skin.

[rising-volteccers]

First completed piece this year and it's a vent fic. Been going through some rough, highly stressful stuff so you know I have to inflict it onto Friede. It's how I'm like during the bad days, and figured it could at least be a decent h/c sort of fic.

Series: Pokemon Horizons

Characters: Friede

Warnings: Mostly just negative thoughts and implied self destructive habits

--

Friede knows it’s going to be one of those days from the moment he wakes up.

He knows from the poor sleep he gets; asleep for the majority of the night but stirs awake at the faint footsteps outside his door. Friede knows it’s Murdock being up bright and early so he can prepare breakfast but he feels a surge of sharp annoyance that he woke him up too.

Friede pushes himself into sitting up, careful not to disturb Cap sleeping at the end of the bed. He drops his head into his hands and breathes. It’s not fair to feel like that towards Murdock. It’s just him feeling… raw. Sensitive. An exposed bundle of nerves that’s twitchy from everything.

He can feel every strand of hair on his face. A hot, itchy sensation across his scalp that he knows no amount of scratching would fix. The feeling like he’s too big in his body, too tight under his own skin. Friede drops his hands onto his lap and grimaces, raising them from the blanket still half covering him. He’s suddenly hyper aware of how warm it feels on his legs, of the fabric’s texture beneath his fingertips from the brief contact. 

Friede wants to kick it off but he stamps down the impulse to do so. Cap’s still sleeping, his small body laying atop the blanket. He can’t do that. He can’t wake up Cap so rudely just because he’s feeling like this.

He takes deep breaths until the his heartbeat lessens and he feels less agitated. Friede tries to think of his plans for the day but his brain feels too fuzzy. Forcing himself will just give him a headache, so he opts to start with just getting out of bed and getting ready for breakfast. 

Usually he has plenty of energy to spare, bounding out of bed and whizzing around his room to get ready for the day. Right now, it feels kind of overwhelming to tackle his usual routine. It’s like there are chains tying his limbs down that the act of getting out of bed feels like a monumental task. 

Friede pauses to breathe. That’s all he can do. What he should do to not get agitated at something so inconsequential. 

Eventually he does get out of bed. He hisses when his bare feet touches the cold ground. He should have worn socks before bed. He tries to find his socks but his room is a mess–more so than usual.

He’s been busy doing his professor stuff. There’s a better term for it but even in his own mental dialogue, it’s hard to be eloquent. Friede tries not to think about it too hard since it’s just going to make him upset for not finding the right words to use in his own mind. 

He has stacks of paper on his table. Books strewn about. His jacket is in the closet but a lot of his clothes are kind of stacked in the corner. He’s not usually this messy, this disorganized. He’s been busy, fixated on getting his research done. Spent days working on it, not really registering the passage of time. If not for Murdock reminding him to eat, Friede would have forgotten to do so. When he gets fixated, it’s like he doesn’t really register the cues sent by his own body. He doesn’t register the hunger, the soreness of his back from his hunched positions, the stinging eyes from staying up far too late. Only being aware when he stops and gets hit with the hunger pangs, the dizziness, the all consuming exhaustion that has him collapsing onto bed and sleeping for twelve hours straight.

He knows his socks are somewhere in the mess but he doesn’t know if he has the energy to dig through it. Laundry day isn’t for a few more days (he thinks) so he’s stuck with what he has. Friede thinks he has clean socks somewhere in the closet, but the idea of digging through that and imagining the disappointment of not finding it makes him not want to do it at all.

Friede scrubs his face. Breathes. He can do this. Every fiber of his being doesn’t want to but he has to do this. 

Find clean socks. Wear them. After that put on boots. Wear his jacket. Tie his hair–or not, grimacing when he thinks about the feeling of his hair being pulled. Put on his goggles. Maybe then it’ll fully stamp down the urge to grab a pair of scissors and just snip off his bangs.

He can do this. One thing at a time. He can do this and not feel like he’s going to break down in tears because he’s unable to do a simple task due to his brain feeling fuzzy and he feels stupid and–

Breathe. He can do this. One thing a time. 

Friede makes a slow sweep of his room. Eyes shifting from the bed, to the desk, the floor and closet. He doesn’t see socks until his eyes fell on his boots located near the door. He sees the socks draped over it.

Right, he always puts it there so he remembers to wear socks with his boots before he goes out. Friede walks over and grabs the socks. He leans against the wall to put it on. He frowns when he notices there’s a small hole. It’s not big enough for his big toe to slip out but he’ll be aware of that tiny space all day.

Briefly he considers going sockless but chooses the lesser of two evils. Friede just needs to remember to buy a new pair of socks next time they docked and resupply. With one task complete, the tension in his shoulder loosens slightly. 

He got out of bed. He’s wearing socks. The next thing is to slip into his boots. Friede does so but frowns when he realizes the laces are untied. The thought of maneuvering his uncoordinated fingers into properly tying them up is overwhelming, so he opts to tuck the ends of the laces inside his boots for now.

With another task handled, he moves on to the next. Friede goes to grab his jacket, briefly holding it to lightly scratch at the patches on it. Better the patches than himself. He does this to multiple patches as each have their own unique texture. 

When his skin didn’t feel as tight after a few minutes of scratching, Friede finally dons the jacket. He straightens it, using his palms to smoothed out wrinkles. He knows it’s not as effective but the idea of things looking presentable is enough to motivate him into doing the next task.

Friede doesn’t feel like tying his hair right now so he skips over to the last step, which is to put on his goggles. The pressure around his head eases something in him, and when he pushes the goggles up that it keeps his bangs out of his eyes, Friede feels more in control now.

He glances at the mirror. Even if he doesn’t truly feel like it, he at least look put together. Friede tells himself to match what he sees, so he pushes his lips into smiling. 

When he’s smiling, he looks like good ol’ Friede, the ever reliable captain that his friends know him for. That’s the Friede he wants to be today, not the grumpy, easily agitated Friede that woke up an hour ago.

He doesn’t fully feel like that first Friede but he feels more at ease with himself that he can at least put on a decent show. Friede can join everyone for breakfast, smile at the kids, smile at his crew, thank Murdock for the food, eat it for the sake of not getting questioning looks and then go about his day.

Friede’s not sure what to do with his day but going to breakfast is a start. 

His ears easily pick up the sound of Cap’s faint chuu, and he turns to find his partner awake, swiping the hat that fell off his head before putting it on. 

“Morning Cap,” Friede says, finding that it’s not too hard to form words. It doesn’t feel wrong to move his mouth, to speak and smile. “Awake just in time for breakfast.”

Cap gives a Pika in reply before he gets off the bed. Friede manages to keep still and not flinch when Cap digs his paws into his clothes to climb up his back and onto his shoulder. He’s very much aware of the paw grabbing a handful of his hair but it’s manageable. 

He’s good ol’ Friede now, and he’s not going to be annoyed by Cap doing this when he’s done it countless times before.

Friede simply breathes for a moment, then smiles before exiting the room. He’s exhausted, he still feels odd in his own body, he still wants nothing more than to stay in bed and not get up, but he’s up and ready for the day, so he’s going to go through it one step at a time.

[hcvney]

“ Payment Accepted ”

you meet a mysterious man alone in a subway corridor and agree to play Ddakji with him. After losing, you willingly offer yourself to him, drawn in by his charm.

-

Rating: 18+ (explicit, nsfw)

Pairing: The recruiter (gong yoo) x F!Reader

Warnings: Power dynamics, oral (f receiving), public setting (no witnesses), reader willingly submitting

-

It wasn’t even supposed to be your stop.

You’d missed your train by seconds — the echo of its departure still rattled the platform tiles beneath your boots. The crowd had thinned. The lights buzzed above in flickering pulses. You were alone.

Or… almost.

The suitcase caught your eye first.

Then the man beside it.

He stood like he was waiting for someone — crisp dark suit, red tie knotted tight, one hand tucked neatly into his coat pocket. Calm. Still. Almost too still. Like a photograph.

When you didn’t move, he smiled.

“Lost?”

His voice was deep. Clean. Almost velvety. Like it belonged somewhere indoors, behind polished glass and soft whiskey.

You hesitated. “No. Just… missed my train.”

“Then maybe you’ll play a game with me while you wait.”

Your breath caught.

He bent down and unlocked the suitcase with a satisfying click.

Inside—two neatly folded pieces of red and blue Ddakji paper.

“You win,” he said, “you get the money.”

“I win… you repay me however I ask.”

He paused. “But only if you want to.”

That part wasn’t a threat.

It was a dare.

Your eyes flicked to the paper squares. Then to his hands — long fingers, buttoned cuff. Clean nails. The kind of man who didn’t just take control. He commanded it.

You stepped closer.

“I’ll play,” you said. “But don’t go easy on me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

You lost.

Three times in a row.

The sharp crack of the Ddakji slapping the platform echoed louder than you expected. The final fold flopped onto its back, defeated.

You looked up.

He was already stepping toward you — not hurried. Just… deliberate. One slow foot in front of the other.

You swallowed. “So… what happens now?”

“You pay,” he said, smooth as ever. “But I’m not interested in slapping you.”

He reached out, his fingertips brushing under your chin. Lifting it.

“You’re far too pretty for that.”

The words weren’t crude. They were precise. Like everything he did was planned two steps ahead.

“There’s no one here but us,” he said. “And I think you knew you’d lose the second you agreed to play.”

Your pulse throbbed in your throat.

“Why else would you still be standing here?”

“Why else are you looking at my mouth like that?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

Because when he kissed you, you kissed him back.

Hard.

His hands slid around your waist and backed you into the subway wall, one palm splayed against the tile behind your head. The suitcase lay forgotten. His tongue slipped between your lips with expert ease — no fumbling, no hesitation. Just full intent.

He tasted like mint and something darker.

You let out a breathless sound as he pressed his body to yours — sharp suit lines firm against your chest, thigh between your legs.

“You want to repay me?” he murmured, lips ghosting your ear. “Let me taste you.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

You didn’t answer with words.

You just nodded — and reached for the zipper of your jeans.

-

He dropped to his knees with the grace of someone who was used to being obeyed.

You steadied yourself against the wall as he gently tugged your pants down, his breath warm against your inner thighs. His eyes never left yours.

Even when he licked his lips.

“Already wet for me,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Then his mouth was on you.

The first lick was broad — tongue flat, slow, deliberate, dragging up your slit like he wanted to memorize the texture. He stopped at your clit, mouth pausing to gently suck — not hard, not rushed. Just enough pressure to make your breath hitch and your knees tighten.

Hot and slow and deliberate — like he wasn’t just trying to make you come, but trying to learn you. Every flick of his tongue was measured, every suck of your clit perfectly timed.

His tongue moved with devastating skill — circling your clit once, twice, then flicking it rhythmically while his lips sealed around it. He kept you open with one strong arm under your thigh, holding your hips steady when you bucked forward.

Your hands fisted into his hair, breath catching when his tongue flattened and dragged upward — then circled again, tighter, then again—

You weren’t guiding him — he didn’t need guidance — but you needed to hold something as he devoured you like it was his purpose.

He changed pace — slow swirls, then sharp flicks. He dipped down, licked through your folds, and back again, tongue teasing your entrance, then sucking your clit again until your moans echoed off the tiled walls.

You cried out softly, but he only pressed deeper — one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you open, the other hand braced against the floor.

“Let go,” he said between licks. “You can. No one’s watching.”

He closed his mouth around your clit again — this time sucking harder, with his tongue flicking in steady rhythm.

You came with a gasp, thighs trembling, hips rolling forward into his mouth as he groaned against you — like your taste was everything he expected and more.

Your orgasm tore through you like a wave — hips bucking into his face, thighs clenching around his shoulders, your fingers gripping his hair so tight you heard him moan.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through the aftershocks — slow, reverent strokes now, easing the tremors out of your legs until your grip loosened and your back slumped into the wall.

Only then did he stand.

He licked his lips. Not in show. Just to taste what lingered.

And then he smiled.

“Payment accepted.”

He smoothed your clothes back into place, tucked your hair behind your ear, and handed you a small piece of paper from his jacket.

“Call the number,” he said.

He leaned in again — lips grazing your cheek, hot breath against your ear.

“Or don’t.”

“But if you don’t…”

“I’ll come collect you again.”

And with that — he turned. Lifted his suitcase. Vanished into the tunnel like a shadow.

-

[robins-warudo]

Lamia HRT Part III

First Checkup

I practically stumble out of Erian’s office after my checkup, colors still swimming through much of my vision.  Thankfully, my face’s new heat-sensing pits are sensitive enough that I can “see” and walk about serviceably enough to get around, but I sit down in a chair closest to the door to try and recover just a little more before going home.  

“I am not knowledgeable about this condition,” the doctor had told me, “but feel free to visit the hospital the next time these particular symptoms flare up.”  

Not the answer I had hoped for, but I’ll take his word for it.  Not like I’m the expert here.  Though these symptoms - the dizziness, the vivid color hallucinations, the crawling feeling under my skin, the nosebleed that had thankfully stopped halfway here..  I’m having trouble trying to piece it together, especially in this state, but it sounds.. oddly familiar to me. One possibility skirts my mind, but I shake it off because it feels like nonsense, even in the context of an interdimensional city that lets you become an animal..  Or, in my case, a monster.

I primarily feel the heat of dozens of people passing by as I think and rest, uncertain how much time passes, until one shape in particular stops in front of me, holding something out towards me.  It’s hard to tell when primarily using heat vision to “see” what’s in front of me, but it’s shaped like.. a leaf?

“Try this, Lady Serpent.” they address me, placing the leaf in my hand.  I carefully bring the leaf to my mouth and try to bite it - it breaks easily enough, but attempting to chew with a mouth full of solely sharp teeth is a difficulty I’m still adjusting to.  More of Erian’s words go through my mind related to them - “Your teeth are showing growth atypical to the known lamia species, and if you are indeed not taking other medication as you claim, I will need to run additional tests to be certain there are no other impurities in your system and/or potentially hazardous complications down the line.”

Seeing my difficulty, only partly due to my recollection, the stranger rests a hand on my own again and says “No need to chew, if you find it difficult.”  I oblige and swallow the leaf shreds I’ve managed, and I start to feel invigorated rapidly, my normal vision slowly returning.  Blinking away the mix of sight and infrared, then blinking twice more to be certain I’m not hallucinating, I find standing in front of me the most beautiful elf I’ve yet seen since coming to Hyper City.  Their skin is an unusual yet familiar obsidian tone, their silver hair is textured, and their eyes sparkle of gold, all on a frame somewhat stockier than most of the other elves I’ve seen, yet still as graceful in movement and manner.  On recollection with a clearer head, their hands as they gave me the leaf were also quite soft, lacking that lacquered wooden feel that other elves I’ve seen within Hyper City are known for.. at least to my limited knowledge.  And the look of it certainly matched, making me wonder what made the elf in front of me different.  “Feeling any better?”

“Y-Yeah, much, actually.  I barely even swallowed, how-”

“Magic, of course.”  The elf interjects.  “I’m a mage, you see, and I grow.. medicinal plants as part of my research.  Had a sample on me and you looked like you could use a pick-me-up.”  The way they look me up and down as I rapidly recover suggests something more, but I dare not pry immediately after being helped.

“Oh, cool, keep forgetting there’s other magic stuff here, not just the HRT…  Uh, I’m Robin, and I’m becoming a lamia, hence my scales and such..” I introduce myself awkwardly as I sit up straight in the chair, munching on the rest of the magic leaf.

“A lamia, you say?  How interesting.  I recognize you, by the way- we live in the same apartment complex.  We don’t cross paths often, so it’s nice to formally meet you.” the elf says back, almost a recitation, which would probably make anyone else second-guess - I, however, don’t like to make assumptions.  They continue,  “Ah, forgive me, you can call me Marna.  They/them.” they tell me after seeing the unintended look of confusion on my face.  “As you can see, I’m an elf.  Have been for approximately..  Two years.  Just exited my own appointment and still saw you sitting here.”

“Elf, huh?  That’s cool!” I’m genuine, but perhaps too outwardly excited - I find some unpleasant exomemories of a particular group of elves I once met surfacing.  In fact, Marna’s obsidian skin, while not directly the same as those elves, makes me think of how such a skin tone was famously related to royal bloodlines in the Northern-.. I shake the thought away, sure that these dots I was connecting to a work of fiction was mere coincidence.

“Quite.  Say, are you sure you are well?  There was something slippery and quite warm on your hand.”

I look down at my hand, see the wet spot, and bring it up to my face.  My pits do detect it’s a warm spot, but the heat is not transferring to the skin, almost like it’s been isolated. I sniff it next and recognize what it is immediately.  “Oh!  Right!  I spilled butter on myself right before I collapsed, because I was making breakfast…  But I didn’t really feel it, so maybe I tolerate heat better now!”

“Right before you collapsed?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said..”

Marna’s eyes narrow slightly, seeming to inspect my skin, but before I ask what they’re doing, they speak up as if nothing happened. “Apologies, Robin, I don’t wish to keep you, especially since you seem to be doing alright.  You were sitting there for my entire appointment, after all.”

“Huh?”  I pull out my phone to check the time.  Geez, how long have I been sitting here, this was a 10am appointment and now it’s “3pm?!”  I get out of my chair quickly to leave, barely remembering to have some semblance of politeness and turn back. “Oh!  Right, thank you for helping me, Marna!  We’ll talk later!” 

Marna gives me a smile and wave as I rush my way out the door, then frowns a bit, deep in thought, and exits while mumbling to themself.  “You suffer from symptoms of mana sickness, seemingly because you unknowingly put a heat protection enchantment on yourself.  You recover rapidly from unrefined mana consumption and barely react to me being a mage.  Your unsubtle expressions told me you registered my skin tone differently than most.  And you are the resident of our apartment complex, which has experienced recent thinning of the mana I spread around the complex, an amount congruent with the presence of a-..  Hm.  Sorry, Robin.  Looks as though I’ll be watching you for a while.”

[mikrokosmos]

Chopin - Mazurka op.33 no.3 in C Major

There are several reasons why I struggle to make new posts for Chopin. Part of it is that he's been one of my top favorites since I first got into classical music. More accurately, he was the first who got me into music in general, the first composer's name I learned, the first pieces I listened to that moved me more than any popular song did at the time (I think I was about 9? 10?). This gives me bias toward the more purple-prosey way people talk about Chopin. Tender, beautiful, melancholic, expressing every nuanced emotion in the sea of human experience, blah blah blah. I also struggle to single out works to talk about without repeating what’s already been said. But growing up I never got into his Mazurkas nearly as much as I did all the other genre he’s famous for. The Mazurkas don’t have the operatic lyricism of the Nocturnes, they don’t have the dance qualities of the Waltzes, they aren’t carrying a promise of extra-musical narratives like the Ballades seem to suggest…they are, as a whole, more subdued, nuanced, “intimate”, and being based off of Polish dance, more of a personal expression than any other works he wrote. Maybe that hyperbole is too narrow minded, and maybe I’m falling into the same Romanticism that I claimed to want to avoid above. But I will say that the Mazurkas are full of a specific aspect of Chopin’s style that I think is taken for granted due to the 200 years of music since. That is, his grotesques; inclusions of slight dissonances that color all of the harmonies with keyboard writing that distorts normal chord progressions. Tonic to dominant, to relative minor, to subdominant, to dominant, to tonic again, the typical sequence of Classical harmony used in this Mazurka is made less familiar with voicing that emphasizes the harsh dissonances. I have been trying to teach myself to play this Mazurka but the awkward hand positions and inclusion of multiple seconds makes it feel clunky under my fingers and much harder to pull off the simplicity and grace I hear in recordings. As always, more practice needed. Still it reminds me of a quote that I’m afraid to say I cannot find the original source. I am possibly wrong, so with a grain of salt, I’ll claim that Clara Schumann said of Chopin’s playing something to the effect of “when hearing him play his music, it always sounded as if he were playing wrong notes by mistake, yet it all fit together”. Something or other, possibly not from Clara Schumann at all. The point being, these awkward and unexpected dissonances made it hard to tell the difference between a mistake and an intention, because with Chopin these perceived “mistakes” are all intentional and add to the overall color of the harmony and texture. Again, hard for us to hear in the 21st century where Chopin is marketed as an easy listening composer, music for the background while you study, or fall asleep, or lovely pretty piano music for date nights, etc. We forget that his style of piano writing was a serious departure from the Classical attitude toward voicing, phrasing, and harmony.

Here I can offer a real quote with a real source; “In search of ear-rendering dissonances, torturous transitions, sharp modulations, repugnant contortions of melody and rhythm, Chopin is altogether indefatigable. All that one can chance upon, is here brought forward to produce the effect of bizarre originality, especially the strangest tonalities, the most unnatural chord positions, the most preposterous combinations in regards to fingering. but it is not really worth the trouble to hold such long philippics for the sake of the perverse mazurkas of Herr Chopin. Had he submitted this music to a teacher, the latter, it is to be hoped, would have torn it up and thrown it at his feet - and this is what we symbolically wish to do.” (L.Rellstab, Iris, Berlin, July 5, 1833) [Slominsky, N. “Lexicon of Musical Invective” p.83 (2000)].

Ironically it is the roughness and contortions that give the music its beauty, and helps it to transcend beyond generic parlor music that was fashionable for the time. Like how Webern condensed so much emotion in microscopic works, Chopin fills a whole novel’s worth of bittersweet nostalgia in 33 bars of music that can fit on a single page. And that is why he’s still celebrated 215 years after is birth, and why he’ll always be among the greats.

[skellyjingles]

HOW DO YOU GET YOUR STYILE SO SOFT LOOKING? THE WAY YOU DRAW JAX IS SO HEKING CUTE!! LIKE HOW???

I think the softness of my style ultimately falls on 3 things:

Good, textured brushes - this is the biggest one. it's not impossible to make soft-looking art with a hard brush, but i mainly stick to textured brushes to make things easier for myself. my favorite brushes are the ones that are solid enough for clear line definition but they do something interesting with the shape/density/opacity that keeps it from being too "hard" if that makes sense. for example, my go-to brush for line art is the CSP Bit Husky ink brush (it used to be a default brush, but now you have to download it if you have a newer version). It acts like an actual brush that isn't loaded with enough ink, so you can see the brushstrokes where certain parts are less opaque (like what you can see in this Jax drawing)

i think this brush strikes a great balance between the clarity of the lines while still giving it a certain fuzziness. speaking of fuzzy, a brush that i love for softer shading/coloring is the SU Cream Pencil; it has a really nice, pillowy feel to it + it is absolutely awesome for blending. i understand that not everyone has CSP but i encourage you to experiment with other brushes regardless! i use different brushes all the time.

[this is getting long so i'll pop the rest under the cut]

Color usage - aside from when i doodle, i don't really use pure black or white because i find that they often look too harsh; just adding that little bit of color makes it look more visually interesting and easier on the eyes. similarly, i refrain from using colors at full saturation. even when i use highly-saturated colors, i limit it to 1 or maybe 2. i also sometimes use a multiply or overlay layer over the whole thing to unify the color palette more.

you've probably also noticed that i like to color in the inner lines differently from the outer lines. i think it works because less contrast on the inner lines makes it less harsh but the contrast created by the outer lines maintains the visual separation between different parts of the piece.

Lack of straightness - be bi like me the concept of softness is visually associated with curves and rounded shapes. whenever I'm drawing characters, i try to avoid using straight lines and sharp angles so i can get a more organic feel (unless the design calls for it, like Zooble)

that's how i get my style soft-looking. there's plenty of other approaches by other people, but this one's mine.

as for a cute-looking jax, he has big expressive eyes. it's pretty easy to make him look cute. add some highlights to them if you're particularly struggling.