#deadlines are ✨not my thing✨ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dakusan · 19 days ago

Text

MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #jeongin #yang jeongin #jeongin x reader #jeongin smut

915 notes · View notes

u3pxx · 8 months ago

Text

happy tsukkiyama day to those who celebrate 🌙⛰️✨

like this art? it's a print, here! | like what i do? support me on ko-fi!

i'm so bad with dates i didn't even realize today's numbers were 11 and 12 ASKSKS (also i missed POCKY DAY? man, i had an idea for a doodle for that but oh well. i'll still draw it fdgfdhd)

i almost panicked about not having any art for tskym day bc cmon.... they're my boys........ but thankfully i had a deadline to finish some art prints last week and now here we are pftt

the process for this one is a little different from what i'd consider my usual way of drawing. i usually do lineart, flat colors, rendering, and yadda yadda, but maybe it's because i've been doing a lot of painterly disco elysium art lately that i decided to just paint over the scaled-up thumbnail and see where it takes me! (you can see in the timelapse me struggling over cleanly inking tsukki's face before i went 'screw this' LOL)

drawing this was pretty fun! i always wanted to try out my painterly style outside of disco elysium fanart and now i've done it! (well, done it again, bc i've kind of tried it for kghn day too pftt)

there is still something very charming abt the thumbnail in my humble onion, i don't think i was able to retain the exact silent tenderness in tsukki's face from the thumbnail in the final thing but oh well, c'est la vie dghdj (also me drawing yammers with visible nostrils jumpscare [this is only funny to me ASKSK])

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#tsukishima kei #yamaguchi tadashi #tsukkiyama #tsukiyama #sunnysidedraws #sunnysideball #described #id in alt text

1K notes · View notes

glowettee · 3 months ago

Note

Hi Mindy! I’m a college student and I’m struggling to go to bed at a decent hour (think 3 am bedtimes every day) because of the amount of homework I have. Do you have any tips for time management so I can figure out how to get my homework done all during the day so I’m not losing sleep? (Any app recommendations or suggestions on how to schedule my day would be greatly appreciated). Thank you so much! I love your blog and I love seeing your posts🩷

how to get your life together & actually sleep: time management tips for college✨

hi love! 💌 first off, thank you so much for your sweet words. they genuinely made me smile. i’m so proud of you for wanting to improve your time management and prioritize your sleep (honestly, sleep is like the ultimate self-care, and you deserve it). i know college can feel like a whirlwind of assignments, deadlines, and just… life. staying up until 3 am is no joke, and it’s amazing that you’re ready to make a change. let’s make your routine feel a little more manageable and a lot more magical.

☁️ romanticize your productivity: first thing’s first: mindset. instead of viewing homework as this scary, endless task that eats up your nights, try to romanticize it. create a cozy study ritual. light a candle, make a cute study playlist (ex: lo-fi mixed with soft acoustics), and set up your space in a way that makes you actually want to sit down and work. i know it sounds silly, but giving your study sessions a soft, aesthetic vibe can make them feel less like a chore and more like a peaceful little routine. i have a lot of posts talking about this

🌙 break down your workload: sometimes it’s not about how much work you have but how it’s organized. take a few minutes in the morning or the night before to make a list of what you actually need to accomplish. break it down into small, bite-sized tasks. for example, instead of “study for chem exam,” write down “review chapter 4 notes,” “do practice problems,” and “make flashcards for key concepts.” checking off small tasks feels way more rewarding than staring at a big, vague to-do.

💡 create a time-blocking ritual: i’m obsessed with time-blocking because it feels like giving each task its own little home. instead of doing everything all at once (which is just chaos), dedicate specific chunks of time to each task. for instance:

🌼 9-10 am: review lecture notes

✨ 10-11:30 am: work on that essay (no distractions)

🍓 11:30-12: take a break, stretch, grab a snack

💻 12-1: group project research set timers to keep yourself accountable. i use the “focus keeper” app for 25-minute work sessions with 5-minute breaks. it’s surprisingly motivating!

📅 the magic of reverse scheduling: if you know you want to be in bed by, say, 11 pm, plan your day backwards from there. schedule your evening wind-down routine (like skincare, a little journaling, and tea) and work your way back through the hours, assigning tasks in reverse. this way, you’re prioritizing sleep as non-negotiable and shaping your day to respect that.

✨ my fave apps for dreamy productivity:

notion: perfect for creating aesthetic, organized to-do lists, study schedules, and even journaling about your progress.

flora: turns studying into a game by planting a virtual tree while you focus. if you leave the app, the tree dies (no pressure, right?).

toggl: tracks your time so you can see how long tasks actually take. it’s eye-opening to realize you might be spending way more time scrolling than studying.

clockify: like a little personal assistant that tracks your study sessions and breaks. it’s simple and kind of addicting to see how productive you’ve been.

habitica: makes productivity feel like an RPG game. complete with character upgrades when you check things off. honestly, it’s too cute to resist.

💖 mindy’s personal tips:

📝 batch similar tasks: do all your note-taking at once, then all your problem-solving. your brain doesn’t have to keep switching gears.

🎯 use the “two-minute rule”: if something takes less than two minutes, do it right away (like replying to emails or organizing your notes).

🕰️ the 1-3-5 rule: pick one big task, three medium tasks, and five small ones to accomplish each day. it keeps your to-do list from being overwhelming.

✨ romanticize rest too: treat your sleep as sacred. create a pre-bed routine that you actually look forward to, like reading a few pages of a lighthearted book or doing a little night yoga.

🌸 don't forget how important 'no' is: sometimes, we overcommit because we’re too nice to say no. it’s okay to protect your time! practice polite ways to decline extra responsibilities when you know they’ll eat into your sleep. like, “i’d love to help, but i have to focus on my assignments tonight. let’s plan something for the weekend!”

🌙 gentle evening wind-down: your body needs time to transition from productivity mode to sleep mode. about an hour before bed, turn off your screens, dim the lights, and switch to calming activities. i like using the “calm” app for guided meditations that feel like little bedtime stories.

🌱 become a morning person (yes, it’s possible)

one trick that really works is having something to look forward to. think of a tiny, indulgent ritual that you save just for mornings. maybe it’s a frothy matcha latte with vanilla syrup, journaling in a pretty notebook, or listening to your favorite podcast while you stretch. the key is to make mornings feel like a gift to yourself rather than just the start of a grind.

set your alarm to a song that makes you feel good!! something soft and happy. bonus points if it’s different from your usual playlist because it’ll feel special. place your phone across the room so you have to physically get up to turn it off. i also love using the “alarmy” app because it makes you solve a simple puzzle before it stops ringing (annoying, but effective).

once you’re up, avoid falling back into bed by making your bed immediately. it’s like telling your brain, “we’re up now. no going back.” then, try a quick, gentle morning stretch to wake your body up without feeling rushed. mornings can actually feel soft and peaceful if you give yourself permission to take it slow.

as for getting enough sleep the night before. make it non-negotiable. treat your bedtime like an important meeting you can’t cancel. remind yourself that a well-rested mind works way better than a sleep-deprived one. it’s all about romanticizing rest as part of your productivity rather than seeing it as wasted time.

give it a week, and see how you feel. even a small shift, like waking up 30 minutes earlier, can make your day feel more spacious and less chaotic. being a morning person is just about creating tiny habits that make mornings feel like a calm beginning rather than a rushed scramble.

🌸 micro productivity okay, let’s be real... sometimes the idea of sitting down for a three-hour study session feels completely overwhelming. that’s where micro productivity comes in. instead of blocking out huge chunks of time, break your tasks into mini-sprints that fit into the small gaps of your day.

for example, while waiting for your coffee to brew, you could make a quick list of your priorities for the day. during your commute or while you’re eating lunch, review your flashcards or skim your notes. those little moments add up, and suddenly your workload doesn’t feel as intense because you’ve been chipping away at it throughout the day.

one of my favorite apps for this is “quizlet.” you can make digital flashcards and quickly review them whenever you have a spare moment. or use “ankidroid” for spaced repetition. it’s great for subjects that require lots of memorization.

another trick? the “two-minute rule.” if a task takes less than two minutes, do it immediately rather than adding it to your to-do list. this helps clear out small, annoying tasks that tend to pile up (like replying to emails or organizing your desktop).

i also love the idea of micro journaling. sometimes, when you’re overwhelmed, writing down just one thought or feeling can give your brain the clarity it craves. it doesn’t have to be a full journal entry, just a few words that capture your mood or intention.

don’t underestimate the function of small wins. every tiny task you complete builds momentum and makes the bigger assignments feel more doable. it’s like telling yourself, “i’m already being productive today. let’s keep that energy going.”

the goal is to make productivity feel more like a series of little achievements rather than one massive to-do list. micro productivity helps you stay on top of things without burning out, and it feels way more manageable when your schedule is packed.

💫 stay motivated when your energy is low we’ve all been there. those days when your brain feels like it’s wrapped in a fog, and the idea of tackling your to-do list feels impossible. it’s okay to have low-energy days, but let’s find a way to work with them instead of against them.

first, check in with yourself. is your low energy from lack of sleep, stress, or just general burnout? sometimes just identifying the reason helps you figure out what kind of self-care you need. if you’re physically tired, maybe your focus should be on rest or low-effort tasks. if it’s more mental fatigue, try switching up your study space or doing something creative to break the monotony.

use the idea of “productive rest.” sometimes, resting doesn’t mean doing nothing. it can be as simple as switching tasks to something lighter, like organizing your notes or doing some gentle stretching while listening to a podcast related to your coursework. this way, you’re still moving forward, just at a gentler pace.

set up a reward system to motivate yourself. for example, after 20 minutes of studying, give yourself a 5-minute break to scroll through pinterest or listen to a song you love. use apps like “forest” to stay focused during your work session and then celebrate with a cute coffee break when your tree grows.

also, be kind to yourself. it’s okay if you’re not operating at 100% all the time. instead of pushing yourself to be overly productive, prioritize what actually needs to get done. sometimes, just getting one important task out of the way is enough for the day, and that’s completely valid.

remember, your energy levels fluctuate, and that’s perfectly normal. don’t pressure yourself to be endlessly productive. balance is key. the goal is sustainable productivity, not burning out from trying to do everything at once. listen to your body, adjust your pace, and know that it’s okay to take breaks when you need them.

💫 final thoughts: it’s all about balance, being productive during the day is great, but you’re human. you can’t be on 24/7. give yourself grace when things don’t go perfectly. the goal isn’t perfection; it’s progress. prioritize rest as much as you prioritize getting things done, and your mind (and grades) will thank you.

xoxo mindy

188 notes · View notes

themanyhobbiesoffem · 2 months ago

Text

07.05.2025

My break is over, so I’ve been back to school! My brain is an absolute mess because I have quite a few deadlines this semester. However, in between I am doing my cross stitch, because it’s something to keep my hands busy and easy enough to unwind from a long day. I am trying hard to figure out a way to balance my perfections and drive for productivity with my hobbies and not feel guilty for doing what I love.

I read ten books in April, a few of which were graphic novels!

Finished ‘Her majesty’s royal coven, which I greatly enjoyed! The weather was beautiful, so I could sit outside.

Also finished ‘Somewhere beyond the sea’ by TJ Klune and that book was like a hug, such a good story and those kids have my heart. Any likeminded book suggestions are welcome!

Again, many walks were had, as it seems to be one of the only things to keep me sane. I’ve found being outside is becoming more and more of a favourite activity!

Instead of being at school until 4pm, I was free at 1:30pm, so I summarised my notes from my marketing class.

Have a lovely week✨

183 notes · View notes

ziorre · 6 months ago

Text

✨Commission info✨

New year, new art pieces! I'm ready, I'm rested, I'm refreshed! And I'm completely charged to take care of your new ideas and characters!! I truly believe that every character is awesome and original and deserves to be shown with their own story! And I'll try to help you with this in a way that is more convenient for you! You just pick one below ;)

✨ PRICES:

- SEMI-REALISTIC STYLE (for the cases, when you want it looks more real without much stylizing)

- USUAL STYLE (for the cases, when you don’t mind it looks more stylized and a lil sketchy)

- CONCEPT SHEET (for the cases, when you want to present your character, their outfit and props)

* you can find more examples on my page by the commission tag ** a helpful post describing a right order for your refs

✨ DEADLINES: After you DM me with a brief description of your idea, I’ll tell you the approximate date when I’ll be able to proceed with your commission

!!!!Always warn me in advance if I need to draw art by a certain deadline!!!

✨ PAYMENT: What: USD or RUB When: full pre-payment (when you sent me the email and we approved the art idea) Where: Hypolink/Lava.top (russian platforms, support payment via PayPal)

✨ PROCESS: You write to me in private messages on Tumblr, briefly tell me your idea of our future art, what style and what slot you want (full body / half body / bust). Then I give you my email address and you send me an email (with your Tumblr name as the topic please) with all necessary references (your character's face claim, their pose, clothes, background etc.). You describe the idea of the art in details, where it takes place, and other things that I need to know so that I can base the sketch on all that info, because after you approve the sketch, I don’t change art much in the further stages of the work, just some details. I send you the payment link on my Boosty page. Send you the sketch. After you confirm that you like the sketch, I finish the work and send it on your email😊

✨ OTHER: - I don’t correct the art after you approved the finished version. - I don’t copy other artist’s work. - I publish every commission on my social media, if you don’t want it to be published, just let me know. - If you’re not sure about the art idea, I can suggest you 4 sketches with different poses/concepts/angles for extra $20 and you pick the one you like the most. - For significant corrections or a lot of small ones at any stage of work, an additional fee may be charged (this doesn’t apply to some small adjustments or details witch I missed). There are 3 free changes at the each stages of the work (sketch, finished version), further - $2-$5.

___________________________________

And of course I can't skip to say a huge thank you to those who commissioned and continue commissioning art from me! It means a lot! For real! This is not only material support, but also moral one, saying that I’m not wasting my time and energy in vain, that I’m moving in the right direction, that people like what I do! I can't tell how inspiring it is!! 350 commissions! I’ve never imagined that one day I would draw so many art for others! Just.. wow!! Thank you again so much for trusting me bringing to life your ideas! I truly appreciate it!😌

____________________________________

I think this is it, right? If you have any questions, feel free to DM me ;)

I’ll be VERY grateful for your reblogs!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤ (and thank you very much for this in advance, it helps me A LOOOOOOOOOT, you are the ones who keep me alive literally! I see each and every one of you doing that! You’re the best!!!) Thanks for your attention! Have a good day =)

#far cry 5 #baldur's gate 3 #cyberpunk 2077 #commission #artists on tumblr #digital art #my art

239 notes · View notes

sali0512 · 6 months ago

Text

Hello, you are probably tired of the nutcracker, but this is the pre-final and the DTIYS competition

I know that we have one more picture left, but if you look at it logically, it is better to post it later than this one

Especially since December is over and I have been trying to put my thoughts in order all week, as I wanted to consolidate this event for myself with a good mood, and for you of course 🩷 With this competition I am celebrating 2500 subscribers on Instagram, which I have been working towards for a very long time

So, thank you very much for being with me, this is the first post in 2025 and gratitude for all the achievements in the past.

I am even embarrassed to realize all this. But you are probably more interested in learning about the conditions.

Basic rules: Draw this art in your style, I deliberately chose a less dynamic pose and a simple background, without complex angles and profiles, so that you would not scold me. But of course, if you want to add more movement, then I and everyone else will be happy to look at your work. The main thing is not to lose the idea, characters and atmosphere, for me this is fundamental and will be taken into account.

Prizes:

1st place - full-length art

2nd place - waist-length art

3rd place - shoulder-length art

There will also be an ✨Audience Choice Award✨ according to other good guys)))

Don't forget to tag me here, on Instagram or Tumblr.

#Saliart2500

As you like.

Good luck to everyone and I hope you enjoy the process 💓💓💓

Deadline until March 1 :)

240 notes · View notes

drawing-kupfer · 6 months ago

Text

Sleepy Boatems 💙✨😴

This is @applestruda 's DTIYS challenge and since it doesnt have a deadline and after I saw SO MANY ENTRIES LOOK SO AMAZING i finally scraped my guts together and tried it myself ✨💙

I do like the end result but you can go under the cut to see my sketch and to see what happened when I missclicked on the chromatic aberation.

The sketch looks so soft and cozy already

💙✨🥺

And the following was me misclicking and continuing to laugh my ass off because they look like they are transcending reality in a shared feverdream

It is the best thing I ever did tbh

#hermitcraft fanart #boatem fanart #pearlescentmoon #pearlescentmoon fanart #mumbo jumbo #mumbo fanart #grian mc #grian fanart #goodtimeswithscar #goodtimewithscar fanart #impulsesv #impulse fanart #hermitcraft boatem #dtiyschallenge #BeeBoatemDtiys

258 notes · View notes

sanho-crwpff · 2 years ago

Text

practicing some digital inking things and drawing my wife to distract myself from deadlines like the Victorian artist I am. And of course I couldn't pass up an opportunity to draw some woopers with the new plushes ✨ Maybe I'll render it one day...

Timelapse! I choose you!!! (I deeply regret changing her expression from the first one….might put it back)

#clip studio paint #artist on tumblr #illustration #fanart #character illustration #character art #digital illustration #이러스트 #illust #rika pokemon #pokemon scarlet #pokemon violet #oh to be one's favorite clodsire...

1K notes · View notes

lila-lou · 10 months ago

Text

✨Rough around the edges - Pt. 1✨

Summary: Jack's day couldn’t have gotten any worse. Exhausted from a grueling shift under the scorching sun, he just wanted to crash at home with some wings and a football game. But his plans for a quiet night were shattered when the racket from his new neighbor echoed through the walls.

Pairing: Jack x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap

Word Count: 4385

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

"Fucking shit!", Jack grumbled as he yanked the heavy piece of wood back into place, his muscles straining from the sudden weight. His colleague had almost dropped it from his side, barely catching it in time. Jack's patience was wearing thin after hours of working under the hot sun. They were up on the fifth floor of a building still under construction, the framework barely holding together as they handed over beam after beam to meet the firm’s relentless deadline.

"Watch it, man", Jack muttered, glaring at his coworker, and best friend, who shrugged it off with a nervous chuckle. He wasn’t in the mood for apologies or excuses. He adjusted his grip, steadying the beam as they maneuvered it into place, his hands rough and worn from the constant grind. The city skyline stretched out in the distance, a reminder of how much work still lay ahead.

They were only halfway through the shift, and Jack could already feel the familiar ache settling into his shoulders. It wasn’t like he hated the job — he was good at it, and it paid the bills — but days like these made him wonder how long he could keep it up.

One misstep up here and things could go bad real quick.

A few hours later, as Jack made his way toward his car, the heat of the day still clung to him, though the sweat on his body had started to dry. His shirt stuck to his back, and every step felt like a reminder of the long, grueling hours spent on the site. His muscles ached, and all he could think about was getting home.

Just as he unlocked his car, he heard footsteps pounding behind him. Anthony, his best friend, jogged up with that usual grin plastered on his face. “Hey, man! You wanna grab a beer in town? Some of the guys are heading over to O’Malley’s”.

Jack groaned inwardly, barely holding back an eye roll. The last thing he wanted right now was to be surrounded by loud voices and more chaos. He glanced at Anthony and waved him off. "Dude, even my fucking balls are sweating. I'm beat to hell after this week".

Anthony laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, but Jack wasn’t in the mood.

“Nah, man. I’m heading home. All I wanna do is watch the football game, grab a bucket of wings, crack open a six-pack, and call it a night”. He paused and smirked, half-joking. “Might jerk off if I can stay awake long enough”.

Anthony let out a loud, obnoxious laugh. “Sounds like a hell of a night. Alright, man, catch you next time”.

Jack nodded, climbing into his car and slamming the door shut. As soon as the engine roared to life, he felt the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His mind was already on the couch waiting for him. Nothing fancy. Just a little peace, a little food, and maybe, if he wasn’t too worn out, a moment to himself before crashing into bed.

Half an hour later, Jack trudged up the stairs to his apartment, the bucket of wings tucked under his arm like a lifeline. His body ached with every step. Man, he was tired. All he wanted was to collapse on the couch.

As he reached the top of the stairs, nearing his door, a loud bang jolted him out of his thoughts. He froze, listening, and sure enough, there were more sounds—soft curses, followed by another series of thuds—coming from the apartment across the hall. The one that had been empty for months since the old lady who lived there had moved to a retirement home.

Jack paused, glancing over his shoulder at the door. Whoever it was clearly wasn’t having the smoothest move-in. He heard something fall again, accompanied by a muffled groan of frustration.

Jack groaned in annoyance, rubbing a hand across his face. Just great. As if the week hadn’t been exhausting enough, now he had to imagine his weekend being a noisy mess thanks to whoever was moving in. All he wanted was some peace and quiet. Instead, it seemed like his weekend would be filled with endless bangs and thuds coming from across the hall.

Another loud thud echoed through the hallway, followed by a soft “Ouchy” that made him roll his eyes. He could already picture some clueless person fumbling around with boxes, knocking stuff over, and generally making a racket. The kind of person who probably had no idea how to move without turning it into a circus.

Jack shifted the bucket of wings under his arm, debating whether or not to knock on the door. Part of him wanted to just ignore it, retreat into his apartment, and hope for the best. But the other part, the more frustrated part, was tempted to knock and tell them to keep it down. He’d had a long week, and he deserved a break, damn it.

Finally, he took a deep breath and approached the door, raising his fist to knock.

Just then, the door swung open unexpectedly, and there you were, looking frazzled and clearly unprepared for company. You were wearing nothing more than a pair of shorts and a tank top, your skin glistening slightly from the heat. Your hair, a messy bun on top of your head, looked like it had been thrown together in a hurry, and you had no makeup on, not that you needed it.

Jack blinked, momentarily caught off guard, staring at the younger woman standing in front of him.

You, on the other hand, were equally surprised to see the man standing in front of you. He had to be at least double your age, but damn, he was handsome—broad-shouldered, his shirt sticking to his body in places from what looked like a long day of work, and those tired, slightly irritated eyes that made him seem like someone who didn’t put up with much nonsense.

“Uh… hi”, you blurted, your voice a little breathless from all the moving. You glanced down at the two boxes sitting in front of your door, which you had come out to grab. “Sorry about the noise. I swear, I’m almost done”.

Jack let out a deep breath. “Yeah, I was kind of wondering if you were trying to tear the place down before you even moved in”.

You laughed, a soft, self-conscious sound, running a hand over your face. “Feels like it. I’m not exactly an expert at this moving thing. Been here all day, and I’m pretty sure I’ve destroyed more stuff than I’ve unpacked”.

Jack’s eyes flicked over you, taking in the sight of your casual shorts and tank top, the slight sheen of sweat on your skin. His gaze wasn’t lewd, but it was unmistakably assessing, like he was trying to figure you out. The tiredness in his eyes gave way to something more skeptical, maybe even judgmental. He crossed his arms, one eyebrow raising slightly as if he couldn’t believe someone as young as you could afford a place like this without some help from your parents—or worse, without a party lifestyle attached.

“You’re not planning on partying every day, though, right?”, Jack said, his voice carrying an edge of suspicion. His eyes lingered just a moment too long before meeting yours again. It was clear he wasn’t thrilled at the idea of noisy neighbors—especially younger ones.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the implication. Seriously? He didn’t even know you, and already he was sizing you up like you were going to turn the building into a constant rave scene. You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling up despite the exhaustion from moving.

“Uh, no”, you mumbled, crossing your arms defensively. “I actually have to work. So no, I’m not throwing parties 24/7”.

His eyebrow quirked slightly at that, as if reassessing you now. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small grunt in response. It was hard to tell whether he believed you or not, but he didn’t press the issue.

You shifted uncomfortably, feeling judged by this man who you had just met. He was rude, but still frustratingly handsome, even if you hated to admit it. “Anyway”, you added, trying to keep the edge out of your voice, “I just moved in today, so I’m probably more exhausted than you are right now”.

Jack glanced at the boxes again, the annoyance in his posture easing just slightly. He seemed to realize that you weren’t what he’d assumed at first glance. “Fair enough”, he said after a moment. “I’m not trying to be a dick. It’s just been a long week, and I wasn’t expecting… all this noise”.

“Yeah, well, me neither”, you said, rolling your eyes and grabbing one of the boxes. “Last thing I wanted today was to turn my move into a construction site soundtrack”.

There was a beat of silence between the two of you before Jack let out a small sigh, as if he were finally letting go of the tension. “Alright”, he said, softer now.

With that, Jack simply turned around, seemingly content to let the conversation end there. His broad shoulders shifted as he took a few steps toward his door, the tension finally draining from the air between you. You stood there for a moment, watching him, still feeling a bit stung by the way he had sized you up but relieved that the exchange hadn’t escalated into anything worse.

“I’m Y/N, by the way”, you called after him, hoping to salvage at least a shred of neighborly civility. Maybe if you introduced yourself, it would take the edge off his attitude.

But he didn’t stop. He was already at his door, turning the knob without so much as glancing back. The heavy sound of the door slamming shut echoed in the hallway, leaving you standing there, feeling awkward and a little insulted. Clearly, Jack wasn’t the friendly type—or maybe he was just having a bad day.

You exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the box a little tighter as you shuffled it into your apartment. Shutting your own door behind you, you leaned against it for a second, shaking your head. Great, you thought, this is going to be an interesting neighbor dynamic.

Moving boxes and unpacking was hard enough, but now you had to deal with the grumpy guy across the hall. You couldn't help but wonder if he’d always be this much of a grump or if this was just his post-work exhaustion talking. Either way, you figured you wouldn’t be getting on his good side any time soon.

Meanwhile, Jack made his way into his apartment, the door closing behind him with a thud. He set the bucket of wings down on the counter, exhaling as he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He couldn’t shake the image of you—frazzled, yet oddly composed—out of his mind. It annoyed him, mostly because he knew he’d been unnecessarily rude.

Shaking it off, he emptied the bucket of wings into his air fryer and set the timer. He had earned this meal after the week he’d had, and he wasn’t about to let anything ruin that. As the air fryer whirred to life, Jack peeled off his work shirt, which clung to his skin, then kicked off his boots as he headed toward the bathroom.

The mirror caught a glimpse of his reflection as he stripped down, his body still sore from the grind of lifting and hauling all day. He sighed, stepping into the shower, letting the hot water wash over him. It was like the heat and frustration of the day started to melt away the moment the water hit his skin.

Jack leaned his head against the tile, letting the water cascade down his back, rinsing away the grime.

Around two hours later, Jack sat slumped on his couch, the room dimly lit by the glow of the TV. The low sounds of a porn scene played in the background, but his mind was barely focused on the screen. His head rested back against the couch, his eyes half-lidded as he worked his hand around himself, having slipped out of his sweatpants. This was his way of letting off steam after a week like the one he’d just had.

It was routine by now—something easy, quick, and without the complications of dealing with a woman who might end up being clingy or demanding more than he was willing to give. This was uncomplicated, his way of zoning out and shutting off the outside world. No messy emotions, no obligations—just a quiet moment for himself.

Jack exhaled heavily, his hand moving in rhythm as the sounds from the TV filled the otherwise silent apartment. His muscles were still tired, but there was a certain release in this moment. The frustrations of the day, including the brief encounter with you, seemed distant now. This was about turning off everything for a little while—no thoughts, no stress, just the physical release he needed.

And after? He’d down the rest of his six-pack and knock out on the couch, forgetting the world entirely, at least for a few hours.

But Jack had planned it all without accounting for you. Just as he was about to finish, his stomach tightening with that familiar tension, the loud, jarring sound of a hammer hitting nails into the wall echoed through the apartment, shaking the thin wall behind his TV.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”, Jack muttered, his mood immediately broken as the banging continued, louder now. He clenched his jaw, frustration boiling up again. He had been so close to just letting go of the entire day’s stress, and now this. The relentless thud of hammering kept going, pulling him completely out of the moment.

His hand stilled, and he slammed his fist against the side of the couch in frustration. Of course, he thought, it had to be the new neighbor. You were likely trying to settle in, oblivious to the fact that you were ruining what little escape he had. Jack exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face as he sat up, the mood thoroughly killed.

The hammering continued, and Jack could feel the tension in his body shifting from desire to pure annoyance. He thought about just letting it go, but every time the hammer hit, it felt like another push against his patience. Grumbling under his breath, he yanked his sweatpants back up and stood, glaring at the wall as if that would somehow stop the noise.

For a second, he considered banging on the wall in retaliation. But he knew that wasn’t going to help. Instead, he grabbed a T-shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head as he stormed toward the door.

Time to have a little chat about the noise.

Jack was beyond fucked up. His head was pounding with the frustration of being yanked out of the one bit of peace he’d managed to carve out for himself. The incessant hammering felt like a personal attack. His mind was still half-focused on the release he had been chasing, now replaced by a surge of raw anger coursing through him.

He stomped to the door, yanking it open with more force than necessary. He didn’t care anymore if he looked like a pissed-off wreck. This was supposed to be his time to unwind, to shut the world out, and here you were, ruining it without even knowing. His thoughts raced, blending his frustration with the earlier judgment he’d passed on you. Young, new neighbor—probably clueless about the noise, or just didn’t give a damn.

He crossed the hallway with long strides, already regretting not saying something earlier when you’d first made a racket. Without bothering to calm down, Jack raised his fist and banged on your door with the same intensity as the hammering that had interrupted his night.

The hammering stopped suddenly, and Jack stood there, his jaw clenched, waiting. His breathing was still heavy, fueled by the adrenaline from both the frustration and the situation he had been pulled out of. He heard footsteps approach the door, and it opened to reveal you, looking slightly surprised and flushed, probably from all the effort of settling in. You still had that slightly frazzled look, your hair in a messy bun, and a hammer in hand.

“Hey, I—”, you started, but Jack cut you off before you could finish.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”. His voice was sharp, almost a growl. “I’ve had the longest fucking week, and all I wanted was to relax for once, but instead, I’ve got you hammering away like it’s a fucking championship".

You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the aggression in his tone. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”.

“Yeah, well, now you do”, Jack snapped. “Some of us don’t want to listen to that shit at this hour”.

You stood there for a second, staring at him. Then, with a deep breath, you said, “Look, I didn’t mean to bother anyone. I just moved in, and I’m trying to get this done before it gets too late. But I didn’t think it would be this loud. I can stop”.

Just then, a heavy crash echoed from inside your apartment, cutting the tense moment between you and Jack short. Both of your heads snapped toward the source of the noise—your bedroom. Your face paled as realization hit you.

“Oh no”, you whined under your breath, eyes wide in horror.

Jack leaned slightly to the side, peeking over your shoulder, and sure enough, he saw straight into your bedroom. The massive bookshelf you’d just tried to hang with nails was now lying crookedly on your bed, surrounded by scattered books and what looked like pieces of drywall that had fallen from the wall.

He stood there for a moment, staring, trying to process what he was seeing. Then, almost involuntarily, a muttered, “Are you serious?”, escaped his lips. The disbelief was clear in his tone, but there was also a flicker of amusement breaking through the anger. His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smirk.

“You really tried hanging that… with nails?”, Jack asked, incredulous, but there was something different in his voice now—a touch of dry humor.

You flushed, your embarrassment reaching new heights as you buried your face in your hands for a moment, groaning. “I thought it would hold! I didn’t realize it was that heavy!”.

Jack huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “That thing’s massive. Nails? Really? You need anchors or brackets for something like that. Not nails”.

You glanced up at him, your embarrassment deepening, but his tone had shifted enough that you felt less defensive. He wasn’t ripping into you anymore, at least. “I didn’t think it through, clearly”, you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “I just… I wanted to get it done, you know?”.

Jack exhaled, still standing in your doorway, but some of the anger and tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by the undeniable ridiculousness of the situation. He crossed his arms, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

He sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced from you to the chaotic scene in your bedroom. He seemed torn between frustration and reluctant amusement, clearly trying to figure out how he got roped into this situation. After a moment, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, “If I put that stupid bookshelf on the wall… are you actually gonna go to fucking sleep after?”.

You blinked, surprised by the unexpected offer, and despite the roughness in his tone, there was a hint of something almost… helpful? You couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or just resigned to the situation. Either way, you couldn’t believe he was volunteering to help after everything.

You nodded quickly, still flustered. “Yeah, absolutely. I’ll be out of your hair for the rest of the night”.

Jack rolled his eyes but stepped back into the hallway. “Fine. Let me grab my tools. I’m not doing this again tomorrow”. He shot you a look as if to say, You owe me for this, and turned back toward his apartment.

As he disappeared into his place, you stood in the doorway for a second, a mix of relief and embarrassment washing over you. This wasn’t how you expected your night to go, but at least you weren’t completely on your own with the bookshelf disaster now.

A few minutes later, Jack returned with a drill, a level, and some heavy-duty wall anchors, looking every bit like the reluctant handyman he had somehow become tonight. “Alright”, he grumbled as he walked past you into your bedroom, “Let’s do this before I regret offering”.

You followed him into the room, standing awkwardly off to the side as he inspected the damage. He shook his head, muttering under his breath again. “Shit, the whole thing could’ve taken the wall down with it”.

You couldn’t help but let out a small, nervous laugh. “Yeah… definitely didn’t think it through”.

Jack just gave you a look before getting to work, drilling into the wall with quick efficiency. You watched in silence, half-grateful and half-embarrassed that this grumpy, tired stranger was now saving you from your own DIY disaster.

Within ten minutes, the bookshelf was back up, this time secured with proper brackets and anchors. Jack stepped back, giving it a firm tug to test its stability. “There. That’s not coming down unless you drive a truck through the wall”.

You grinned, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “Thank you. Seriously”.

Jack gave a half-shrug, packing up his tools. “Just keep it quiet, alright? I wasn’t kidding about the long week”.

You nodded, grateful. “I promise. No more hammering”.

“Next time, get your damn boyfriend to do that shit before you and your furniture end up breaking through my wall”, Jack muttered, nodding toward the picture frame sitting on top of a moving box. In the photo, you were smiling alongside a tall, athletic-looking guy with his arm wrapped around you. Jack’s comment was laced with a hint of irritation, but also that same dry humor you’d been getting used to.

Your smile faltered for a moment as your eyes followed his to the photo. Little did he know, that guy in the picture wasn’t in your life anymore—and that was the whole reason you had moved into this place. The sting of your breakup surfaced briefly, the memory of catching him cheating on you still raw. You swallowed hard, quickly deciding not to let Jack in on that painful detail. It wasn’t like he needed to know, and the last thing you wanted was pity from a man who had barely tolerated your existence for the last few hours.

“I’m Jack”, he grumbled, finally acknowledging your earlier introduction. It was a reluctant gesture, his voice still rough with exhaustion, as though even saying his name was a chore. He barely looked at you as he muttered it, his eyes already shifting toward his door like he couldn’t wait to escape the interaction.

Before you could respond or even offer a polite “nice to meet you”, he was already halfway back to his apartment. The door closed with a soft click behind him, leaving you standing there in the quiet hallway, feeling the weight of everything settle on your shoulders again. His abruptness wasn’t surprising, but it still stung a little after the tense back-and-forth of the evening.

You let out a sigh, glancing back at the photo on the box. Jack, you thought, rolling his name over in your mind. He was clearly rough around the edges, quick to frustration, but at least he hadn’t been completely heartless. He’d helped with the bookshelf, after all—something he absolutely didn’t have to do.

You stood there for a moment longer, gathering your thoughts. The apartment felt quiet now, too quiet, after the chaos of the last few hours. The silence brought your mind back to why you’d moved in the first place, and without meaning to, you found yourself thinking of your ex again—how easily he'd broken your trust, how it had shattered everything you'd built together.

You shook your head, pushing the memories away. This was a new start, and you weren’t going to let thoughts of him ruin it. No more looking back.

Turning back to the room, you tidied up the last of the scattered books and straightened out the bedding. As you moved around, Jack’s gruff demeanor kept replaying in your mind—his judgmental comments, his unexpected offer of help, and the brief glimpse of amusement when the bookshelf came crashing down. You couldn’t quite pin him down, and that intrigued you in a way you weren’t expecting.

By the time you were ready to settle into bed, you found yourself glancing at the wall you shared with Jack’s apartment, half-expecting to hear some noise, but it was completely silent. You lay down, pulling the covers over you, and for the first time in a while, you felt a strange sense of calm. Despite the chaos of the night, the disaster with the bookshelf, and the awkward introduction to your grumpy neighbor, things didn’t feel quite as overwhelming as they had earlier.

Maybe this place would turn out to be a fresh start after all.

———————————

A/N: I had way too much fun writing this. This story will definitely be a multi-part one.

I guess there will be also more from Jack in the future.

Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 2

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @cheynovak @ookidoki @deans-spinster-witch @n-o-p-e-never @riah1606 @stoneyggirl2 @saintnourah

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #buddy games #jack durfy #jack durfy x reader #jack durfy x you #jack durfy x Y/N

205 notes · View notes

dragon-spaghetti · 1 year ago

Text

DTIYS TIME!!! 🥹💖

(Please click for better quality!!)

Rules below the cut ✨

💖@ me to enter so I see it!! I will be tagging entries as #dragonnie DTIYS

💖Deadline is March 26th, so one month!! But if you just wanna do it for fun even after that it's completely fine ;v;

💖Winner will get a fully lined & coloured drawing of their choosing (similar to how the DTIYS looks to be clear)

💖 You can change things like the outfits and adjust the pose a bit should you wish, but please keep it similar ;^^

💖Most importantly, have fun!!

Hit 2k followers over on twitter earlier today, and since I'm nearing 3k here (we're at 2.94k if ya wanna be specific) figured I may as well post it now!! Thank you all genuinely, honoured that so many like my art and silly rambles 🥹

#drag's art #dragonnie DTIYS #milestone #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanart #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin angel dust #hazbin husk #huskerdust #i know numbers aren't everything but I'm truly flattered so many have stuck around 😭💖#v v appreciative #I'm doing this on both twitter and tumblr!!#whether it'll be one winner overall or one for each site will depend on how many do it ;^^#but again just. thank you 💖

919 notes · View notes

daydreamingatnight209 · 1 year ago

Text

Me actually writing and posting? What??? 😱😱😱

Enjoy some Colson content my lovelies 🥰

As usual Feedback is welcome, HATE is not ; if you don’t like it, don’t read it. ✨💕

“I’m Here, Go Back to Sleep”

MGK x Female Reader

Warnings - None. Just pure fluff!

——————————————————————————

Waking up to an empty bed these days wasn’t unusual these days, with the album deadline slowly creeping up day by day, Colson spent almost all of his hours in the studio, working himself to the bone to produce an album everyone can enjoy.

With your own workplace continuously overworking you, sleep or time didn’t come easily to you either. You couldn’t remember the last time both you and Colson had actually spent more than a few minutes at a time together in the same room and it was starting to become very lonely.

Leaving the cold and empty bed, after another night of hopeless tossing and turning, you sigh and drag yourself downstairs to the kitchen. Preparing for another day to survive on coffee you make one for both yourself and your boyfriend who didn’t even leave the studio last night. It was most likely he fell asleep there in the very early hours of the morning.

While the lack of sleep wasn’t new for Colson, it certainly was for you and you could feel it slowly starting to affect your mind and body.

You grab him a change of clothes, a blanket for yourself and his favourite aftershave before crossing over from the house into the converted studio space.

With the band already in session, you slipped in almost undetected, but as always, your eyes caught Colson’s immediately. You give him a small smile and walk over to give him what you had brought over.

“Babe, what are you doing up so early? You look exhausted” he whispers as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You let out a small laugh and set yourself down on the closest chair.

“Gee, thanks Col”

After a quick clothes change and the others leaving in search for food, Colson calls you over to the desk he’s working at.

“Come, let me hold you” he mumbles, stretching his long arms out in your direction.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around you, you walk over to your lover and wrap yourself around him so you were straddling him. He holds you tightly and sways gently.

“You need to get some proper rest, baby, you are going to make yourself ill” he tells you softly.

You giggle to yourself at his concern for you, knowing full well he wouldn’t take his own advice even if you begged him.

“I’ll rest when you do” is your answer and you can practically feel him rolling his eyes at you, despite not actually being able to see him as you rest your head in the crook of his neck.

The two of you sit there quietly, as colson continues to sway you and hum a track from the new album into your ear.

Despite not being able to sleep properly, something about being in colson’s arms after so long, settles you and you cannot fight the call of sleep that beckons you. Your eyes close slowly and without protest as you rest against the frame of your man, the feeling of safely enveloping you.

Colson smiles down at you, tenderly, the look of frustration and stress leaving your features as you snore lightly.

He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t missed these small intimate moments with you and did feel quite guilty for not making more time for you while in the process of doing this next album. You never once complained and took everything in your stride which is on of the many things he loved about you.

He couldn’t wait to look after you and treat you to something special as a way of thanks for all your support when the album was complete.

His train of thought was interrupted as he heard everyone coming back to continue the session. He panicked slightly as they all barged through the door and glared at them in an effort to silence the rowdiness they were currently displaying.

“Shhh! She hasn’t slept properly in weeks and I swear if any one of you wake her up! …” Colson hisses at his friends, before looking down at you to ensure you were still peacefully sleeping.

Slim is the first to put his hands up in mock surrender, a smirk plastered on his face as he leads the group back out the door, but he was secretly glad that this would mean Colson would be forced to take a break, even if it was just an hour or so. He knew he definitely needed one.

Once alone again, Colson lifts you up with ease and carries you over to the sofa, laying you down and climbing in beside you. He wraps his arms back around you settles in. The movement causes you to stir slightly, your eyes still closed you mumble for your boyfriend not to leave you.

“Shh baby, I’m here, go back to sleep”

#writing #writers on tumblr #fluff #fanfic #mgk #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly x reader #mgk x reader #mgk x y/n #Colson Baker #fiction #colson baker x reader #colson baker fanfic #colson baker fluff #mgk imagine #colson baker imagine #mgk music #mgkedit #mgk angst

502 notes · View notes

athenasdaydreams · 19 days ago

Text

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS 🥂✨🍸💫 - day 0 - pt 2

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!reader

synopsis: as ALLURE magazine's 'how-to' girl, you've been tasked to write your most ambitious piece yet: how to lose a guy in 10 days. but VANGUARD's rafe cameron has been given a mission to make a girl fall in love with him in 10 days, to get the brand deal of a lifetime. all's fair in love and... journalism?

a/n: i have 4 essays, 3 problem sets, 5 practice papers, and a partridge in a pear tree as my homework but i still decided to write this instead. also i dont know what dating culture is like so this may sound a bit weird.

masterlist | series masterlist | character intro | day 1

Saint's smells like cedarwood and ambition. It’s the kind of bar where drinks come in coupes and everyone pretends not to notice each other while noticing everything. You slide into the velvet stool next to your best friend and exhale like you’ve just finished running a marathon.

“You made it,” she says, already halfway through something sparkly and expensive. “You look like you sprinted through an existential crisis.”

“I did.” You drop your bag onto the counter. “I’m on deadline and my boss basically assigned me psychological warfare dressed up as a column.”

“Martini?” the bartender asks, like he already knows the answer.

“Dirty. Extra olives. Make it regret-proof.”

Your friend waits a beat, then raises her brows. “So? Is it the piece?”

You nod, face solemn. “The how to lose a guy in 10 days assignment.”

She gasps dramatically. “No. No. You’re joking.”

“I wish.” You take a long sip of your drink. “Ten days. One man. I make him fall for me, then torpedo the whole thing on purpose and write about it for Allure’s ‘How-To’ column.”

“And this is supposed to be empowering?”

“It’s supposed to be ‘career-defining,’” you say, complete with air quotes. “Honestly, I think it’s just sadistic.”

“You’re gonna be a legend.” She clinks her glass against yours. “So? Who’s the target?”

“Someone who deserves it.” You scan the bar, only half-looking. “Someone cocky. Overconfident. Probably calls women ‘sweetheart.’ The kind of man who thinks he’s God’s gift and hasn’t cried since 2009.”

Your friend goes very still. Then: “Okay… don’t scream… but star-pattern dress karma just hit.”

You follow her gaze and nearly choke on your drink.

He’s at the far end of the bar, all sharp lines and expensive tailoring. Dark hair, tan skin, annoyingly good posture. He laughs at something his friend says, low and lazy, like he knows people are watching. And when he lifts his glass, he glances your way.

Your eyes meet.

And then—he smirks.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

“Oh yes,” your friend grins. “He’s the one.”

“He looks like he’s in a fragrance commercial. I’m not choosing someone who probably owns velvet loafers and says ‘ciao’ unironically.”

“But think of the column.”

You sigh. Long, suffering. Then knock back the rest of your martini like it’s a dare.

“For journalism,” you mutter, standing up and smoothing your dress.

Your friend raises her glass in salute. “For chaos.”

You make your way across the bar, heels echoing like punctuation marks, the silver stars stitched along your dress catching every low light. You don’t know his name.

But you’re about to make him unforgettable.

“…so then she tells me her dog’s an Aries, and I’m like, ‘That explains the commitment issues.’”

Rafe smirks faintly, amused but distracted. There’s a shift in the air—something quieter, sharper. He glances toward the entrance, instinct pulling before reason.

That’s when he sees you.

Black dress, stars stitched into the fabric like constellations carved just for you. You don’t glide in—you stride, like you own the damn room but don’t need it to know. He can’t hear what you’re saying, but he watches the way you laugh, tuck your hair behind your ear, slide into the barstool like it’s muscle memory.

And God, you’re beautiful. Not just hot—captivating. Like a dare he hasn’t figured out how to lose yet.

Topper’s still talking, but Rafe’s attention is locked in.

Then you look over.

For a second—half a heartbeat—your eyes meet his. And that’s all it takes.

He smirks. Just a little. Testing. Curious.

You don’t look away immediately. And when you finally do, it’s with this barely-there smile that knocks the breath from his chest like a sucker punch.

“Well, shit,” he mutters.

Topper pauses. “What?”

Rafe sets down his glass, eyes still locked on you. “I think I just found the one.”

Topper snorts. “You mean the one for tonight?”

“No,” Rafe says, slow and thoughtful, already half gone. “The one that's getting me that promotion.”

He watches as you rise from your seat, the silver stars on your dress catching the low light like they’re winking at him.

You’re walking toward him now. Straight line. Intentional.

His fingers tighten around the glass.

Let the games begin.

"Hi," you say, like you didn't spend ten minutes rehearsing it in your head.

"Hi," he echoes. "I was just about to head out. Unless you’re here to stop me."

You tilt your head. "Would that work?"

He grins. “Depends. Are you planning on ruining my night or improving it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He offers his hand. “Rafe Cameron.”

You shake it. “Cute.”

He blinks. “Thank you.”

“I meant your name.”

His smile grows. “Thank you two times.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Unattached?”

“For the moment.”

You nod. “Surprising.”

He leans closer, conspiratorial. “Psycho?”

You pretend to think. “Rarely.”

“Interested?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

He sets his glass down. “Leaving.”

“Now?”

He smirks. “Mm-hmm.”

You glance at your friend, who gives you the world’s most obvious wink. “I’ll meet you at the door.”

You don’t even look back. This is the job.

Across the bar, Rafe watches you go with something like awe. Then he grabs his coat and follows, completely unaware that he’s just become your next headline.

The helmet doesn’t suit you. It’s matte black and bulky, completely at odds with the soft curls falling over your shoulders and the sparkle in your eyes. But Rafe grins anyway, because something about the contrast makes him feel like he’s winning at life.

“This won’t look goofy on me,” you declare, adjusting the strap.

He leans back, mock-serious. “It looks goofy on everyone.”

You shoot him a look.

“…But pretty damn cute on you,” he adds, and it comes out warmer than he intended. It startles him a little—that softness.

You don’t respond. Just smirk as you slide onto the back of his Vespa and wrap your arms around him.

The ride is reckless, wind-swept, stupidly romantic. Your chin rests lightly on his shoulder, and Rafe tells himself it’s just the game. Just charm. Just part of the plan. But when he hears you laugh—genuine, breathless—something stirs. Dangerous.

The trattoria is candlelit, tucked into a rooftop like a secret. The kind of place that makes you feel like you’ve slipped out of real life and into something cinematic. You’re glowing under the gold lights, heels dangling beneath the table, eyes dancing as you taste the wine.

“So,” Rafe asks, elbow on the table, chin in his hand, “what do you think?”

You don’t ask what he means. You let the question hang, then answer slowly.

“The food? Delicious.”

He grins. “And me?”

You raise a brow, feigning boredom. “Still deciding.”

But your voice wavers, just slightly.

He notices. And something in his chest shifts.

“Anything I can do to help?” he teases.

You set down your fork. “You could answer a few questions.”

“‘Few’ sounds suspiciously vague.”

“Fine. Three.”

He leans forward, mirroring you. “Let’s hear ‘em.”

You tap a finger against your wineglass. “What do you do?”

“Editor at Vanguard. Gear, watches, bourbon... right now we’re chasing a partnership with Castelli Roma.”

Your expression flickers—recognition? You file that away.

He goes on, “They want a man who understands romance. Authentic love. Which, naturally, led them to me.”

You snort into your glass. “So you’re saving the world, one overpriced cologne ad at a time?”

He smiles. “Someone has to.”

You toy with the stem of your glass. “I’m a columnist. Allure. The How-To column.”

He tilts his head. “So… you tell women what to do?”

“I prefer ‘I tell women what not to settle for.’”

He holds your gaze. “Fair enough.”

You hesitate—because you hadn’t meant to feel… seen. But something in the way he’s looking at you feels personal. You swallow it.

“Last question.” You pause. “True or false: all’s fair in love and war.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He watches you.

Then, “True.”

You nod, lifting your glass. “Good answer.”

He clinks his against yours. “Good question.”

But there’s a flicker in both your eyes. Because you can both feel it. This was supposed to be a game. So why does it already feel like something more?

“Welcome.”

You step into his loft and—damn. It's cleaner than expected. Industrial ceilings, weathered wood floors, art books stacked carelessly by the fireplace. Masculine, but curated. Like him.

“Nice place,” you murmur, fingers grazing the edge of a velvet armchair.

“Thank you,” he says, closing the door behind you. “Very... tidy,” you add, mostly to fill the silence. He shoots you a look over his shoulder—playful, knowing. He knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Beer?” he offers, already heading to the kitchen.

“Sure.”

You wander toward the stairs, spotting the carefully framed black-and-white photo of the Outer Banks above his record player. There’s a tension coiling in your stomach—not just from nerves, but from how easy this feels.

“Restroom?” you ask.

“Up the stairs, through the bedroom.”

You freeze for half a beat at the mention of bedroom. The word carries too much weight right now. But you smile. “Thanks.”

When you come back down, he’s put on Al Green. Let’s Stay Together hums softly through the speakers. The lights are low. He’s lit that stupid candle again.

You try not to read too much into it.

He hands you your beer, his fingers brushing yours for a second too long. You thank him. But your throat’s dry.

The music plays. And something shifts in the air—thickens. The game should be fun. This should be easy.

So why does your pulse skip?

Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the soft light flickering against the lines of his jaw. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have gone softer, darker, like he’s seeing through all the act and straight into you.

You take a sip of your beer, but your hands feel warm. He takes a slow step toward you, and your breath catches.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “There’s something about you…”

And before you can brace for it, his hand slides gently along your jaw, tilting your face up. His fingers are rough, calloused — surf-boy hands on a man who cleans up too well. His gaze drops to your mouth.

You’re not supposed to want this.

But then he leans in.

Not rushed. Not cocky. Just… intentional. And every alarm bell in your brain starts screaming in elegant chaos because holy hell, Rafe Cameron kisses like he means it, like he knows your secrets already.

Your heart slams against your ribs as his lips almost brush yours—

You laugh. Nervously. Like a bubble rising up to break the tension. “Hey, let’s not go too fast, okay?”

He pauses—so close you can feel his breath. You expect him to be smug, but instead, he backs up. A beat. Another.

His hands drop to his sides.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice like low thunder. “You’re right. Too fast.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I just…” you start, then stop. You weren’t supposed to care about respect. Not in this. But here you are.

“I want you to respect me.”

His jaw tenses, then softens. “I do.”

“And I want your respect,” you add, quieter now.

His voice is gentler this time. “I respect you… for respecting me.”

And you both laugh a little because that line is so stupidly sincere it circles back to sweet. You walk to his door.

There’s a pause. A loaded one. The kind of silence that says everything you’re not ready to admit.

“Goodnight, Allure girl,” he murmurs, leaning on the doorframe, watching you walk towards the elevator. You wave him goodbye with your most sincere face, as if you were already missing him.

The elevator doors close.

"Oh, you’re already falling in love with me." he thinks as he turns back into his house.

“I’m going to make you wish you were dead,” you mutter as you step out of the building, already plotting for tomorrow.

wc: 2k tags: @my-name-is-baby @verycherryblossomhideout @lunaleah @ayy1234567 @lewispool

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron fic #how to lose a guy in 10 days

73 notes · View notes