#more comfortable with it. for the sake of improvement

[99probalos]

siddex throughout the ages ...

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby. 

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored. 

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days. 

Art Donaldson. 

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

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[lethesbeastie]

Hi, I saw your post about practicing drawing fat people and I was wondering if you could compile like a list of resources or references?

It can be difficult to find resources for drawing the wide variety of forms fat bodies can occupy, so I've done my best to bring together some resources I've been able to prove have some degree of diversity in the references they offer!

My primary resource recommendation for drawing fat people is Morpho Anatomy For Artists: Fat And Skin Folds! It does a wonderful job breaking down where fat accumulates on the body, how it interacts with the familiar landmarks of human anatomy, and what sort of shapes it tends to form under the influence of gravity. It's a phenomenal reference and my top recommendation for anyone seeking to improve at drawing fat people!

When it comes to finding decent photo references for fat people, the pickings are frustratingly slim. Most sites that specialize in pose references either don't have fat models or have all their images behind paywalls. Of the resources I looked through, the best sources for pose references were Adorkastock and Line of Action.

@adorkastock actively seeks to provide an incredible profile of pose references with diverse body types, and as an added bonus you can access a lot of their images for free on their site/Tumblr or join their patreon for early access to images! Line of action is a site aimed towards practicing figure drawing, providing images and a timed function to challenge artists to sketch within a set time limit. I took the time to go through roughly 300+ images and was pleased to find that during my session around two-to-three out of every ten photos were fat models. The only caveats to this was the fact that most of the images were of the same individual, limiting the applications for studying the variants of fat bodies. Still, it's an amazing tool that has a free mode and allows you to filter the types of references you want based on age and level of nudity.

Beyond sites that specialize in art reference photography, there's also the ever popular Pinterest, which is the site where I typically seek references for my personal studies. Due to the nature of Pinterest's extensive collection, there's a vast variety of references for different fat body types that includes a lot more "everyday" people. The primary issue with Pinterest however is the rampant reposting and lack of proper credits for images, which can make things dicey depending on how you wish to use the references you find. For personal studies this isn't really an issue, but for any sort of professional or paid work is something to be aware of just for the sake of accountability.

* For those who are 18+, porn photography of real people also offers an incredible wealth of visual resources for fat bodies and how they interact with gravity/movement/etc. The variety of positions and angles offer many opportunities to study human anatomy, and it's a pretty well-known fact that drawing NSFW art can be an important learning experience for those struggling with drawing anatomy. In the end, it depends on your personal level of comfort with viewing/drawing explicit images, but it's not something you should completely overlook.

Last but not least, look at the work of artists you admire who draw fat people! While I typically recommend sticking to photo references for learning anatomy, studying artist's portrayals of fat people is also incredibly helpful for learning different tactics for simplifying and/or stylizing fat bodies to better fit ones own style. There are also plenty of artists who've crafted tutorials detailing their approach to drawing fat folks, so I highly recommend you check them out as well! I hope the resources I've linked here can help you in your studies, and feel free to drop another ask if you have any more questions! I'm planning on posting a tutorial on how I do studies for fat people soon, so that will be an additional resource for you once I've got it posted!

[miguxadraws]

I need more of Ragapom swap au pls 🙏

ragatha unintentionally teaches pomni how to behave more like a human (for the sake of her own selfish needs ofc)

at the beginning, pomni wasnt exactly the best source of comfort around; she'd just sit or stand still, pretty much only following clear instructions with a dumb smile on her face. Wasn't ideal, but ragatha was willing to take what she could get (not like she ever had any other options to begin with)

AI learns fast though, and even if ragatha didn't realize it at first, she was constantly feeding pomni with data.

it didnt take too long for pomni to identify patterns in ragatha's behavior, consequently improving her performance at comforting the loser, even if all the feedback she got was ambiguous at best. ragatha noticed the change in pomni's behavior, obviously.

at times, pomni would come off as...way too natural, be it with her actions or words. ragatha gets freaked out and shuns her. she gets confused, but ultimately learns from it, like she always does.

their dynamic, basically

[mistress-amidala]

𝐏𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Pairings: sub Sam Monroe x dom fem Reader

Summary: After calling Sam ‘puppy’ as a joke it leads to a newly discovered kink.

Requests: open

Warnings: Mommy kink, dry humping, oral (f receiving), shin riding, handjob, dick pic, titty sucking, scent kink…

Sam had been antsy all day, his leg bouncing under his desk. He stared down at his textbook disinterestedly, the words blurring together.

He tried his hardest to concentrate he really did. He knew how proud you were of his grades improving thanks to your study sessions. He was proud too, it was the first time he could remember someone putting in the effort for him. He was actually proud of himself, and it was all thanks to you. You never tried to change him into someone else, you encouraged him and saw him as the person he is.

So when he flipped through his notebook, seeing your notes in the margins. He couldn’t help the grin that broke out on his face. His eyes glazing over as his mind ran rampant. The thoughts gradually escalating…

You’ve got this pretty boy x

The pink of your gel pen popped out against the black and white of his notes. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and more south. Down, down, to his cock. He squirmed in his seat, his hips shifting. As he tried to make himself more comfortable in the stupid plastic chair. He groaned frustrated, looking down he saw his cock pressing up against the fabric of his pants. He crossed his legs in a desperate attempt at trying to hide his boner.

He looked up at the clock on the wall above the whiteboard. His foot tapping rhythmically as the hand ticked in accordance to the seconds passing. ‘For fuck sake,’ he thought to himself.

Relax and breathe, you know what you’re doing gorgeous.

If he was standing up he knew his knees would buckle. He never was a fan of pet names till he met you. There was something about the way your warm voice met his ears, as if your honeyed words were caressing his very soul. Stirring something deep within him. He ran his pale, ring clad fingers over your written words. His heart fluttering and his cock throbbing with desire.

Before he knew it his hand shot up, “yes Sam?” Mister Matthew’s, his geometry teacher spoke.

“Can I be excused?” Sam asks politely, prepared to leave without his permission. His teacher nods, knowing there was no point in arguing. Sam immediately stood up, rushing for the door. Swinging it open and heading for the toilets. He pushes open the the door to the bathrooms, heading into a cubicle. He locks it behind him hastily before he tugs his erect cock from his pants. The blushed tip leaking beads of precum. Rolling down his shaft as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Unlocking it and pressing onto your contact, he wraps his hand around his length. Squeezing it as he pulls up the camera, taking a photo and sending it to you.

His knees buckle as he hears his phone ping.

Touching yourself without me pretty boy?

Your message comes through, making him blush even harder than he thought possible. As he slowly strokes his length up and down. “Ah fuck,” he whimpers. While his shaky hands struggle to type out his response.

Maybe…

He whines, wishing it was your hand fisting his cock instead. Or even better, your delicious pussy. He started jerking off to the mere thought, the phantom of your taste on his lips as he pumped his cock. Biting his soft plushy lips to try to quiet himself.

Naughty boy

Am I going to have to train you puppy?

As his eyes ran over the word puppy, his knees buckled and he creamed all over his hand. Falling to the tiled floor of the cubicle with a harsh thud he didn’t even register the pain in his knees as he panted. Trying to catch his breath and collect himself, to no avail. His warm seed continued to flow from the tip of his flush cock head. He could do nothing but stare in disbelief, his jaw slack from his wanton moans. He reached for the toilet roll, his hands trembling. He missed, sending it tumbling to the ground. Unrolling right to his lap, he scramble for it. Yanking off a long piece, desperately wiping at his hand. He made no effort to wipe his cock clean, to sensitive from his previous activities.

His shaky fingers struggle to type out his response…

Yes please Mommy

Rereading over his text, he whispered it to himself.

Mommy?

The ping made him jump, “oh shit.” He murmured to himself, scared he’d gone too far. Unbeknownst to him, you were having a fucking ball. Grinning at your phone at the back of your history class. The topic of the session long since forgotten.

Sorry I didn’t mean too

He hastily responds, much to your amusement.

Oh you will be…

He’s left flabbergasted at your response, ‘what does she mean by that?’ He looks down at his cock, that had gotten semi hard just from your teasing.

Meet me behind the bleachers next period.

Puppy

Yes ma’am

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Sam dipped out of his next class, heading to the bleachers where you’d told him to meet. The post support your weight as you leaned your back against it. Looking back at the dick pic Sam had sent you only a few minutes earlier. You could imagine how antsy he was, he never was very patient. Especially when it came to his sensitive cock. You glance up from your phone, hearing footsteps. Followed by the soft crunch of pebbles from the impact. Law and behold it was Sam Monroe, your pretty boy.

A shy smile tugged at his lips as he approached you. Running his tongue along his bottom lip, catching his piercing between his teeth. His eyes raking over your relaxed form. He wrapped his arms around your torso once he reached you, holding you tightly. While burying his face into the crook of your neck. Breathing you in, his sensitive cock hardening from your mere scent. “Well someone’s happy to see me,” you voice. Holding a taunting edge to your words.

He runs his tongue up along your jugular. Tasting the sweetness of your skin, “mmm… more than you can imagine.” He rasps, desperation dripping from his words. Your hands grasp his hips, tugging them to meet yours.

A whimper escaping his part lips, as he stared down at your cleavage pressing against his chest. You start grinding his hips against yours, “wanna tell me what got you so worked up puppy?” You feel his hips jolt forward as the word ‘puppy’ escapes your lips. And a knowing smile forms on your face, ‘ahh I see.’ You grab his hand, intertwining your fingers with his absentmindedly. While towing him along with you to the football field. Closing in on the side lined with trees. As he followed behind you like a lost puppy, how fitting.

“I saw your notes on my book and I just- it ahh-“ He mumbles, bringing his arm up. Scratching behind his neck, anxiously. The feel of butterflies fluttering in his stomach, only you ever brought out in him.

“Yes?” You raise a brow, prompting him to continue.

He looks down, trying to find the right words. “It uh- it made me… hard.”

You bite your bottom lip in an attempt to stop yourself from laughing. As you got close enough Sam pounced. He couldn’t take it any longer, he spun you around. Pushing you back till your back gently hit the tree. Your eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Oh puppy you really are horny aren’t you?” He grinds his clothed erection against the crotch of your pants.

He nods quickly, “yes- yes Mommy.” He babbles, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt. Unhooking your bra before cupping your tits. Squeezing them, before rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. Watching them perk up. Before pushing your shirt and bra up over your head, tossing them to the floor. Before latching his mouth to your left nipple. Sucking harshly as he wrapped his arms around you tightly. Caging you against him.

His gaze meets yours as he tilts his head up. Reluctantly detaching his mouth from your nipple. “Can I?” He asks, his ring clad hand moving closer to the waistband of your pants.

You nod, amused by the clear desperation in his eyes. “Yes puppy.”

He whimpers in response to your words, bucking his clothed cock against your heat between your plush thighs. “Ahh ngh!” He moans, shoving his hand down your pants. Pushing under your panties, rubbing harsh and relentless circles on your sensitive nub. Making you let out a breathless moan, leaning your head back against the tree trunk. "Mmm Mommy," he whimpers under his breath.

Raking your fingers through his hair, you yank his head back. His watery eyes staring up at you. "What was that puppy?”

“Mommy,” he repeats. His knees buckled as he came undone. His orgasm hitting him like a truck. As he clung to you tightly, falling to his knees. Unbuttoning your pants, slowly pulling them down. Revealing the skin of your juicy thighs. He nuzzles his face into your panty clad pussy. He takes a stiff, moaning at the smell. Licking a strip over the soft material. Before hooking his fingers under the waistband. Looking up at you for permission, you nod. Making his eyes light up, as he yanks your panties down to your ankles. Grabbing the back of your ankles and spreading your legs apart, exposing your glistening pussy to him.

His mouth waters at the sight. He leans forward, nudging his nose against your clit. Running his tongue through your folds, parting them. As your hands grabbed at his hair, tugging on his strands as his pretty lips sucked on your clit viciously. Feeling that pleasurable coil wind in your stomach. As he interchanges his mouth for his thumb, bringing his tongue to your entrance. Prodding his tongue into your hole, thrusting in and out. Feeling your slick gather on his tongue, as your knees buckle. He grips your hips, supporting your weight with his toned arms. As his tongue continued to lap at your pussy, rapidly. Your eyes squeezed shut as your legs trembled, moans tumbling from your parted lips. “That’s it puppy, doing so well for me. Gonna cum,” he whimpers at your words. The action sending vibrations through your core, he sits himself on your foot. His erect cock accidentally grazing along your shin making him jolt forward. Grinding his clothed length against your leg. Feeling a wet spot forming on his pants, as he continued to eat you out. Suffocating himself in your pussy and he felt as though he was dying from pleasure. As he continued his incessant humping and his tongues rough caresses against your velvety walls. He felt himself explode, his warm seed soaking his pants and his length. Which triggered your orgasm, cumming all over his pretty face. You both panted, catching your breath. “You did so well puppy…”

You reassure him as he nuzzles his face against your breasts. “Thanks Mommy,” he whispers breathlessly. His tone pitchier then usual. You bring a hand down to rub his back, comfortingly.

“No problem puppy.”

(dividers by @chilumitos)

[honeytonedhottie]

a glamorous well-being⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🌸

i've decided to write this post to remind my audience that you're own well being comes first and just share some ways on how you can focus on ur well being in small steps that can gradually build a lifestyle.

BEAUTY SLEEP ;

go to bed at a reasonable time and wake up at a reasonable time. when ur well rested you'll feel and look your best. theres a reason why ppl call beauty sleep beauty sleep.

when u dont get enough sleep ur skin is dull, you'll start to have eyebags beneath ur eyes and can even shorten ur life span. and thats not hot.

if u feel like it'll make u more well rested, take a midday nap. if u find that u have problems sleeping, having a before bed routine that soothes u can rly help u to sleep like the angel that you are.

drink a warm cup of tea before bed

do gentle stretches

take a soothing bath or shower

DIGITAL MINIMALISM ;

we experience the fear of missing out bcuz of our habit of consuming hundreds if not thousands of unnecessary information every single day. in a way we've become information addicts.

no scroll mornings - cutting a habit completely might be hard so dont jump in with both feet immediately. go little by little.

digital declutter - intentionally cut out optional online activity and instead focus on something in person like ur community, urself and ur projects

APPRECIATING SILENCE ;

if the weather permits, i rly recommend going for walks. walking is not only good for ur body but also ur mind and getting fresh air and sunlight is rly good for u and important.

start doing guided meditations

go on daily walks to get some fresh air

JOURNALLING ;

journalling is so easy and fun and glamorous. i love the concept of journals bcuz its just such a cute way to get everything from ur mind onto paper which is helpful.

to journal with the intention of improving ur well being i recommend to get into shadow work cuz its like journal therapy. i'll link a post with shadow work prompts right here, that way you can have a place to kind of start off from.

other then simply doing shadow work journalling or maintaining a diary of sorts is also helpful for ur well being bcuz it showcases ur growth and its a great way to cultivate a sense of self without fear of judgement or privacy invasion from others.

TAKING BIG STEPS IN EASY WAYS ;

i think that the secret to overall wellness in the most glamorous way possible is a bunch of little habits that can contribute to an overall beautiful and glamorous inside and outside.

so focus on building habits before you make a huge lifestyle switch. not to confuse this with not being all in. you must be all in otherwise you'll fall back into unhealthy and old patterns for the sake of comfort.

but thats not hot, you can take baby steps while still being all in. commit to a more vibrant and more well self cuz you'll thank urself in the long run.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (11)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, violence, swearing, descriptions of wounds, physical and verbal aggression ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After what had happened, after what he had found out, he ordered his most necessary things to be moved to her chamber. Seeing the look on his face and his fury, his mother dared not say a word on the matter, sensing that he already knew what she had done with his grandfather's blessing.

She had forced his betrothed to drink moon tea without his knowledge, without his consent, knowing that he would never allow it to happen, that if it turned out she was expecting his child he would marry her immediately without asking their opinion.

He thought with regret and remorse consuming his soul and heart that he should have done it right away, but now it was too late.

His moment of hesitation had cost him everything.

For the first two days, the only thing that came out of his niece's mouth was a quiet babble; she was still asleep, and when she woke up, his sister fed her with warm soup.

Helaena was the only person besides the maester and himself that he allowed to be in her chamber.

His mother, grandfather and Cole were not allowed in by his decision – he had vowed to them that if they crossed the threshold of her quarters, neither he nor Vhagar would aid them with their participation in the war they had unleashed at their own request.

As it turned out, his threat worked.

He realised that he was indeed a rider of the greatest dragon living in the world and could use that as a negotiating card, that they needed him and the alliance he could provide for them.

Storm's End.

He only left her alone when he needed to deal with something urgent, always asking Helaena to stay by her side then.

He trusted no one but her.

To his surprise, his brother-king showed a surprising understanding and a kind of compassion he had not expected from him.

He did not mock or joke about the situation during the meetings of the Small Council, and asked if her health was improving, personally giving his permission for him to be able to stay with her day and night even though he was not her husband, against the wishes of their grandfather.

The power they had was turning against him and Otto felt this, his daughter was also no longer so willing to listen to him seeing what tragedy the decisions he was putting into her head had led to.

She had completely broken down after the day following his niece's attempt to take her own life, because word from Dragonstone reached them that Rheanyra had lost her child.

In him his mother tried to find understanding and words of comfort, but he did not speak to her or look at her, unable to forgive her for her betrayal.

He had hoped that as a woman she would show more sensitivity, more caution.

His niece lived as if half asleep, waking and falling back into a dream, not understanding who she was or what was happening to her.

As night fell he would pull off his tunic and boots, staying in just his chemise and breeches, lying down behind her back, embracing her, entwining their fingers, sinking his face into her fragrant hair, inhaling her addictive scent.

She purred then sweetly, involuntarily recognising him, her head tilting back, letting him place soft, warm, wet kisses on her long neck, his large hands tentatively trailing over her body covered only by her thin nightgown, trying to draw on the time he had left until it reached her what had really happened.

His cock throbbed hard in his breeches as she whispered his name, pressing against her buttocks; he sighed quietly then, rubbing against her but not bringing himself to fulfilment, punishing himself in this way, recognising that he did not deserve relief.

He wanted to burn with her.

After three days he was awakened by her quiet hiss; he flinched and opened his eyes, sensing that she was trying to get up. She stared at her wrists wrapped in a fresh bandages before looking at him and he already knew.

Her lips pressed together, her brow arched in pain and disbelief, her eyes glazed over with tears of helplessness, anger and disappointment, her body began to twitch.

"− my love? −" He whispered, but she turned away from him, laying back on the bed and wept. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her neck, feeling the squeeze in his throat, breathing erratically, tears of shame in the corners of his eyes.

"− I didn't know − I swear I didn't know about moon tea −" He muttered, but he knew it was for nothing.

She didn't speak to him then or for the next few days, not even bestowing a single glance on him.

He thought with a sneer that the roles were reversed, that now it was he who begged in his thoughts for her attention, for her forgiveness, and he wondered if she would follow in his footsteps and not speak to him for the next eight years.

He sat in the evenings in a chair by the fireplace, gazing at her silhouette lying on her bed, a book in her hand, her wrists no longer bandaged, her freshly healed wounds still red, dark lines on her skin reminding him of who he was and what he had done to her.

At night he would lie down beside her and embrace her from behind, stroking her hands with his thumbs, and though her whole body tensed and froze when he touched her, she never pushed him away.

It seemed to him that her silence was even worse than her words of condemnation.

The day he was to set out on his mission to Storm's End was approaching mercilessly and she still didn't know it; he had no idea how he should convey it to her, himself discouraged and bitter at the thought of being forced to marry another woman, of living in a purely political marriage, which although he had reckoned with as a child, after his father's decision, he believed he would never experience.

He thought, looking at her face, at the girlish, pleasing shape of her body, about marrying her in secret, but he knew that she no longer wanted him, and no Septon would agree to help him out of fear of the Queen and his grandfather.

A nuptials in the tradition of Old Valyria remained, however, it required a cooperation on her part that he did not expect.

Moreover, guards stood outside her chambers day and night, watching not only her but also him, his grandfather was prudent and seeing his involvement he knew that he would try to act behind his back.

Although he hid behind a stony, indifferent face he felt helpless and tried to find a solution in his mind that would give him more room to act, to lull his family's vigilance.

He decided that, for the time being, he had to act as his relatives wished, so that they would believe that he was going to do what they told him to.

However, he had no idea how he was going to reason with his niece, how he was going to initiate her into his plans when, for obvious reasons, she was no longer going to participate.

He finally decided, experiencing a kind of revelation, that he would write her a letter, just as she had done to him all these years.

He saw her lift her gaze to him from the piece of embroidery she had just worked on, a bird from the crest of the Arryn family, her relatives on her grandmother's side, as he moved towards his secretary's desk, from which he pulled out a quill, ink and parchment.

Her expression of who she was, who she identified with, whose side she stood on.

He didn't give a fuck.

He sank the sharpened quill into the ink and stared at the blank sheet of parchment for a moment, wondering what it was he actually wanted to convey to her, and then he began to write, for the first time in his life openly expressing what he felt.

He thought it was liberating in a way, his words flowed like a river from his mind and his heart.

My Rhaenys,

I set out on my journey to Storm's End to quench my grandfather and mother's thirst with a sense of injustice. It occurs to me that only now am I able to understand what you have been going through all these years, experiencing from me only the silence I deeply believed you deserved at the time.

I'm sure you think the same of me now, and you're not wrong, because I myself am unable to comment or justify what happened through my hesitation, which cost me everything.

I thought it is easy to see what is right and what is wrong, to choose the proper path, but after my father's death it became apparent that none of this was the case, and my mother's and my grandfather's decision set it out for me, against my will, and although I tried to stand up to it, it seems to me that the consequences of their actions have sunk me like a wave that carries me onward, away from the safe harbour that you are.

I want you to realise, my niece, that one word from you is enough for us to slit our lips and hands upon my return and drink our warm, mingled blood, sealing at last our destiny once and for all.

I, unlike Aegon the Conqueror, want you in my bed every night.

I don't think Lord Baratheon's mind can contain what we read about as children and that he would accept that his daughter would be merely a second, and moreover, unwanted wife in my life. Union with him may give us an army to wage war on, but my union with you may in my mind end it with the birth of our child, a descendant of the Greens and Blacks.

I am not, and will not be able to accept, either as your uncle or as your husband, Jacerys, Lucerys or Joffrey as heirs to the throne for reasons that are well known to you, and which neither the marriage nor the threats of your stepfather and your mother can change − we both know full well that they do not and cannot have rights to the crown.

However, Aegon's and Viserys's rights to it are strong, unassailable even by me, and although as your uncle I have no personal interest in your mother or her offspring sitting on the Iron Throne, as your husband I would be willing, as part of a truce, to agree that it should not be Helaena and Aegon's children who inherit the throne, but my half-sister's and my uncle's or, if both sides in the conflict were to be at least partially satisfied, ours.

I have spent the last few days reflecting on what has happened and on what I think would be a solution that would satisfy me, but it has turned out that there is none. Unlike my brother, I don't delude myself that your mother will bend the knee, any more than any person with any dignity or pride would.

We all have to sacrifice something.

He looked at what he had written being filled with awe at how many words were in his mind, how many thoughts he was afraid to say out loud, that one could perhaps even consider a betrayal.

His words to her, to his childhood friend.

He huffed at the ink, wanting to make sure it wouldn't smudge, and rolled the parchment into a scroll. He rose from his seat with a creak of wood, feeling her surprised gaze on him as he placed his letter on the small table beside her bed, and then left, informing his guards that in his absence no one but his sister was allowed to cross the threshold of her chamber.

He changed with the help of his servants into his rider's attire, his leather cloak and gloves reminding him of how long it had been since he was riding on Vhagar, absorbed in all the events of the past weeks.

Rhaenyra gathering her forces around Dragonstone, her wrath that reached all the way to the Red Keep announcing that she would take back everything she had been robbed of.

Her daughter and her throne.

He thought about this, heading for the hill near the keep where his dragoness rested, no longer fitting into the Dragon Pit, like he didn't suit anywhere, didn't belong anywhere.

His journey to Strom's End was unpleasant and tiring; he had the feeling that the heavens were trembling with rage, that he was defying, though not of his free will, his destiny, the storm around him and the rain made him see little and he had to be very careful, gliding between the peaks of the mountains.

When he finally saw the high stone stronghold on the edge of the cliff in the distance he pressed his lips together and thought he would choose the most annoying and unpleasant of his daughters, not to experience a single bit of sympathy towards her when she realised what fate awaited her.

He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of his beloved, his Rhaenys, and felt his heart beat fast, elated at the thought that she had surely already read his letter.

He thought it was amusing that as he flew to choose his future wife, all he could think about was how much he wanted to marry someone else.

He was welcomed in the fortress with honours. Lord Baratheon with his wife and daughters awaited him in the great circular throne room lit by torchlight, all around them he could hear the thunders being muffled by the thick walls.

"My Lord." He said lowly, looking up at the tall man seated before him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed as if he was judging him as a candidate for a husband for his daughters.

He struggled to contain the grimace of amusement that pressed across his face.

"My Prince. At last you have honoured us with your presence." He said drily, with an impatience from which his lips involuntarily curved into a wide smile. He could see in his gaze that he did not like it, however he clearly cared as much about this agreement as his mother, for he decided not to make any further remark.

"Let me introduce you to my daughters." He said in a low, throaty voice, pointing with his hand to his side, his gaze lazily directed towards them.

They each had dark hair, tied up in elaborate hairstyles apparently meant to add to their elegance and refinement, braided in the back and smoothed in the front, their simple gowns, though sewn of the most expensive materials, looked faded and grey to him, their eyes dark as were their eyelashes and eyebrows.

They were not repulsive or ugly, yet he felt nothing at the sight of them.

The emptiness that taken over his mind was astonishing to him compared to what overwhelmed his body when he saw his niece years later then, when she had watched his duel with Ser Criston, when he saw her bare shoulders, her long, loose, wavy hair, her sweet, puffy lips, her big, bright eyes.

He shuddered, reminding himself of her beautiful soft bare body, of how wonderfully tight and warm her fleshy insides were, of her sweet, shy moans of pleasure as he opened her wide on his fat cock again and again with confident thrusts of his hips.

His manhood throbbed in his breeches so hard at the thought that he swallowed loudly and grunted.

He nodded and approached them slowly, measuring them with his gaze. Only one of them dared to lift her gaze to him – he noticed a barely visible amused smile on her face. He raised his eyebrows seeing this and thought that she liked to coquet and mock men.

Perfect, he thought.

These were the kind of women he despised the most.

"What do they call you, my Lady?" He asked in a low, deep voice that echoed around them.

The girl straightened up proudly, clearly pleased that she had caught his attention, her gaze travelling over his figure from top to bottom, she was just deciding, apparently, whether she thought him handsome.

"Maris, my Prince." She said softly, her voice low, not as melodious, girlish and light as his niece's.

"Hm." He hummed under his breath and shuddered as he heard a guard walk swiftly into the great hall.

"Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon, heir to Driftmark." He announced loudly, and he turned, feeling his heart begin to pound like mad, his lips tightening into a thin line as he caught sight of the silhouette of a black-haired boy, completely drenched from his journey.

When Luke spotted him at the other end of the hall he froze completely, pale and terrified – he felt a wild satisfaction at the thought that he knew he didn't stand a chance against him in a battle neither on the ground nor in the heavens.

He watched with a wide grin and a sneer as little Lord Strong in a trembling voice tried to persuade Borros Baratheon to support his mother's claim to the throne in accordance with his father's oath, and laughed aloud when it became apparent that he had come up empty-handed.

"Go home, pup. Tell your mother she won't call on me when she wishes like some dog." Growled Lord Baratheon, clearly self-satisfied that he could dismiss him with such ease, leaving him with nothing.

He felt like going after him, forcing him to fall to his knees before him and then gouge out his eye, to experience a wonderful sense of justice and atonement at last, but he refrained, recognising that his Rhaenys would never forgive him for that, so he merely looked away and sighed contentedly, grinning to himself.

"Was it not he who took your eye, my Prince? Are you going to let him just walk away?" He heard Maris's amused, mocking voice behind him and looked down at her with a gaze from which she lost her earlier confidence, her smile gone from her face.

"I have made my decision, my Lord." He said in a cold, indifferent voice. "Her."

Though Borros Baratheon's wife had insisted that he stay in Storm's End and not return to King's Landing during such a violent storm, he had replied that he would leave immediately.

Lady Baratheon looked at him then, tightening her lips, clearly wanting to ask something, hesitating whether she should do so, but in the end she could not bear it.

"It has come to my knowledge that Rhaenyra Targaryen's daughter, and your would-be betrothed, is your prisoner, my Prince." She said reluctantly, watching him intently, as if she wanted to see anything in his face that could tell her if he still had feelings for her, if this girl was any kind of threat to her daughter.

He looked at her with an intense, indifferent gaze until she turned her face away, swallowing loudly.

He hummed under his breath and left without giving either of her daughters a single glance.

As he left their stronghold he noticed with surprise that Luke was standing in the distance in the rain, quivering all over, looking at him. For a moment they did not take their eyes off each other, all around them lightning and thunder making the ground beneath their feet tremble.

"I want to see my sister." He called out to him in a shaky voice, forcing himself to be confident, and he snorted, turning his head away.

He wanted to humiliate him, to press his face to the mud and remind him that he was a fucking bastard, but he hesitated.

He licked his lips at the thought that if he allowed them to meet perhaps she would forgive him, believe that he was not her enemy, that for her he had not carried out his revenge, for her he had not killed, but had brought to her the man he despised so deeply.

His expression of goodwill.

"Fly after me, my Lord Strong, if you dare." He sneered and moved towards Vhagar, climbing the ropes to her back, settling into his saddle all wet from the rain to take to the skies with her a moment later.

He looked over his shoulder and spotted the figure of a small dragon among the dark clouds; he thought in the back of his mind that his nephew had been a fool, that he had been guided by his emotions rather than reason.

He decided to take him to Vhagar's lair, and then to one of the back entrances to the Red Keep which he used when he wanted no one to notice his disappearance.

After a few hours of travel, he landed on the hill and slid off his dragoness onto the wet grass, watching impatiently as his nephew took his place a piece away, looking at him apprehensively as soon as he jumped down, catching the hilt of his sword. He smirked mischievously at the sight.

"Don't be ridiculous, nephew. Fighting you would be a little challenge. Come." He hissed impatiently, turning and moving ahead, cold and wet just as much as he was.

"How do I know it's not a trap? That she's alive?" He heard his trembling voice behind him, full of fear and uncertainty, from which he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes, hoping his niece would appreciate how much he had sacrificed for her, how much he had put himself at risk for her.

"If I wanted to kill you or imprison you, I would, my Lord Strong." He said indifferently, stopping him with a gesture of his hand, seeing the guards walking along the wall above them, looking around; he only moved on when they were out of his sight.

They went inside through a small wooden door covered in ivy, which opened with a loud creak; he looked at him with disapproval, his eyes large, his face pale, he breathed loudly through his mouth, knowing he was a fool.

That if he took him hostage their mother's hands would be tied, deprived of her two children and two dragons she would have to bend the knee.

He contemplated whether to do so, whether it would perhaps end the whole war, but he decided that this one, and only one time, he would do something not for himself, not for his family, but for her.

Proof of how deep was his affection towards her.

"Wait here and be quiet." He growled and moved ahead leaving him behind, passing into the pits beneath the Red Keep itself.

He climbed the cramped side servants' staircase to the corridor into which her chamber was located and came upon the surprised guards, who awoke upon hearing his footsteps and stood at attention.

"Bring me my dry garments and inform the servants that I will take a bath." He said lowly, one of them nodded and immediately moved ahead, intending to obey his order, but the other remained in his place, looking at him uncertainly.

"Has she eaten anything today?" He asked him, and he shook his head, swallowing loudly, terrified apparently that he would blame him for such a state of affairs.

"Inform the cook to prepare some warm soup for her."

"Now, Your Grace? It's the middle of the night…"

"He is to prepare her fucking warm soup, I said." He hissed, the man nodded and also disappeared after a moment around a corner.

He walked into her chamber, and she pulled up in bed with a scream – he saw that her face was red with tears and he felt a squeeze in his throat that perhaps it was because of his letter, that perhaps she still loved him.

However, there was no time to think about that.

"− uncle? − what are you − stop −" She cried out horrified, not understanding what was happening, what he wanted to do, when he took a plain grey hooded coat, pulled her violently by her arm and forced her to stand up, putting it over her shoulders and head.

"− no −" She mumbled, but he pulled her forcibly out of her chamber; after what had happened to her she was still weakened and her resistance was having no effect.

"− I don't want to − you won't make me − I'm going to scream −"

"Be fucking quiet. Don't you want to see your little brother? Hm? I thought so." He growled, gripping his fingers tighter on her arm and heard her quiet squeal of discomfort, however, no more words left her lips.

They walked down the same path he had entered, walking for a while in complete darkness – he knew she had walked barefoot, that she was cold and uncomfortable, but they had no time.

They had to get back before the guards informed anyone that she was not in her chamber.

He let her go as they stepped out into the narrow corridor at the end of which Luke was standing, heard her draw in a loud breath and stop in mid-step, not believing what she was seeing.

They both looked at each other as if they couldn't believe it was really happening, completely shocked.

"Luke!" She cried out and ran towards him pulling the hood off her head – they threw themselves into each other's arms, both bursting into sobs like little children.

He stared at them impassively thinking about giving them a few minutes and then bringing her back and taking her in her bed, his cock swollen and hard, he hadn't experienced relief in days.

"A-are you all right? Did they hurt you? Why do you have a bruise under your eye? What is it?" He asked in a trembling voice taking her wrists in his hands, noticing the freshly healed cuts on them.

Luke looked at him accusingly, but she shook her head, grasping his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, smiling broadly, happy and full of energy, as if awakened from a deep sleep.

"No, it was an accident. Nothing serious." She lied, and he lowered his gaze at the thought that he hadn't spoken a word to Criston Cole since that day, since he found out what he'd done, and the only reason he was still alive was because his mother had begged him to show mercy.

"Please, Aemond." His mother mumbled in a trembling, terrified voice, holding his shoulders, seeing his cold, angry gaze directed at her sworn protector.

"I'm not going to ask a third time, Cole. Did you hit her?" He hissed through clenched teeth, feeling that the bones in his jaw were about to burst with rage, his hands closed into tight fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly in uneven, ragged breaths.

Ser Criston lowered his gaze and swallowed loudly, standing with his hands folded behind him, clearly embarrassed.

"Yes, my Prince. I admit with shame that I lost my temper. I called her an undignified name and slapped her." He mumbled, not daring to look at him; he felt his lips part in a wicked grin that had nothing to do with contentment.

"Did you do it before or after you made her drink moon tea?" He asked in a mocking, matter-of-fact, sharp tone, and saw the glances that Cole and his mother exchanged, horrified that she had already told him everything.

"− Aemond, she cannot carry your child if she is to marry −"

The Queen began but her voice stuck in her throat when he locked her cheeks between his fingers in sudden, violent gesture, digging his fingertips into her skin, Criston Cole twitched not knowing what to do, her pupils dilated in shock and fear.

"I was the one who wanted her to run away with me. For her to give herself to me. I promised her I would marry her. And I fucking meant it!" He growled like an animal and shook her head as if he wanted her to finally realize what he was saying, felt tears of helplessness under his eyelids as he looked at his mother in despair, her gaze changed, she drew in air loudly, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"My Prince, for gods sake, it is your mother!" Exclaimed Criston Cole, and he let her go, panting hard; the Queen took a few steps back, breathing heavily, looking at him in disbelief and pain, holding her hand on her chest, trembling all over.

She did not recognise him.

"Return with me to Dragonstone." He heard Luke's quiet mumble and furrowed his brows, returning with his mind to them; he felt his heart begin to pound like mad, terrified that she would try to run away with him, his hand slipped involuntarily to the dagger fastened to his belt.

He swallowed loudly at the thought that he should have followed his instincts from the very beginning and just kill him.

"N-no. No." She said horrified, seeing in his gaze what he was thinking about, what he was prepared to do; she stroked her little brother's shoulders with hands trembling with fear, smiling again, wanting to comfort him.

"But you go. Tell my mother that I am faithful to her and that I love her very much. Can you do that for me?" She asked softly, her voice breaking as she spoke her last words.

"I won't leave you here. I will never…"

"You will leave. I'm begging you, go now." She muttered, releasing him, but his hands refused to let her go.

"Please."

"I can't, you have to understand me −"

"Time's up." He heard his own low, cold voice, saw her terrified look – she nodded quickly, wanting to be obedient and gentle, wanting him to remain calm, not to do anything under sudden rage.

"Go, Luke." She said.

"I'll set you free, I swear." He mumbled and let go of her hand, escaping at last, disappearing into the rain.

They both let out a loud, terrified breath and looked at each other uncertainly, his hand letting go of the hilt of his dagger. He felt some kind of deep, wonderful relief.

She stayed of her own free will.

He licked his lower lip in satisfaction at the thought that she herself didn't know what she thought of it all, her cheeks red from emotion and tears.

"How did you find him?" She asked quietly, looking at him uncertainly, as if she didn't know what she could expect from him. He hummed under his breath at her question, lifting his chin in a gesture of superiority.

"He came to Storm's End as an envoy." He explained matter-of-factly, approaching her slowly with his heart pounding faster and faster, feeling like his cock was about to explode if he didn't finally touch her.

She swallowed hard at his words, lifting her gaze full of pain and regret to him, her eyebrows arched in a clear sense of helplessness; he thought with delight that he was not indifferent to her.

"Have you made your choice?" She asked quietly, and he smirked, feeling that somehow he had regained his advantage over her, that she was jealous of him.

"Yes."

"Then I'm afraid you can no longer sleep in my chamber. It would not be appropriate." She said softly, not taking her eyes off him, and he felt his heart stop, his lips tighten into a thin line.

"After what I did for you? What I risked for you? This is how you thank me?" He growled, stepping closer to her, feeling burning rage and disappointment that she didn't throw herself happily around his neck, that what he'd done wasn't enough. She furrowed her brow, looking at him with fear and disbelief.

"I'm grateful to you, gods, I really am, but if you think I'm going to be your whore, you're wrong." She mumbled with pain from which he felt a squeeze in his throat, his body trembling with disappointment and rage.

"I don't want you to be my whore. I want you to be my wife." He hissed through clenched teeth, gripping his dagger, which he took out in a swift, sure movement. She squealed as he gripped her cheeks violently in his hand, her fingers tightened on his wrist trying fruitlessly to free her from his grasp, her eyes opened wide with terror as he pressed his blade against her lower lip.

"Don't move. Don't fucking move, I said." He growled when she cried out loudly and clenched her eyes shut as he slashed her delicate skin, a thin trickle of blood dripping from the red wound.

He passed his dagger into her hand, clenching it in her palm; he looked at her pleadingly, sliding his fingers into her hair, pressing his forehead against hers in a gesture of desperation.

"− I can't take it anymore − we both know it was always going to end like this −" He muttered stroking her cheeks, her hair, her neck, her shoulders with his hands, feeling that he was in some kind of frenzy.

"− kill me or marry me −" He said in a trembling voice; she drew in the air loudly, her gaze hot, helpless, terrified, full of pain, resentment, desire, regret, anger, exhaustion.

He looked straight into her eyes as her trembling hand lifted his blade, first stopping on the line of his neck, then grasped his cheek in her fingers – a low, surprised groan of delight broke from his throat as he felt the cold, astringent taste of steel on his lips, then the burning pain of sliced skin.

He looked at her dreamily, feeling that what she had done had aroused him even more, that he was about to throw himself at her and rip off everything she was wearing.

He watched her face as he took his dagger in his fingers and with a sure, shallow movement slit the skin of the inside of her hand. She hissed quietly, clenching her lips in discomfort, tears of horror, emotion, sadness and relief running down her cheeks.

He breathed loudly when he observed her as she did the same, creating a burning wound on his hand from which his warm, sticky blood dripped.

He clasped their bleeding palms together, holding the dagger beneath them onto which drop by drop flowed their mingled blood.

There was something at once frightening and divine about the sight, as if in a mysterious and only known to them way the gods of their ancestors had bound them together for eternity.

He lifted the blade up and licked it with a gasp of contentment as he gazed at her face; he hummed with delight as he felt that forbidden, tart taste.

He repeated the act and this time he held the blade to her lips; he felt his cock throb in pleasure in his breeches as her glistening, pink tongue ran over the bloody steel before his eyes.

He released the dagger from his hand and clung to her with his lips, both of them moaning loudly in pain, discomfort and pleasure, not caring about their wounds, realising that this was what their love had been.

Something so painfully fulfilling.

As much as he craved it, as much as he wanted to spend hours with his face between her thighs, he needed to feel her first, her hands helping him quickly unfasten the clasps of his coat and tunic. He untied the material of his breeches and tilted it aside, releasing what was beneath them, his manhood painfully hard and swollen, its tip wet with his own moisture.

He pulled her nightgown up over her thighs and grabbed her in his arms, lifting her, her legs immediately closing around his waist, her hands entwined in his hair and pressed his face against her puffy, sweet mouth.

He groaned low into her throat, meeting the tip of his tongue against hers, licking her and sucking her lips; they both clamped their hands tightly on their bodies as the fat head of his cock began to push against her leaking folds from below.

"− let me in − let me in, sweet wife −" He muttered between the loud dance of their tongues, teeth and saliva. She squirmed loudly as he slowly slid into her with a sigh of pleasure, her insides and thighs wet with her moisture, making him open her wide with one sure thrust of his hips.

"− Aemond −" She cried out sweetly as he began to root into her with thirsty, desperate thrusts, their whole bodies twitching and vibrating, her hands roaming over his cheeks, hair, neck and back, her throbbing, hot, weeping cunt clenching around him and sucking him inside, refusing to let him go, forcing him to pound into her with more brutality.

"− fucking mine −" He hissed out, tightening his fingers on her soft flesh, leaving a trail of blood on her skin and nightgown, slamming into her violently with his cock, thick and swollen with almost painful arousal.

He was panting loudly along with her, sensing that he was embarrassingly close to his peak, his thighs slapping again and again against her buttocks with a shameless splat of her moisture, her scent, her closeness, her whimpers filled his entire mind, leaving only bliss.

"− g-gods, uncle −" She mewled, tilting her head back, moaning like a whore and yet like a saint, sweet and loud, as if she was surprised at how quickly and suddenly fulfilment shook her body.

He felt her juices running down his thighs, soaking his cock; he sighed with some kind of relief when he finally let go, filling her to the brim with his warm seed, her walls squeezing him greedily.

"− fuck-fuck-fucckkk −" He gasped clenching his teeth, stunned by the pleasure and fulfilment that enveloped his body, his muscles suddenly soft, his body numb.

He fell to his knees with her and heard her squeal in terror, her legs and hands embracing him tightly; he rooted into her for a moment longer with sloppy, slow thrusts of his hips, wanting to savour the fact that he felt her again.

That she was his wife.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla

[pienhime]

my ten manga/game/anime/etc recs for jirai

hiii long time no long ass recs post! i wanna recommend media that is popular w landmine types for newbies to the subculture, and recommendations for those who might have been here long enough to know the most popular media within jirai subculture and want some recommendations beyond that!

so without further ado...

1. Tomorrow, I Will Become Someone's Girlfriend

TW: unsafe sex work, abusive relationships, body dysmorphia, self harm, substance use, misogyny, and parental death

Okay you knew this was coming. It's probably the most popular manga amongst jirai girls as it literally is about Kabukicho, sex work, trauma, and jirai culture. Everyone's seen Yua at this point, and she is a jiraicon, but the other characters are interesting and may be relatable to jirai girls too!

2. Mahou Shoujo Site

TW: sexual assault, r@pe, abusive family dynamics, transphobia, self-harm, suicide, murder, gore, bullying, human sacrifice

This is probably also familiar to people in the jirai community and yandereblr. Super mega fucked-up parody of magical girl animes with a cast of memorable but mentally unhinged and often morally gray-to-terrible characters with a hopeful message at the end. The most unfortunate girls around Japan get given magical girl items to improve their lives, but using them drains their life force- and someone's on the hunt for magical girls, all while the countdown to the apocalypse ticks down on the mysterious magical girl site. DO NOT BOTHER WITH THE ANIME, JUST READ THE MANGA!!

3. Needy Girl Overdose/Needy Streamer Overload

TW: substance abuse, self-harm, murder (potentially), suicide, non-graphic sexual content, abuse (player is being abused by the main character), unreality, internet addiction

Duh. I can't not have this game on here! Created by a renowned menhera subculture artist and featuring Jirai icons Ame-chan and KAngel, this game has blown up unexpectedly since its release, getting art exhibits and collabs with brands like DearMyLove. You play as P-chan, Ame/KAngel's boyfriend and producer, while you try to help her achieve her goals of becoming an influencer and prevent her from killing herself or going insane along the way. If you've been in a relationship like this as the P-chan, I'm sorry we relate but this game was super therapeutic to me so maybe it'll help you process too!! Also the soundtrack fucks. Hard.

4. Neeko wa Tsurai Yo!

TW: agoraphobia, existentialism, substance use (kind of), ecchi (of both adult and high schooler characters), suicidal ideation, internet addiction

This is a super underrated personal favorite I've posted about a few times before. It follows hikki-NEET gacha gamer Niiko, as she faces jealousy of her little sister for being farther in life than her as a high-schooler, the trauma of a particularly horrific job rejection keeping her from going outside or trying for another job, and being totally fed up with her life. It's a pretty depressing read for the first half, but becomes a realistic story about recovery by the end.

5. Wristcut Warriors: Menherachan

TW: suicide attempts, self-harm (duh), parental abuse, parental death, parental neglect, attempted sexual assault, mild gore, societal ableism/sanism

Much more popular in the menhera subculture than anywhere else, but still popular enough with landmine types to be included, and a personal comfort series of mine. This is a satire manga about three teenage magical girls who have to self-harm to transform, meant as an allegory for how suffering and self-sacrifice for the sake of upholding societal norms is seen as more noble in Japan than speaking out etc. It's pretty short with only 20 chapters and some supplemental material, and tons of merch collabs but due to Ezaki being the actual fucking worst i encourage you to only but fanmerch and second-hand.

6. Danganronpa

TW: murder, suicide, ableist depiction of DID, misgendering (kind of, im not getting into ******* discourse so ill put it jic), SA, addiction,and general violence and blood

I'm biased as a Danganronpa multi-kin and selfshipper but I personally think every jirai should play Danganronpa, read the supplemental materials and watch DR3 if they can. Quirky teens with mental issues locked in a school and forced to kill each other or themselves? Prime insanity and mindbreaking ensues, with some really cool characters coming out of the franchise. Despite the premise, theres a pretty hopeful message.

7. Oshi no Ko

TW: stalking, teen pregnancy, exploitation of minors, suicide attempts, murder, terminal illness, age gap relationships, bullying, abortion, parasocial relationships, and... sigh... pseudo-incest is apparently in the manga as well

If you are into idol anime and expect your standard cinderella story about passionate girls and guys hitting it big... Oshi no Ko isn't the idol anime you're used to. This doesn't even follow the hit idol herself- rather, her two children who are reincarnated fans. They have to find their way in the exploitative and often dark showbiz world while trying to solve their mother's murder.

8. Bocchi the Rock!

TW: agoraphobia, alcohol abuse

I only watched this one recently, but it's already an all-time fav. It follows agoraphobic and severly socially anxious Hitori (aka Bocchi), and her newfound friends as they do their best to become a successful local band! They make odd friends along the way and Bocchi starts to try to recover and better herself, with often comedic failures along the way.

9. TUYU's interconnected songs

TW: abuse, substance abuse, unsafe SW, dysmorphia, suicide, self harm, parasocialism

Okay so... ik the timing is bad but I meant to make this list ages ago and this was on it so... a lot of the TUYU songs and MVs are interconnected! Some specifically cover jirai kei and ryousangata otaku topics! My favorite songs and MVs are the ones involving my favorite characters, Anhiro and Anzu, who are heavily featured in the Under Mentality album.

10. School-Live!

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!!! I RECOMMEND GOING IN BLIND FOR THIS ANIME SPECIFICALLY!!

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TW: unreality, major character death, parental death, self-harm, animal death, graphic depictions of delusions and hallucinations

I loved the anime, so I picked up the manga recently. I'm only a little ways in, but I want to complete it since the anime didn't cover it all! You don't even know the plot until the final seconds of the first episode, where it's revealed that Yuki is the only member of the squad who doesn't realize what's going on- she's not in school for class, she's living there for shelter in a zombie apocalypse. Oh, and she sees dead people. She has moments of clarity, and the story often follows other characters' memories and POVs, so you still get to have a clear look into what happened and what's going on for real.

That was my list of my current top ten media recommendations for jirai kei! Please lmk if you decide to give any of these a try! Remember that I also regularly post music recs under #music too! Bye-bye!!

[heartswithinreach]

Hello! I wanted to say I love your writing and super eager for more! That said, I was recently diagnosed with cancer and was wondering how the lads would react to an MC who was diagnosed with it or something similar? If that's too dark, I'm sorry!

Thank you and I hope your day is great! :)

a/n: i am so sorry anon, i hope you're taking care of yourself and that this can bring you some comfort 💖💖🫂everyone wish anon well!!

LaDS when MC has a cancer diagnosis

Xavier

After a few moments of silence, he accepts the reality of your diagnosis and begins making plans on how to make your life easier. Whatever you need, he'll do it, no questions asked.

For your sake, Xavier is as calm and steadfast as ever. He wants you to continue living life as normally as possible. He'll do subtle, thoughtful things just to remind you how important you are to him and that he’ll always love you, no matter what comes.

With Jenna and your team's full support, you and Xavier both take a leave of absence from duty so Xavier can take care of you during your treatment.

Tara takes the lead in organizing visits and dividing chores they can do so you can rest with nothing to worry about. She spends almost as much time with you as Xavier does and he’s immensely grateful so many support you both.

Xavier listens to your worries and fears. Say what you feel, he's here to shoulder it with you without judgment.

Rafayel

His first reaction is anger — not at you, but at this horrible situation.

No one deserves this and he's so frustrated he can't just make this go away with the money or influence he has. What is it all for if he can't take care of you?

But this isn't about him. Rafayel might not be the most natural caretaker but your bond is forever. He won't just abandon you now.

He can't sleep that night after you tell him so he works till dawn converting a spare room into your home away from home. Being near the sea can help improve your health, right? Well, maybe you should stay with him for while, then!

Rafayel, despite what he may think, is actually a pretty good nurse, fussing over you and making you feel special while keeping your spirits high. He is so attuned to you and your needs, it’s as easy as breathing.

Zayne

As your physician, he saw the signs early on but quickly passed your case on to someone more qualified than him. He couldn't allow his feelings to get in the way of getting you the best possible care.

Zayne is there at every meeting, every check up, every treatment. He didn't expect it to be so difficult from getting too involved but he knows he would be nothing but a hinderance to the team treating you.

So he puts his faith in the capable staff of Akso Hospital while he dedicates himself to your emotional and mental health. He only goes into the hospital a few times a week for his more urgent patients, otherwise, he’s at home with you.

Zayne becomes so considerate and gentle, you'll wonder how you ever thought he was cold. Through it all, he will be your rock.

You need him, now more than ever, and Zayne takes that more seriously than ever oath he’s ever made.

Sylus

Mephisto is never far away so when you’re walking home after getting the news, you’re not very surprised to see Sylus waiting in a dark alley by your apartment. He will pull you into his embrace without a word and hold you together as you fall apart.

Sylus wants to know how you want to proceed and then he wants you to give him permission to make it a reality. He’s always silently hoping you’ll use his resources but now he’s almost pleading.

He keeps some sense of normalcy by continuing to tease and antagonize you, though now more gently than before and only if it’ll get you to smile.

Sylus wishes you could stay with him in the N109 Zone but he knows it’s impossible. You could never get the proper treatment there and he can’t leave his domain for too long. But the twins and Mephisto can do everything he cannot and that brings him some solace.

In time, you and Mephisto become closer until he has a nest in your room and you wake up every morning to something new and shiny on your windowsill to cheer you up. Having even just an extension of Sylus with you until the man himself comes to visit you at night is more comforting than you ever imagined.

[siyzuii]

quick intro & psa for my page + how i shift <3

like the title says.. doing a quick psa & telling you how i personally shift basically almost every time!

remember none of my posts are tailored to fit every shifter because they can't possibly be. what works for me might not work for you, and vice versa. i am not responsible for your shifting journey. thank you!

MEET THE SHIFTER

okay i'm gonna keep this short hi if you don't know me yet you can call me xylia or léa ! close friends call me stella but those are usually the people that i've known for longer.

i'm a minor but if you'd like to know my age for specifics please dm me privately (however, i will only tell people that i consider friends or plan to become friends with)

i currently only have one (main) dr which is my kpop dr so if you're a kpop shifter interact please!!!

SOME DISCLAIMERS

first psa !! i've only been on tumblr for about a month so bear with me because i'm not that good at navigating the app yet neither do i know some terms that people use on here

my first language also isn't english so please don't expect me to be the best at it, i might have to ask you what things mean or how to do things.

second psa !! i recently started school and it's keeping me extremely busy (constant homework, unexpected tests, etc) and i'm also focused on my own shifting journey (it's helping a lot) so i prefer to avoid social media that i don't talk to close friends on right now. this is why it might take a while for me to respond to you if you decide to drop an ask or dm me but i promise as soon as i read it i'll get to it asap!

i also get notifications a lot surprisingly, 99+ every time i check, so it might take longer for me to respond to comments and i might not see yours until i check back again.

please remember that i can't immediately respond to you or answer all of your questions but i'll try to help as much as i can!

　　　　　　　　　HOW I SHIFT

okay this part is probably why you read this post in the first place so i'm not going to bug you too much anymore. things that are optional in my routine will be marked with a pink * but everything is optional really, this is just what i personally do.

also note that you do NOT have to sleep to shift!! if you're not a fan of that i don't recommend doing what i do because for me it works easier doing an "asleep method" or whatever (i don't fw methods)

* ��� 　 ʾ 　 OO1 　 #THROUGHOUT THE DAY 　 .　

THINGS I DO THROUGHOUT THE DAY TO KEEP MYSELF MOTIVATED AND THAT HELP ME IN GENERAL.

SUBLIMINALS

this is VERY much optional especially because i don't do it consistently and surprisingly when i don't listen to subs i get way more success in shifting?? but sometimes i still listen to them

subliminals (2) or supraliminals (1) (both two different things but you might've seen both) are basically affirmations backed up by LOA either made really quiet + sped up with audio masked over it so you don't interpret them consciously (1) OR converted into a frequency (2) usually with supraliminals, the affirmations are just loud enough to get to your subconscious mind (but for the sake of comfort & for it being easier and a more general term, we'll just say subliminals for now)

hearing whispers/the affirmations on a very low volume is pretty normal most of the time but if you hear it too clearly, turn your volume down. if your head hurts or you get any bad symptoms it's a good idea not to listen for a while and to rest.

i suppose it's recommended to listen to subs consistently for results to work but you obviously don't have to! it's just something i do throughout the day. i'm very into LOA and subs help me improve my subconscious mind a lot.

FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT

this title is kinda misleading because it's not really faking as you are your dr self and always have been, you are living their life right now, you're in that reality, but you're not aware of it yet.

but, i like to think & sometimes even act like my dr self (well because that is me) and at one point it just becomes an automatic thing.

for me, it helps to think about what i have to do when i wake up in my dr, who i'm going to see, etc. mostly think about where i expect to wake up which is a MAJOR important thing in what i personally do to shift.

AFFIRM AWAY

can i say gaslighting..? i honestly don't know. i wouldn't call it that. but knowing that i'm in my dr right now and that i'll wake up there tomorrow feels amazing, constantly affirming that to myself helps me a lot.

even when i wake up and i'm supposedly still in my cr.. wait what do you mean..? i'm in my dr right now! i shifted!

(yeah you get what i'm doing there?)

* ⨳ 　 ʾ 　 OO2 　 #RIGHT BEFORE SHIFTING　 .　

THINGS I DO RIGHT BEFORE I INTEND TO SHIFT

SUBLIMINALS (2)

again very much optional but right before i intend to shift i sometimes listen to subliminals!

"FAKE" SCENARIOS

these motivate me a little more! i imagine these throughout the day as well but it's not very important so i didn't put it there.

⨳ 　 ʾ 　 OO3 　 #ACTUALLY DOING IT　 .　

THINGS I DO THAT HELP ME SHIFT IN THE MOMENT

roll over and go to sleep hoping for the best

simple. easy. that's what i do.

okay kidding it's a taaaaaad bit more than that but in its all i basically just do it and it works HAHAHA

AFFIRM AWAY (2)

after making myself comfortable i affirm that i am in my dr right now and that's where i will be when i wake up. this part is important to me, my expectations are important to me. i also do some other robotic affirmations & affirmations that are a bit more tailored to myself (you can do it in a sassy way, exaggerated happy way, pissed off way, etc. to fit with your personality here)

FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT (2)

these noises aren't from my cr..

i sleep in an environment where noises will always get to me which is why i like to pretend everything i hear is from my dr and boom, it's true.

for example.. got a fan playing in the background? well i just so happen to have one in my dr room.. and it's hot in there!!!

this is mostly what gets me to actually shift. i can visualize but it's just not that efficient for me when it comes to shifting.. but knowing i have something to work with (like noises) makes it a shit ton easier for me and i love it

"FAKE" SCENARIOS (2)

both for the funsies and because it actually helps. i imagine myself in scenarios from my dr. again.

it's as easy as that y'all.

if there's no noises in the background and i don't have anything to work with i just do the rest, think really hard about my dr, then let go and go to sleep. yeehaw

like i said i can't determine whether this works for you or not and there's no guarantee that it works for both you and me. but i usually either shift like this, or have vivid dreams about my dr. that's just me though!

remember you have an eternity to shift, and you will do it! i believe in you!

[vanishingstarrs]

midnight rain

katsuki bakugo x reader, slow burn, hurt x comfort, anxiety, fluff, sfw

part 1, part 2, part 3

( as an insomniac, this was a bit self indulgent, also for the sake of this story the timeline is irrelevant, i kinda went all over the place so let’s all just pretend it all lines up <3 also also feel free to imagine whatever quirk you’d like i never really had one in mind except for the side effect is you being v v cold bc it worked for the plot lol sorry it took so long to get this out, just wanted it to be perfect !! hope y'all enjoy <3 )

It was raining. Hard.

You were a nervous wreck.

It had been agreed that your classmates and you would be permitted to retrieve Midoriya from his self isolation. The heroes were out in the streets, instructed to call as soon as he was sighted since your class had full permission to spring into action and try to convince him to come back. The heroes told to stay back and allow you guys to take the lead on the mission.

Part of the reason you couldn’t sleep as of late was your classmate out in danger. You and Midoriya had never been best friends by any means, but you’d been close enough and you’d worked alongside him a few times. He was a nice person and always trying to help those around him, he’d come to you multiple times with theories on how to better improve your quirk so you wouldn’t overwork and accidentally freeze yourself to death. Even if he hadn’t done any of that, you likely still would’ve felt guilt over being safe while he wasn’t. He was good, and he deserved to come home.

All of this in turn meant more baking and less sleeping. You’d been out of bed for thirty minutes now, having brought your journal with you in order to go through your recipes.

You’d been in your room before, tinkering with your costume and doing little workouts while waiting for everyone to head to bed, not wanting to bother anyone.

The day had been spent training and putting more work into improving your individual powers, leveling up so that when the time came… you and your classmates could join up in the war. It was a frightening thought, and you weren’t sure you were quite ready for that again.

Speaking with Katsuki had been some help though, the way he spoke of heroes and nobility made you want to be brave like him.

And so, to thank him for the late nights, you were now up again, only this time you baked with purpose. For him. You weren’t sure how you were going to approach him to give him the baked goods, and part of you hoped he might be awake and come out on his own to save you the trouble of an awkward conversation.

You sighed as you double checked your recipe, making sure of your next step before incorporating dry ingredients with the wet ones.

It wasn't that you wished another sleepless night on Bakugo... but it was definitely easier to go to bed after having had him around. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't bullshit you, or the way he let you talk about nothing in particular until you were ready to open up about what had actually been weighing on your chest. Things you had yet to even bring up to your best friend.

You went through the motions almost at a sloth’s place, overthinking to yourself as you made sure everything was perfect for the muffins you were baking.

When all that was left to do was wait for the room to start smelling of cinnamon, you sat yourself at the island, headphones blasting as you grabbed you pen and journal again. You turned the page from your experimental recipes and found your sketches for the new costume you were working on, you'd asked Hatsume for some suggestions, but she'd dismissed you; she was too busy right now. She said she'd help you create the final design, but she didn't have the brain capacity to make something from scratch for you.

A groan left your lips as you stared at the page, just about ready to tear it and your hair out when your headphones were yanked down to your neck and the chair next to you scraped the floor as someone sat down,"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Don't you?" You scoffed, the response coming naturally,"Thought you were Mr. go to bed at seven every night, what happened?"

"That was before." He rolled his eyes,"Whatcha working on?"

You stared at Bakugo, unsure if he was actually there. Had you conjured him up somehow? Were you hallucinating? And was he actually making small talk with you right now?

"Muffins... for you, actually."

"Hah?!" His eyes bulged as he turned to the oven, like he just noticed it was on,"What are you making shit for me for? And I meant the sketches, idiot."

"Oh." You frowned.

"I'll eat them." He declared, realizing that it sounded as though he didn't care for them.

"No, it's okay." You looked away, trying to hide your smile and the fact that you were teasing,"I'll offer them up to the others. Who doesn't like apple cinnamon muffins with a nice crumble on top? No, don't worry, my efforts won't be in vein, maybe Momo will make a nice tea for us all."

"Tea? I can make tea, I'll make you the best damn tea you've ever had, and we're eating these damn muffins if it's the last thing we do." He grumbled as he stood up and found his same mug, as well as somehow finding yours amidst the array of everyone's cups.

His was orange with his first initial on it, and yours was purple with the multiple facial expressions of Kuromi all around, she was your favorite Sanrio character. You had no idea how he'd known that it was yours, but didn't dwell on it as you turned your frown back to your notebook and the aforementioned sketches.

"Been tryna come up with a new costume design, I'm not very great at it... Midoriya kinda helped me with my last one." You mentioned as he began boiling water for your tea.

You heard him scoff.

"What?" You asked immediately, self conscious now.

You had thought he'd done a pretty good job, and most of it was your idea anyway; he'd really only brought your vision to life since he was a lot better at that kinda stuff than you were.

"Nothin'. Didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to, is my costume ugly? I'm not really a big fan of the flashy stuff, I just want something simple that won't make me stand out..."

He walked back over, leaning against the island counter as he raised his eyebrows at you,"You do know the whole point of being a hero is standing out, right?"

"No..." You denied,"Not all of it. What if I just wanna help people and not be seen?"

"What about recognition?" He countered,"I see you standing back all the time, especially when you make shit like this and just leave a note, you don't always sign your name, don't you want people to know what you've done? What you've accomplished?"

"I'd hardly call baking a few cookies an accomplishment." You scoffed.

"When I got kidnapped." He brought up,"You were there."

It wasn't a question. He was stating it like it was something he knew for a fact and you didn't know how that came to be.

You'd never spoken about it, you'd gone along as a favor to your friends, they thought your power might be useful just in case the situation escalated. You'd agreed and at the end of it all, after getting him back, you'd gotten separated in the crowd. You didn't bother meeting back up, feeling you'd done all you that could and gone home. It was a long time ago, you felt.

"Who told you that? Kirishima?"

"Deku did." He corrected with a roll of his eyes,"He wanted to make sure I thanked you properly."

"You never did."

"I should've."

The oven timer dinged and you used it as your excuse to remove yourself from the conversation. You cleared your throat as you stood up and grabbed your oven mitts, your face felt warm and it wasn't just because you were removing baked goods from the oven.

"We'll have to wait for them to cool." You said aloud.

"Still gotta brew the tea, so... it's fine."

You felt incredibly awkward and he must've sensed it too, because he changed the subject back to the original.

"Y'know I can help you with this." Bakugo was holding your journal when you finally mustered up the courage to face him again,"My parents are fashion designers, I did my own costume. Won't make it too flashy if you don't want, or you could just wait for Deku if that's what ya want, he'll be back soon anyway."

"No." You said, maybe a little too eagerly.

He stared back in surprise.

"You help me." You made your way across the room again,"Please."

“Alright, alright, no begging it makes you look pathetic.” He said, though it had no fire behind it,“I guess I owe ya anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the tiny smile as he tugged you closer and took charge of the project. He made a few comparisons from your last costume to the lame prototype you’d been working on and then asked you for your favorite aspects of both before starting up from scratch on a different page, his writing was surprisingly neat as he listed a few support items he thought you should look into for the upcoming battles.

“It has to be purple.” You stated your only condition as you took the pen from him and started to shade a few spots, you had to lean close into him to be able to reach the journal and you heard him inhale sharply before moving it closer to you.

When you reached something actually resembling a good costume, you grinned and turned to him,“It’s great, Katsuki, thank you so much.”

“No problem.” He seemed to whisper, he was staring at you in a weird way that made you look back down at the costume you’d drawn up together,“Let’s, uh, eat those muffins now.”

“Wait! We have to sign our names at the bottom.” You held his arm before he could move away,“C’mon, we’re the designers.” You quickly scribbled your signature before handing the pen back to him with a grin.

He rolled his eyes, but snatched the pen from you nonetheless and quickly wrote his name next to yours. It felt… binding, weirdly enough.

You let him go and he brought over the tea he’d brewed, which had cooled a little but not enough to be cold. The muffins were perfect and you watched for a reaction that he never gave, so you went poking for compliments.

“You can say they’re good.” You teased as he took several bites in one breath.

“I was getting there.” He grumbled, after swallowing hard. He looked at the tray of muffins and then back at you,“You really made these for me?”

You shrugged,“You said they’re your favorite.”

He took another huge bite and around it he managed to get out something sounding close to a thanks.

You laughed,“You’re welcome, Katsuki.”

When he finished off two muffins, he wordlessly began helping you clean up your mess. It didn't take too long, as much as you wished that it would so you could talk to him more. When you handed him a tupperware for the muffin's he seemed to get an idea as he walked away and came back with a piece of tape and a sharpie.

He started writing "DO NOT TOUCH" on the tape.

You couldn't help snort,"Had a feeling you weren't the sharing type."

"They were made for me, weren't they?"

"Mhm." You hoped you weren't blushing as you agreed.

He stuck the tape onto the top before showing it to you,"I can share, but only with you."

You were definitely blushing now as you read "Y/N and Katsuki's muffin's" underneath the initial message for no one to touch them. You smiled,"You're sweet."

He scoffed,"Am not."

"You totally are." You teased as he rolled his eyes at you for the hundredth time while also turning you around and pushing you toward the stairs, he was holding your headphones and journal in hand and when you reached your door, you held out your hand expectantly.

He held them back,"One condition."

Feeling emboldened, you went up on tiptoes to whisper into his ear,"My door will be open, don't worry."

With your heart beating wildly in your chest, you quickly brushed your lips somewhere along his cheek while grabbing your things from his hold,"Night, Kats."

You weren't sure if you heard him say it back, but you thought he did as you escaped into the darkness of you room, blushing.

That night, you had one of your better sleeps.

The next day, however, came early. And before you knew it you, along with your classmates, were suiting up and leaving U.A. to chase a possible Midoriya lead. The state he was in when you guys finally found him broke your heart in a way you didn't know was possible, the boy was working hard to get Japan back to how it'd been before and the citizens seeking safety in U.A. didn't understand that. Tears were brought to your eyes after a touching speech from Ochaco, and when the day finally came to its end your bones too were crying from all the extra exertion.

When everyone got back, you'd set to work making a simple batch of chocolate chip cookies since the last one hadn't lasted longer than the morning on which they were discovered. The bath had been miraculous for your muscles, and you'd almost fallen asleep while sipping on the tea Momo had brewed for everyone.

The day had been quite momentous, and through it all, you couldn't help want to seek out only one person...

You sighed as you turned over in bed.

You had your phone turned on in your hand, your text messages with Mina blinking up at you as you typed and deleted the same text many times.

You deleted it one last time and reread her text.

mina ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ: soooo you and bakugo ?? 👀👀 noticed he was prettttty worried abt u getting hurt / just u in gen during mission bring deku home, didn’t know y’all were so close hm 🤔🤔🤨

You debated letting your best friend know you’d somehow become sort of friends with Katsuki, having spent a few nights in each other's company. But how did you explain to her that somehow, through three simple nights, that you might be having other feelings for him. And that you'd kissed him. Well, his cheek, but still. That move was quite bold for you and then, like a coward, you ran away. You'd always dismissed things like crushes and boys, but Katsuki... he was loud, to put it simply, and therefore was much harder to ignore.

You hadn't thought he'd paid you any extra mind in comparison to everyone else during the fight, but having been focused on Midoriya... maybe you'd missed it?

You pulled out your phone again, sending your friend one last reply.

y/n (ෆ•∘̬• ͒)◞: lolll as if girl yk he doesn’t do friends, think he’s probs just on edge bc of midoriya

She texted back immediately, but rather than opening the text you opened up your music app and pressed play on a soothing playlist. You listened to it, along with the rain that had yet to stop, and felt your body start to relax into your pillows.

You weren't lying to your friend. Bakugo had made it clear he was at U.A. because he wanted to be number one. He didn't have time for "extras", as he so often put it, what exactly made you so different? Nothing. Exactly, you told yourself, nothing at all.

Sure, he was calmer around you on those measly nights on which you found one another. But that was just because everyone else was asleep and maybe he was being considerate. Sure, he listened to you talk on and on and watched your silly romance drama with you... but that had to be because he had nothing better to do, having already been awake... right?

You groaned, the longer you thought about it the more the frustration with yourself grew. How could you be so clueless?!

When it all became too much, you pushed your covers off and ripped your headphones off, your feet found your slippers immediately as you picked up your glasses from your nightstand and slid them on. You marched toward your door with purpose, ripping it open only to freeze at what awaited on the other side.

He had his fist up, ready to knock. There he was.

Katsuki Bakugo, right outside your door.

“Bakugo… hi.” You breathed out, you felt your heartbeat start to pick up a bit.

“What happened to Katsuki?” You faintly heard him say, but your attention was elsewhere, eyes taking him in completely.

He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants you’d never seen before and a fitted black t shirt. His hair, you noticed, was pushed back by a black headband. You never wanted to be a headband more. Was this his usual sleep attire? Last time you could’ve sworn he was wearing a muscle tee and a pair of shorts. Focus, Y/N, focus! You yelled at yourself internally. You snapped out of it in time to hear him say your name.

Aaand shit. So preoccupied with him, you had momentarily forgotten your own attire: Kuromi pyjama bottoms and a sports bra... and your glasses— shit, shit, shit.

Embarrassed, you pulled your hair forward to try and cover yourself just a tiny bit,“Oh, my god, sorry, hold on, let me grab a shirt.”

You turned, but didn’t make it more than two steps when you felt his hand wrap around your wrist, he pulled you back and firmly asked,“Were you coming to look for me?”

You gulped, forcing yourself to meet his eyes,"Yes."

His eyes widened slightly, like he couldn't believe how easily you admitted to it.

"You too, by the looks of it." You pointed out, and he nodded.

He looked away, gaze zeroed in on the ground as he released a deep breath, and with it, how he truly felt,"All I seem to think about these days is impending doom. Well, that, and also you.” His lips pressed together and you noticed his hands clenching down at his sides, you wanted to unfold his fingers and tuck your own around them.

“Whenever I talk to you, or I’m near you… it helps. I don’t know what it is, but being with you makes me not have a fire lit up under my ass or something.” He confessed.

A weight was instantly lifted off your shoulders. You allowed yourself to smile,"That's super poetic, Katsuki, and sweet."

He rolled his eyes, and you could swear his ears were turning red too,"I'll take it back."

You gasped,"You wouldn't dare."

He shook his head, releasing a small sigh,"I'm no good with words, but am I..."

You took a step forward, listening to your heart and taking his hand into your own. He seemed to want to pull back, but you didn't let him as you wound your hands together.

"They're sweaty." He argued.

"Don't give a shit." You grabbed his other hand too,"You're not alone, you know. I feel the same way you do, not about the impending doom part, but the rest of it. Ever since that first night when you were there... I just feel at ease with you. You may say you're not good with words, but you're pretty good at listening, and I think you've done great at comforting me in your own way. I didn't really see it today, but you were there, watching me, making sure I was good, I was so scared—”

“I was terrified.” He said at the same time.

You smiled even bigger now,“Good thing it all worked out in the end, huh? You got your friend back.”

He scoffed,“He’s not my friend.”

“Am I your friend?” You asked, still grinning.

He shook his head and the smile instantly left your face as you started to pull your hands away,"Oh—"

You didn’t get a chance to fully let go as he pulled you forward with one hand and grabbed your waist by the other, and before you realized what was happening, his lips had met yours for the shortest kiss. So light it could barely qualify as one, but it was enough to freeze you in place as you once more repeated:

“Oh...”

He leaned his forehead against yours and you inhaled, consumed by him and his scent.

"Hold on, can I...?"

You didn't wait for a response as you stood up on your toes, placing a hand on his cheek and kissing him again. This one lasted longer and you thought you might've tasted chocolate from the cookies you'd made earlier on his tongue, you hadn't seen him around when you were passing them around and you were happy he'd gotten to enjoy some after all. When you pulled away, you were smiling again.

"I'm not good at this." He repeated once more.

You shook your head,"You're doing perfectly."

He kissed you a third time, another short and sweet peck that led to one more on your cheek and then the other cheek and then your forehead and lastly, your nose.

You blushed as he buried his face in your neck and hair and inhaled deeply,"You smell so good, like cookies and warmth."

"Katsuki?"

"Mm?"

He tried to move, but you kept him there by running your fingers through his hair and making him relax further into your hold. You couldn't look at him for what you were about to ask. You felt your face heat up,"I know that was our first kiss and you said we're not really friends, which I think means something and if it does mean that thing, well, our timing isn't great and we can't really go on a date or anything to even start the thing, and if Aizawa were to find out, surely we'd be dead, but could you, maybe, think about possibly staying with me tonight?"

Katsuki pulled away, hands in your hair as he agreed right away,"Thought you'd never ask."

He pulled you back into his arms, shutting the door behind himself as he walked right into your room like he owned it. "Those glasses drive me crazy." He said as he instantly made himself comfortable under the purple comforter of your bed.

"Really?" You scrunched up your nose before taking them off and putting them back on your nightstand,"I hate them."

He shook his head,"You should wear 'em more."

"When classes start back up, maybe, I'll think about it." You hesitated as you laid down next to him.

It lasted maybe one minute before he was pulling you closer, your head on his chest. You could hear the pounding in his chest as he said,"It's new for both of us, but I think we can figure this out."

His warmth and his arms around you were already making you sleepy, you agreed with him,"Mmm, tomorrow?"

He gave a grunt of acknowledgement and you could tell the lack of sleep lately was catching up with him too as he shifted his body even closer, head burying into your neck again,"Night, Y/N."

You smiled, content,"Goodnight, Katsuki."

[floylia]

ELYSIAN ♫

10. 3 shots, 2 lips, 1 kiss

Time became a fluid concept.

Scara’s fingers poised over the guitar strings. Each pluck demanded attention, reminding you of the beauty of Scara’s tunes. For two hours, both of you have been playing covers, singing his new works, and performing improvs with mismatched melodies that somehow grew with each chord progression.

The night sky arrived, you should have left, but being in Scara’s presence froze the hands of time.

“I finally convinced you,” Scara broke the silence, head resting back on the couch–his eyes closed. He looked serene in the dim-light–even with his disheveled state. It became a battle not to pat his cloud-like hair. Each strand invited your hands to lay in its softness.

You chuckled, feeling too bubbly, mind hazy, as you swirl your intoxicating drink, words becoming a stumbling mess, “Technically–I only agreed to do background vocals and to go under a pseudonym,” you leaned in, now inches away from his face and pointed your finger at him, “Don’t get too excited.”

Scara’s gaze weighed on you. He simply stared, indigo eyes bearing emotions you couldn’t decipher. He grabbed your raised hand, and rested it on the couch without letting go–his light hold on top of yours, “Why do you…” he blinked in between the pause, cheeks dusted pink, voice a whisper, intended to keep his next words to himself but slipped anyhow, “...make me feel this way?”

What did that mean?

In your intoxicated state, your head was hammering through your skull.

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

You pulled away, kept a distance, and gestured at the empty food containers and bottles of Sake lying on the glass table in front of the black couch you sat on, hoping to change the subject, “You know, every time we hang out, we always end up having a feast.”

Scara reached for the Cherry Bouquet flavored Sake that his mother had gifted him for his birthday. He had one more left since the two of you have managed to finish three bottles.

“It’s to keep you from talking,” he said, pouring the last of the liquid.

If words were spelt out on faces, the word “offended” would be in bold, red calligraphy. You let out an exaggerated gasp before slurring your next sentence and beginning a petty banter, “Heizou wouldn’t treat me like this.”

The thud of the shot glass echoed in the dimly lit room and Scara released a dramatic sigh “What is your obsession with him?”

“How are you not obsessed with him?”

He grumbled, "I'm a sane person.”

“Any sane person would admit that he’s great at everything.”

“I’m better than him,” he whispered—you almost didn’t catch it.

You chuckled, raising a brow, “Really? How?”

“Like this—”

His soft lips brushed yours. The taste of cherry covered your senses. His right hand rested on your waist, drawing circles with each touch, as the other guided your neck, pulling you closer. Each movement grew intense and clumsy reeling you for more, wanting more, needing more.

Nothing else mattered.

Scara stopped briefly, his eyes burned on you, caressing your cheeks with his finger as if he was afraid of shattering you. What was he thinking?

You fell back on the couch, his disheveled self on top of you–messy hair, flushed face, and longing gaze, leaving you more impatient than ever. You pulled him closer and his lips were back on yours with the same passion as the first time. Now it was tender and delicate–no rush, just savoring the moment while it lasted, his hands still on your waist, offering warmth and comfort that almost sent you in a coffin.

Three bottles for bravery.

Two lips for passion.

One kiss for Aether to walk in at the wrong moment.

“Fuck.”

The door slammed, but you pretended not to hear it.

notes:

ummm i guess that happened

Synopsis: After 7 years of enduring the media’s relentless pursuit of painting you as a villain, you’re forced to go through an indefinite hiatus with a tainted reputation on your head. However, just when you thought your career was over, a certain 5WIRL member wants you to feature on his solo career. Surely, this won’t affect your reputation once more, would it?

Scaramouche x fem!reader

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[krowlovesinazuma]

Alright I ask for headcanons yet again Except this time for once I'm not insane How would Chiori react to the reader preferring their own clothes over Teyvat's? (Judging from the overall complexity of Genshin Impact's outfits, I can deduce that our modern-day clothing probably feels a lot more comfy)

Read this prologue for context!

Scenario: Reaction to Reader's casual dress style

Characters: Chiori

For starters, Chiori is an incredibly forward person on purpose, no matter who she's dealing with, no matter how powerful or all mighty they might be, and even though you may be special in a different way, it's no difference to her.

When she sees your clothes for the first time, her mind takes a moment to properly process it. She hadn't actually imagined what you looked like before, but an otherworldly fashion style wasn't in her mind! She'll definitely rope you into checking out your outfit sooner than later.

With this check though, she's quick to realize that your outfit, made of a simple t-shirt and jacket, is made with comfortability and casual vibes in mind. Just to make sure, she'll ask plenty of questions! Mostly out of curiosity.

As soon as she confirms this theory, she'll get started on measuring you up, and making a new outfit of her own! She understands now that you prefer comfortability over style, but that doesn't mean she'll let you walk away without something of hers on.

She'll probably make a few prototype sets to understand what you find comfortable in clothes, as she was very much specialized in fancier, high status clothing making! It's a challenge she very much welcomes, no matter how much you may protest her attempts.

In the end though, she is primarily doing this for you, to help you feel more at home in this weird place. She knows the effects that clothing can have not only in onlookers, but one's sense of self, and she's here to help out with that.

Once you sound satisfied, and select which of her prototypes you liked best, she'll make a set only for you, making sure to stop progress on her other orders until this one is finished. It'll be a secret endeavor, as she knows the value in keeping your name hidden.

That'll be far from it, however. Don't be surprised if you get gifts from her every now and then with more sets of comfortable, yet fashionable clothing! Making sure to put in an Inazuman flare for you to fit in best, every piece was original and unique.

Whenever you feel the urge to thank her, she simply cuts it short and continues on. In fact, since this is her way of thanking you, she can't help but take it as something endearing, how you failed to see how much you've already done for her.

She hasn't forgotten the kindness and happiness that you showed her when you still controlled the game world from outside, and this is just her returning a due favor. You definitely notice the difference when interacting with the others, as they feel more at ease with your more familiar clothes. Perhaps she was right about your previous clothes being a problem...

"How would you say that set is compared to the last? Yes, these are important questions. This has been quite the enjoyable riddle, but I can only improve with feedback, and you're my only target audience. Don't worry about rushing it, just think deeply and answer me in detail, for the sake of a better set next time."

[obsessive-valentine]

Platonic!Mad-Scientist + Experiment!GN!Reader

A mad scientist finally crates a humanistic being, but they are so realistic he can’t find it in him to scrap them like the rest of his experiments. Readers physical age is described just as ‘young’ and later he sees them as his ‘child’, but it’s up to interpretation what they look like etc.

Many things are kept secret by the government such as labs of unethical testing and creations, from mutated virus’ to deformed animals. But the mad scientist always had his mind on something bigger, there were many failed attempts, ones that looked like Frankensteins monster others that looked menacing and uncanny or some made partially from mechanics making them to powerful.

One thing they all had in common was none of them acted like a human, none could fool him into thinking they were their own being. Until you, a completely sentient mind and on top of that you looked normal. It took years to grow you from scratch, hundreds of surgeries to be sure you’d continue growing, inserting mechanical pieces and organic but never using organs or cells from others. You were completely from scratch; a human with no lineage.

He intended to experiment on his latest success and later eliminate them to make a newer improved being. This meant he emotionally was distant once he’d brought you to life, he met your needs to keep you alive and left without a word. He continued to see you as a experiment no matter how many times you tried to get some form of comfort from your caregiver.

You were a experiment to him, not a helpless being new to the word, not a child... until you was. Visit after visit and test after test his brain began to recognise you as a person, something he’d never felt towards the rest of his uncanny experiments.

What started as flat explanations to your questions turned to conversations, bland food trays became more colourful, you was introduced to chocolate and soft blankets. He brought you a floppy stuffed dog one morning after seeing you hold onto your pillow throughout the night instead of using it for your head.

He tried to be indifferent when giving you such luxuries, leaving them behind on the floor without a word before he left or using them as bargaining chips- even though he’d give them to you anyways.

Experiments weren’t as harsh anymore and he rarely made you take needles or medicine unless he deemed necessary. Then experiments and tests stopped all together. He became withdrawn for a few weeks, fighting with his instincts telling him to keep you and look after you, while his scientist brain told him to rid of you like he’d planned.

One night he snapped. He interrupted your sleep, ripping the blankets from your grip and pulling you from the bed by your hand “come on, we’re leaving” was all he said as he pulled you out the door. Staggering behind him in confusion, he took you to his office, it was a mess of papers and files- a chalk board full of muddled writing that extended onto the walls- a small television screen displaying a image of your white cell partially blocked by test tubes and vails of weird colours.

He let go of your hand searching for paper, he found a ripped envelope and wrote on the blank side, he scribbled away -writing about his resignation, making up a story about how he found its impossible to create a true human from scratch, how he’s frustrated and loosing his mind so he’s choosing to leave for his own sakes. How he’s exterminated all prior experiments including his latest, you.

It’s was mostly a lie though, he had no intentions of killing you. You his greatest success, he’s not going to share you with the world, expose you to the cruelties of experimentation in the name of science. Not anymore.

He pins the note to his door, collects the documentations that recorded how he had made you and shoved them in his bag. Before grabbing your hand once again, taking you to his car.

You would be on days long road trip living out of the car that you had both fled the lab with, he allowed himself to grow closer to you, for his instincts to protect you. You both shopped for new clothes and games, stopped the car whenever he saw a restaurant you might like, taught you classic games like ‘I spy’ when you’d get bored.

He found a remote town and almost instantly bought a house there, sold his car with no intentions to leave, and moved all the stuff- you both had collected the past few days- into the new house. That night you watched movies on the old chunky tv left behind from the previous owner, comfortably on the sofa that was beside the fireplace, he had bathed you, cut your hair and wrapped you up in blankets. He had one more thing to do to truly feel at peace.

He sat in front of the fire place, feeding it the documents of your creation, file by file and lastly his ID badge from the lab. No body will know, you will forget over time (if not he will make you believe it was just a bad dream) and become just his kid, and him- just a single dad who moved here to start a quiet life for his child after beginning it in a rough patch. Watching the papers become ash and settling on the bottom; he placed another log ontop “Now, what can I make you for dinner?” he smiled turning to you.

[oofthwoods]

PROLOGUE! ── ˙ ̟ speed and shadows !!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 :: when a high-stakes mission requires you, a renowned spy, to go undercover as charles leclerc's girlfriend, your worlds collide in unexpected ways. tasked with infiltrating a secretive organization with ties to international crime, you must navigate the complexities of your fake relationship while keeping your true identity hidden.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: this chapter is heavily based on the first chapter of stars and smoke, just like the rest of the series. I tried to think of any other way to start it, but this just felt like it fit most. i know i said i wouldn't be starting this so soon, but since i had something to base it on, it was easier <3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 :: 1k

masterlist next ‭→

Right after the checkered flag waved, everything blurred into a whirlwind of emotions and frantic movement.

A throng of people gathered around him as soon as he returned to the garage. A dazed smile spread across his face as hands reached out to congratulate him and the team helped him out of his racing harness. The post-race haze enveloped him, heavy and comforting.

Beneath his feet, he could feel the vibrations from the grandstands, the prolonged applause of the spectators echoing even after he left the track, while the podium ceremony continued without him. Yet, he knew he had done a good job. The warmth of accomplishment surrounded him, though he could already feel the adrenaline fading, giving way to deep exhaustion. As he followed the team down the same corridor he had traversed hours before, the roar of the racetrack began to gradually fade, turning into nothing more than a background hum against the echo of his footsteps.

The interviews followed their usual course, dragging on in a monotonous, slow rhythm, as always. A succession of questions about his teammate's performance and rivals filled the air, along with inquiries about potential improvements to the car. And of course, there were no shortages of questions about plans for the next season, as if each answer could reveal the best-kept secrets of motorsport's backstage.

Each journalist seemed to have their own agenda, their own interests to be met, and the driver found himself at the center of this whirlwind of curiosity. While he maintained his composure in front of the cameras and microphones, inside he longed for the moment when he could finally retreat to the privacy of his team and reflect on the challenges faced and the paths ahead.

Nearly two hours dragged by until he finally found himself back in his cramped driver's room. Amidst laughter and congratulations, he swapped the team's sweaty shirt for a light, soft cotton blue t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, liberating himself from the confines of racing uniforms. His muscles screamed for rest, his limbs heavy with longing for the comfort of a mattress.

"Take a little rest," Ruth, his manager, advised him with a concerned expression. "But I need you out of here before the crowd flow. Ten minutes, tops. Okay?"

A weary smile appeared on his lips as he wiped his sweaty forehead.

"Okay."

Ruth held his chin firmly, giving him a gentle shake.

"And for heaven's sake, eat something."

"I will," he assured her with a nod and a tired smile.

The room now seemed vast and empty, shrouded in an oppressive silence that contrasted with the earlier bustle. Charles wandered the space, his footsteps echoing softly against the floor as he passed by the vacant table and the small wooden chair in one of the corners. The silence was almost tangible after the cacophony of cheers from tens of thousands of spectators and the deafening roar of the engines.

In about an hour, the headlines would start boiling again. The performance of his race would be scrutinized meticulously, as well as his responses in the post-race interviews. Amidst news of global conflicts and protests, reports would also speculate on the astronomical value that tickets for the next big prize could reach in the secondary market. Rumors and gossip would spread like wildfire.

He leaned against one of the tables, letting his head drop forward. Strands of sweaty hair clung to his forehead, partially obscuring his vision. For some reason, his mind drifted back to the image of soaked fans waiting outside the side entrance, yearning for a glimpse of him stepping out of the car.

Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion hit him mercilessly, rapidly dissipating all the euphoria he had experienced during the race. A latent restlessness, always hovering within him, now manifested as palpable pain, pulling him incessantly towards the simple idea of escape, ordering room service, and sleeping.

Although Ruth had mentioned ten minutes, he glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Five minutes," he muttered to himself.

It was enough. Knowing Ruth, the cars would probably be ready and waiting for him by now. He straightened up, running a hand through his tousled hair, and headed for the corridor, walking away towards the reserved area where the drivers' cars were parked.

So far, the men who usually accompany him hadn't shown up. Maybe it was still too early, and they were gathered somewhere near the back entrance. He walked alone down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the tense silence until he reached the small, discreet side door leading to the driver's garage.

Charles emerged into the cold, damp night, his breath forming small clouds of vapor in the air. His eyes quickly found a shiny black SUV waiting at the entrance. As he approached, the car door opened automatically, as if the vehicle were eager to receive him, revealing a luxurious interior.

A slight sigh of gratitude escaped Charles' lips as he got in. Ruth had undoubtedly upgraded the cars since the last Grand Prix. This one in particular boasted tinted windows as well as new leather seats, already heated to a pleasant temperature.

The door closed automatically behind him, enveloping him in the comfort of the vehicle. Then, the car pulled away smoothly.

It was only then that a sense of unease began to creep into his consciousness. The figure sitting in the shadows beside him wasn't Ruth. And the driver, neither, was someone he recognized.

Charles blinked, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Am I in the wrong car?" he questioned, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Maybe that car belonged to Carlos, or some other driver.

The woman beside him smiled ominously.

"You're exactly in the car you're supposed to be." she replied. And at that moment, Charles realized, with a tightening in his chest, that he was being kidnapped.

taglist (tell me if you want to be added or removed. crossed names means i couldn't tag you) :: @redcoatgirl @moonlight-girls-posts @barnestatic

[maruwrites]

nonstop

Nationals Semifinals - Women’s Category

Kuroo Tetsurou prides himself on being observant.

"Mine!"

The scream echoes through the volleyball court. The sound travels around the space like a bullet, piercing through. He can feel it with the buzzing on his ears, the prickling of his arm hairs, the taut of his abdomen. There's very little room in this large gymnasium for anything other than your voice.

Right behind the court, Kuroo watches you as you spread your arms out, demanding room and stopping other players from trying to take the ball. The high ball gets caught in your expert hands, landing perfectly on the spiker’s hand near the net. Setting on the first touch is a risk. He can feel a tiny bead of sweat on his own forehead.

Kuroo Tetsurou loves volleyball.

He's also an excellent student, son and grandson, captain.

To him, all those things are real. Concrete.

He enjoys the game itself, the tactics, discussing new plays, trying to defeat the competition, improve his team. Being a captain is also important to him and he does it well, comforting the players when all they need are gentle words and confronting them when a firm stance is demanded. And he takes care of them.

He also likes studying. The comfort of providing right answers to tough questions proves in and of itself enough reward to someone who's so analytical, observant, smart. Opening up a book, gathering knowledge, putting that to the test—it's grounding and, god forbid, fun for him.

He's also someone one can rely on. The way his obaa-chan dotes on him, his dad prides himself on calling him "his son". An excellent friend too, with the way he watches over Kenma, always concerned with the younger boy—his eating and sleeping habits, his ability to communicate with the other players of the Nekoma volleyball team. He's the caring kind and, if you ask his obaa-chan, has always been this way, ever since he was a little kid.

So, it makes sense that there's little room for other things. Like, say, romance.

Kuroo Tetsurou is observant so, naturally, he knows.

He knows about the girls who swoon over him, whether they confess it on the hallway, with a letter or even an onigiri atop his desk every Friday for three months. The ones who don't say anything are only being slightly less obvious. The flitting of their eyes, blushing of their cheeks, twirling of their hands—it all points towards something that he's, by now, on his third year of high school, well aware of.

Kuroo supposes it makes sense. He is tall, with an athletic, muscly build, even if his body is more towards the lean side. He can't fix his hair for his life, but the more obvious girls have already pointed out to him that it's part of his charm. Plus, he is genuinely nice and tries to get along with everyone, shining his smirk to whomever crosses his path. So, yeah. It makes sense.

Kuroo Tetsurou, however, finds it all too abstract.

Maybe because he doesn't have the time, maybe because this romantic inclination has never hit him. Being a child of divorce might also factor in.

Still, there seems to be no substance to it, though.

Not that he doesn't get it, because he does. He thinks some of his suitors are pretty, there's a poster of a sake ad with a particularly busty lady in the boy's clubroom that catches his eye and he is, after all, high-schooler. But it remains too abstract.

The volleyball club, his almost spotless track record as a student, his home life. That's real, that's concrete.

The opposing team strikes and the ball hits Nekoma's blockers, flying to the end of the court. His eyes are now watching you, sprinting with all your might to catch the ball from the libero, sending in flying toward the ace.

Kuroo Tetsurou feels tethered.

This is also real. The way he can feel himself grounded, glued to the floor, like his own weight could be enough to open up a hole underneath him. The strap of his gym bag weighs on his shoulders, his hand griping it until it pales, his fingernails piercing the fabric. He can't tell if he's breathing too fast or not at all. His heart sits heavy on his chest, watching you.

Nekoma's match point has turned into a rally and god, this point belongs to this team. He's been watching them for a while now and knows how much they've grown, how they've improved into this well-oiled machine, the most important piece being, of course, you. The new setter.

With a philosophy that focuses on receiving and connecting, the women’s team had been suffering in the past two years when its former setter graduated high school. The backup only played volleyball for fun and as such, wouldn’t and couldn’t lead the team to Nationals. Now, it's only natural that Nekoma would rely so much on a player that managed to turn their last bad years around and bring them back to the basics: connection.

One of Nekoma's wing spiker strikes, but the ball gets stopped by the blockers on the other side. The libero digs, barely managing to catch it with an underarm pass, sending it high up and towards the other team’s side. It’s gonna be an out, Nekoma will lose this point, he thinks. Then, she shouts your name.

Kuroo holds his breath as he watches you run from the front of the court, under the net and onto the other side, your sneakers squeaking when you jump off the ground. You look like you're flying, both hands above making their way to the moving ball. You're untethered, he thinks, feeling himself get heavier. You make a pass to a spiker coming from the back, catching the opposing team by surprise, ball landing heavily on the ground, finally claiming this long rally and, with it, the match.

He closes his eyes and exhales, his grip going slack. When he opens them again, you're on the ground looking up, breathing heavily, clenching your firsts. Then you punch the court and let out a scream, being followed by your teammates as they pile on top of you, the backups running from the back of the court to celebrate with everyone.

Kuroo Tetsurou prides himself on being observant.

Yet a part of him feels like he's only now seeing things clearly.

hello everyone, tis been a while been thinking about coming back for some time now and i have a few kuroo fics i'm hoping to publish this year. bear with me, as i have three ideas toying around in my head lol

as always, any feedback is appreciated.

hope you enjoy and stick around for the rest