#multi-part adventures

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke Thomas: What’s your biggest fear?

Jason Todd: That I’ll never be good enough for anyone.

Tim Drake: Everyone hates me and talks about me behind my back.

Dick Grayson: Vampires.

Jason Todd: ...

Tim Drake: ...

Dick Grayson: I got turned into one once and nearly killed peoples. It's a bloodlust, you never know when you'll be fully quenched and every non-vampire is a succulent vessel... But I'm not a vampire anymore and that is in my past.

Dick eats his apple after that.

*silence*

Duke Thomas: Holy crap stick, Batman.

Tim: Can I change my option to Dick Grayson?

Jason: Same.

[a2zillustration]

It's time :)

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[mariocki]

Patrick Troughton - billed as Pat - helps the stricken French nobility (and flashes the audience) as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, a staunch ally of the title character in The Adventures of the Scarlet Pimpernel (ITP, 1955 - 1956)

[multiversal-madness]

Working on some more Magwood’s Will and here’s what me trying to figure out Simon’s fire dog form has resulted in (I did not try too hard with the background-)

Also another bit of info for this Au, those cracks in his fur are only really dangerous right when he shifts or when he’s intentionally raising his body temperature (or unintentionally, like when he’s being threatened). Once enough heat is released they’re safe enough to touch and won’t set much on fire (still probably a good idea to keep a fire extinguisher nearby).

[this-is-a-love-story-isnt-it]

This seems to be a really unpopular opinion, but season 4 was my favorite season of Lois & Clark. Actually, there was a stretch of season 3 that was really good, too.

[galacticlamps]

I'm going to uno reverse card you and say: for the fic guessing game, 'light'?

lol that's fair

apparently I talk about light a lot (go figure) so have this one that happens to be in the middle of its story's 'Oh' moment:

But perhaps, somewhere along the line, Jamie had slipped, and now . . . well now, standing on the balcony of a palace on another planet, with the Doctor dipping his head nearer just to hide his eyes from the light - nearer, and not farther, which would've been just as easy - no, now he had to admit something was different. When it had changed or whether it hadn't at all and he'd simply been too fool to realize it before he couldn't say, and it didn't matter anyway - he knew it now, and that scared him.

-

And just for kicks, under the cut I'm gonna put a longer excerpt from a totally different fic that came up while I was ctrl+f-ing 'light' in my wips - mainly because it happens to be part of a scene from a longish 'the Doctor & Jamie reunite with Zoe in 6b' story which is nowhere near completion, but feels relevant given the boxset Big Finish released last week (not that I've gotten a chance to listen to it yet, but still).

Zoe sat across from Jamie, her elbows on the table, her chin resting atop her hands - but she wasn't relaxed. She stared at him intently, and actually narrowed her eyes as he watched.

"What?" he asked, already defensive, and following through on an old self-conscious instinct, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. With no mirror in sight, he looked to the Doctor to check if he'd somehow gotten something on his face already, but he looked just as baffled. Zoe hadn't broken her concentration yet.

"I'm trying to figure out if I'm older than you," she announced, still deep in thought.

"Ah--" the Doctor began, grinning wickedly, but whether he was going to answer her or merely tease they never found out, because Jamie shot an arm out lightning quick, as if to hold him back.

"No' so fast, you. Let the girl work it out."

He finished chewing and settled himself squarely in front of her for inspection. She continued to stare. "Y'know, I'm surprised you're having such trouble telling," he taunted. "After all, how old are you now?"

She opened her mouth at first to protest that she was under no obligation to announce her own age while he continued to keep his secret, but she still thought she might figure it out - and if she couldn't, she at least had the Doctor to rely on to make Jamie tell the truth.

So she shrugged. "I'm 41. But everyone here thinks I'm 39. I was born 39 years ago, of course, but counting chronologically from the time I left the Wheel with you in the Tardis, I aged two years before the Time Lords returned me to my own time. That was twenty-one years ago, now," she added, unable to judge if the faint waver of wistfulness in her voice was truly audible, or if it was just her own imagination. Thankfully, neither of them pressed her on it.

"Well, y'see, Zoe," Jamie began slowly, still chewing his last mouthful after she finished her explanation and sat waiting calmly for his reply. The Doctor leaned forward too, seemingly intrigued, though it must only have been to see what answer Jamie would try. "I was born in 1724," he paused and washed down his food with a swig from his glass, and for a moment Zoe had the grace to assume he was just working through his calculations, as she had done. "So I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," he finished, setting the glass back down on the table triumphantly.

All at once she felt a young girl again, a devilish light in her eyes. She wanted to jump across the table and tackle him - but that wasn't what Madam Presidents did. "Why, you--"

"They don't traditionally swear at their guests either, Ms. Heriot."

She turned on the Doctor, shocked. "You read my mind," she began, more impressed than accusatory, but he did at least have the decency to look sheepish.

He coughed politely. "Only to, ah, verify your math. And I'm sure you could feel my presence there, if you think about it."

"I could but I didn't know that's what it was. You've gotten so much better at it."

"Had to," he said simply, and shrugged, his eyes downcast.

Well, there was more to that, clearly, she thought, filing his deliberately nonchalant expression away for closer inspection later - but for now she was not about to be deterred. She snapped her eyes and her attention both back to Jamie.

"Still, we both know the Doctor obviously continues to value honesty and accuracy, so surely he'll tell me how old you are, even if you won't."

"Not if I ask him not to - right, Doctor?"

"Well . . . " he began, noncommittally drawing the word out so long that Zoe actually had time to wonder what his plan was for once he ran out of vowel. Jamie looked so genuinely horrified it was downright comical, and she had to force herself not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"We're married, Doctor," he reminded him, indignant.

"Oh, but it's Zoe," he complained, sounding every bit the petulant child she remembered he could be, all those years ago. "And as far as I can remember, none of the ceremonies we ever partook in had anything in the vows about obeying. Although I might be wrong . . ." he added under his breath, scratching his head.

"Charming," Jamie grumbled.

"Well, when we've had as many weddings as we have it can be quite a lot to keep straight in your head. You know, I sometimes wonder if we might qualify for some kind of an all-time record. If we hadn't the need to be covert about so many of them, of course."

"Stop that!" she snapped, and the Doctor turned back to her, the picture of confused innocence.

"Stop what?"

"You're trying to help him without helping him, just by distracting me. Naturally, I want to hear everything about all these weddings of yours, and I will see to it that you'll be having another one while you're here, like it or not--"

"Yes ma'am," Jamie quipped, mock-serious.

"--But first, I am going to find out how old you are, James Robert McCrimmon, and if you force me to use your husband to do it, then that decision is on you."

Jamie mopped his face with his napkin and came out of it smiling. He stretched and dropped an arm around the Doctor's shoulders, perfectly relaxed. Already, Zoe felt her heart sink, but she was careful to keep her composure.

"I'm only pullin' your leg. I'm 44."

"What, really? And you expect me to just believe that?" She raised an eyebrow in challenge but then glanced at the Doctor to confirm, and when he nodded she allowed her facade to crumble, rolling her eyes. Of course she had known when she'd first laid eyes on them that they'd be cutting it close, but Jamie still had quite a bit of that boyishness about him that had made it frustrating enough being his junior the first time around, and she really thought she might genuinely have enjoyed being just a hair older than him, for a change. After all, if you had to be ripped apart from your family and sent to separate timezones to live out your lives forever wishing for an improbable reunion, it might as well be good for something. But Jamie was far too smug looking now to be pretending, and Zoe knew it. "Oh, some people have all the luck," she groaned, dropping her arms and collapsing back dejectedly against her seat.

"Aye," Jamie said, leaning in over the table to follow her, "and some people live 22 years on Earth before they meet a time traveler, then spend 5 years with him before his people erase their memory and send them home to live another 5 before he's allowed to come pick them up again, and then force the pair of 'em to've spent 12 years so far working for them. Some people, eh?" he finished hotly, swiping his glass off the table again and raising it to his mouth in one fluid motion to take a long drink. But even so, his face was not so totally obscured from view that Zoe couldn't make out the amused curl at the corner of his lips, and when she caught his gaze again the glimmer in his eye was all fondness, just as it was with Doctor's and, she knew, her own.

Yes, no matter the circumstances, it was certainly good to see them again.

[multi-dimensional-turtles]

Part 6

Prev | Next

As age starts to catch up to Splinter, his eyesight starts to go, it doesn't help that he's a rat now either. As the turtles don ninja headbands, Splinter feels nostalgic for his dojo and old students. He doesn't know how to raise children, but he does know how to teach, and so their training begins

[gyro-daily]

Day 13

[willosword]

every day i wonder what my life would have been like if that attempt to reboot spyro in the mid 2000s to be a little darker and edgier had made enough money and stuck around………….

[always-just-red]

Multi headcanon request please. The LIs touch their s/os' breast for the first time, but it's an accident. However, instead of getting mad, she gently scolds them "save that behavior for when we're alone".

You always give me such great requests tehe, I had the absolute time of my life with this one. Did mini fics again! Featuring this time: a baking class with Xavier 🍰, a check-up with Zayne 🩺, pottery-making with Rafayel 🏺, casino night with Sylus 🎲, and a VERY serious study session with Caleb 📚

Innocent Little Mistakes

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: In which the boys are all menaces, surprising literally no-one 🥰

Genre: Humour

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, inappropriate touching (but make it ✨COMEDY✨), PDA, slight suggestiveness, established relationships

| Word count: 600-750 words each! | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One more strike and you’re out.

You furiously mix the bowl of cake batter under your arm, all too aware of the chef watching you from across the room. You don’t know why he’s looking at you— you’re not the problem. The problem is beside you, measuring out an ingredient you don’t actually need.

“What’re you up to, Xavi?” you ask with a nervous chuckle, trying not to sound suspicious.

He looks up at you, blue eyes as warm as the oven that’s making everything feel too hot. “Measuring,” he declares with a smile.

“That’s great, sweetie.”

Don’t ask. Just leave it.

Every other couple in the class look sickeningly in love— trading ingredients, utensils, and lingering gazes— all in perfect harmony. Meanwhile, you have a ticking time bomb for a partner. First there was the egg incident: a rogue egg from your table had somehow ended up under the foot of the man one counter down from you, slipping him over and twisting his ankle. Then the man from the couple behind you slipped too: on a butter wrap Xavier had sworn he’d thrown away.

Funny how so many of the things from your counter are going on little, deadly adventures.

You shoot Xavier another wary look. He glances up. Smiles. You smile back. When the cake batter’s done, tipped into the tin and tucked into the oven, you move onto the icing. You whip it up in a minute, lifting a spoon from the bowl and dragging a finger through to taste it.

“Xavier,” you say, nudging the bowl across to him, “mind putting a little more sugar in this? I need to start tidying up.”

“Sure,” he beams.

He can’t mess that up, right? You don’t want to exclude him. With a soft sigh, you start to reorganise your work station: making space for the cake you’re going to decorate. Xavier’s voice interrupts you, sweet like the sugar flowers you’re sorting through:

“How’s this?”

You turn, and the moment you do, something cool scrapes your collarbone. Xavier was holding out a spoon— too close— and it tips at your contact, spilling sticky white icing down past the neckline of your apron and shirt. You feel it, inching down your skin, between your breasts.

You’ve been stunned into silence. Xavier is staring down too, lips parted, spoon still mid-air.

“Don’t just stare!” you find it in you to scold, glancing about for something that’ll help you clean up. “Help me—”

That’s when you feel it: something warm on your skin. Your gaze shoots down and Xavier is wiping his thumb through the mess on your chest. He lifts the icing to his mouth. Pops it past his lips.

“Xavier!” you exclaim on a whisper.

His eyes had fluttered closed, but they open again. His lips are still on his thumb as he looks back at you. “Mmm?” he hums around it, like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

That face is so devastatingly innocent, but you’re not falling for it. You cross your arms and glare.

“You want some too?” Xavier translates.

Before you can stop him, his thumb is on your skin again. “Xavi—!” you protest, but then that thumb is in your mouth, overwhelming you with sweetness. Except… it’s not all sweet. You frown as Xavier’s hand moves away, your nose wrinkling with disgust. “Wha— why is it salty?!”

“Wasn’t it salty already?”

“No! Xavier, what did you…? You can’t just—!”

“Are you okay?” Xavier laughs so lightly it’s almost a giggle. “You look… warm. What are you thinking about?”

He’s leaning against the counter now, cheek settled in his hand. He has the countenance of an angel and he knows what you’re thinking about. His free hand plays with a salt shaker on the counter; it doesn’t look anything like the sugar.

Behind you, someone clears their throat.

…

You walk home from the bakery class a lot earlier than planned, having— and you’re quoting verbatim, here— ‘crossed a line’. Xavier’s at your side, a bowl of icing in his hands that no-one dared take from him, and he hums pleasantly to himself as he lifts a fingerful to his lips.

“You did that on purpose,” you grumble, and it’s the first words you’ve said in a while.

He smiles like butter icing wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Zayne ❄️

“Zayne, c’mon… it’s not that bad.”

Lower half cocooned by the blankets of a hospital bed, you give your doctor a lopsided smile. He doesn’t grace your statement with a response— at least, not an intelligible one. There’s a tiny hum, to let you know you’ve been heard. There’s an even tinier frown, to let you know he was not amused.

So you got a little scraped up by a Wanderer— it happens! With your own frown, you regard the pulse oximeter that’s biting the end of your forefinger. You wiggle it, even though Zayne had instructed you to keep still. The tiny screen flashes and flickers. He writes… something down on his clipboard, and it feels needlessly dramatic.

“How would you rate the pain you’re currently experiencing?” he asks.

“Zero. Zilch. Nada. I feel great, actually.”

More scribbles for the clipboard, which means absolutely nothing good.

“I mean it, Zayne. I’m fine, really. I don’t even know why Xavier brought me here. Like, what’s the point of first-aid training if you’re just gonna dump someone in the hospi—”

“Please be still.”

You’d started gesturing, and Zayne stares across at the monitor on your finger. He sighs, which you don’t think is professional, then reaches to press a button on it, restarting its progress. You’re obedient this time: sitting still as he goes back to his beloved clipboard. That sigh sounded tired.

The oximeter bleeps. Zayne glances up. Makes another note.

“There,” he says, his eyes still trained downwards as he reaches across you to retrieve the device, “was that really so—?”

The words stop in his throat when his hand brushes your chest.

Just a graze, but his fingers hover guiltily for a moment before correcting their course: homing in on the oximeter, pinching it open. Zayne doesn’t meet your eyes as he returns to his writing. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks that definitely isn’t professional.

This is amazing. “Did you just—?”

He gives an adorably slight shake of his head.

You gasp anyway, utterly scandalised: “Doctor Zayne! You took an oath.”

“Stop.”

“Here I am, weak from blood loss! Vulnerable!”

“Stop.”

“What sort of an establishment is this, hmm? What other twisted, sordid things go on behind the—” and it’s at this moment you catch a glimpse of a familiar figure— “ah, Doctor Greyson! Doctor Greyson! In here, please!”

The man had been passing through the ward, though he stops at the sound of your voice. “Oh, hello!” he greets, peering around your privacy curtain, “Zayne mentioned you were in! It’s good to see you. Well, not good to see you here, but— you know what I mean! How are you?”

“I’m shocked,” you witter on, because you’ve no time for pleasantries, “shocked, I say! Just now, this man here had the audacity to—”

A cold hand clamps over your mouth.

You are— actually— shocked. You blink at Greyson, eyes wide; even he looks like he’s seen a Wanderer riding a bicycle through the hospital. After a moment of tense, awkward silence, he does that face you know so well. His ‘nope, I’m not going anywhere near whatever this is!’ face.

It’s not a surprise when he backs out, leaving you and Zayne alone once more. Your doctor’s hand is still over your mouth, breaching all kinds of ethics, and oh, how the mighty have fallen. This feels like victory. When Zayne’s hand finally drops, you’re grinning.

“Had your fun?” he asks quietly, looking back to his notes.

“Have you? Or do you wanna have another...?” You waggle a finger at your breasts.

Zayne’s mouth is a tight line, and he doesn’t dare look up. Something is scrawled on the clipboard and you get the feeling it’s a distraction. Your very important doctor is writing very important things. Definitely isn’t scribbling nonsense. He clears his throat, then stands rigidly, his face sombre.

Did you take your joke too far? Your heart starts to have some kind of episode as he walks away, and the stupid machine you’re hooked up to says nothing about it, which is typical.

But Zayne still stops at the curtain. Glances over his shoulder.

“Ask me later,” he says with a gentle smirk.

Rafayel 🎨

“This is just like that old movie.”

Rafayel hums a familiar, vintage tune as his hands cradle yours, guiding them up and down, up and down, as a wet clay vase spins beneath your touch. Everything about your partner is relaxed: his fingers, lazy and precise, and his head, settled comfortably on your shoulder. The song is so close to your ear that it tickles.

How the hell is he so calm? Your eyes are fixed downwards, brow furrowed with the sort of concentration you’d usually save for disarming a bomb. Your fingers feel clumsy and dangerous. Your head hurts. It doesn’t help that every other couple in the pottery class are stealing less-than-subtle glances your way: isn’t that—?

Yep! The Rafayel. Creative genius, ‘Da Vinci of our time’ Rafayel, and here you are, ever a moment away from destroying his latest masterpiece.

“Raf, stop…” you mutter, because he’s still humming away, distracting you.

“Okay!”

The song stops. You don’t think Rafayel has ever co-operated so quickly. Which means…

“Woahhh,” he sings quietly, privately, and right on cue, “my love… my darling… I’ve hungered for your—”

“Stop!” you hiss under your breath, untangling a hand from your project so you can swat at his face.

“A long... lonely— ah! — tiiiime!”

The vase is already folding over on itself, collapsing into a sad, soggy heap as Rafayel half sings, half chuckles, catching your hand so he can launch a counterstrike. A wet finger brushes your nose and you gasp, wrinkling your face in indignance. Then you wriggle your hand free, going in for another swat. The artist’s head has left your shoulder. The arms around you are suddenly attacking.

There’s a kerfuffle of hands, slick and sticky with clay. Slapping each-other. Trying to outmanoeuvre each-other. One lands on your chest with a thwap!

You both go deathly still.

Rafayel has stopped laughing, his body a marble statue behind you; you think his breath has actually gone. When his hand lifts away from you, it’s like a delusional cat slinking away from a crime: if I move slowly enough, I’m completely invisible.

What isn’t invisible, however, is the crude clay handprint he leaves behind. You stare down at it, mortified. “Raf!” you scold, and oh gods you hope nobody saw what just happened.

“I didn’t—” he begins, and he��s staring down over your shoulder, too. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t just sit there!” You shoo him away, one hand hovering in front of your chest like you’re not wearing anything at all. “I need something to—”

“On it!”

He can fix this. He can fix this. He practically falls off the seat you’d been sharing as he unwraps himself from you, stumbling up onto his feet. His hands are on his hips as he catches his breath; it had taken a lot of effort not to end up on the floor.

With a glance about, the artist spies a nearby cloth. You see the ‘aha!’ moment— the relief in his eyes as he turns towards it, on a mission. Your hero.

There’s a soft smack!

Rafayel freezes, pink creeping into his cheeks.

By the time he looks down over his shoulder, eyes widening at the bright, wet handprint on his ass, you’re already salvaging your clay vase— moulding it back into a workable blob as you hum an old song, completely innocent.

Sylus 🩸

“So… what are we spending our winnings on, sweetie?”

“A diamond as big as me,” you whisper.

“Is that it?”

Hmm. “A diamond as big as you.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Sylus chuckles, as rich and intoxicating as the alcohol he swirls in a glass as he stalls before his next throw. No-one would dare rush him. His other hand toys with a pair of dice, turning them over each-other, making them waltz about his fingers. The ministrations are practiced, experienced, and— glancing around the craps table— you’re not the only one who’s noticed.

One woman is utterly mesmerised. She takes a sip of her drink, swallowing thickly, and you like to think (delusionally) that you’ve never quite stared at Sylus as shamelessly as that. It isn’t her fault, though. Every person at the table is fixated on the man beside you, and it’s not just because they’ve got stakes in whatever he rolls next.

Sylus doesn’t own this casino— as far as you know— but he acts like he does. He places his bets. Smiles when he wins and smiles wider when he loses, as though in on a private joke. Everyone wants to know what it is. You inch closer to Sylus. Ask loud enough for them all to hear: “What do we need again?”

We.

“A nine,” he answers.

There’s a soft clack as the dice go still in his palm. He’s staring down the forest-green battleground you both stand at the head of. “Here,” he says, lifting his hand towards you, “blow on—”

He’s misjudged the distance, because his fingers collide with your chest. One of the dice rolls from his palm, tumbling down past the neckline of your dress and into your cleavage. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch. You look down in slow disbelief. Then you look at Sylus.

His crimson eyes are fixed on where the die disappeared. He glances up with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

Oops? Your gaze is a knife at his throat and he thinks if he’s cute enough, you might not use it. You narrow your eyes and purse your lips. Wanna try that again?

Sylus’s laugh is awkward, but he isn’t a coward. “May I just—?”

His hand comes towards you, and though those fingers were never actually going to commit to that little suicide mission, you still slap them away. “No!”

He pouts, splaying the same hand expectantly. With a sigh, your fingers delve beneath your neckline, fishing around for a second. You present the die with an uninspired flourish, and it’s warm when you drop it into Sylus’s open palm. His fingers close around it. He’s smirking to himself as he turns back to the table.

“Lucky die,” he muses under his breath.  

“What did you just say?!”

Louder: “I said ‘lucky—”

“You’re a dead man, Sylus Qin. D-E-A-D. Dead. You hear me? The moment we get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sylus nods dutifully; he’s not going to argue with that particular judge, jury, and executioner. He tosses the dice across the table and they clatter as they roll— the same, indifferent timbre as the chuckle in his throat. Everyone goes silent when they judder to a stop. Everyone leans in, fractionally.

A six and a three. Nine.

The gathering around you give a tentative applause. No-one really knows what just happened, least of all you and Sylus. You both stare at the dice, eyes wide, as a casino employee slides stacks of chips in your direction. Neither of you move when the dice are passed back, too.

It’s your turn, but Sylus has been throwing for you. He reaches forwards to collect the dice— starts to toy with them idly again, but it’s more pensive than last time. They clack, clack, but his mind is far away from them. Ever so slowly, his gaze inches towards you, pondering a silent question.

He’s not looking at your eyes.

Your arms cross. “Don’t even think about it.”

Caleb 🍎

“A Gelidus Dentis.”

Caleb’s voice makes you jump so much you almost drop your pen. “Huh?”

He’s stood behind where you’re sat, peering downwards. “It’s a Wanderer.”

“Yeah, I know it’s a Wanderer, Colonel Obvious. I meant why’re you talking about it?”

“Because it’s the answer? Duh.” He nods at the open textbook in front of you, and your gaze drops.

You’d practically been falling asleep reading through the practice question: some hypothetical about the aftermath of a Wanderer attack. Somewhere with a cold climate. Victims with ice burns. Multiple lacerations. Blah blah blah— you’ve got the idea.

“Please,” you dismiss as Caleb returns to his seat next to you. “It’s a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord. Easy.”  

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen one of those guys. That’s not it.”

“Oh you’ve seen one? Big whoop. I’ve killed one. Try, like, twenty.”

He tuts sympathetically as he goes back to his own work: some reports that’re definitely way too confidential for a public library. “Then it’s gonna be really embarrassing when you find out that I’m right and you’re wrong, pips.”

You scoff, making a point of writing out ‘Hoarfrost Wyrmlord’ as confidently as you can.

“Gelidus Dentis,” Caleb lilts in a sing-song voice as you flick to the back of your textbook.

You’re gonna shove your correct answer right in his face, you just need to find it. It should be right… here! Section Three. Question Twenty-Two. The Wanderer responsible is most likely a—

Fuck.

“I told you,” Caleb sings quietly again, signing his name on the bottom of a page, then turning it over.

“It was a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord.”

“It really wasn’t, but it’s cute you still hide your mouth when you’re lying.”

Your hand had lifted subconsciously in front of your lips, and you throw it back down on the textbook. “Oh, shush!”

“You shush!” The measureless galaxies of his eyes are back on you.

You slap his arm gently. He slaps your arm gently. You try to slap at his face, which means he tries to slap at your face. Soon enough, you’re both flailing your hands like two cats determined to bop the other.

Caleb’s paw lands on one of your breasts, and he doesn’t have time to regret it. With an indignant gasp, you give his chest a firm smack!

He stares at you in disbelief. You clear your throat, brushing down the fabric of your shirt as if the matter has been settled. Then you pick up your dropped pen. Okay! Question Twenty-Three: You’re called out to answer a distress signal from deep within a tropical rainforest...

“What was that?” Caleb asks.

You sniff. Say under your breath: “Tit for tit.”

“Come again?”

“Tit for tit,” you shrug. “That’s the saying. That’s how it goes.”

From the smile on his face, Caleb’s delighted. “Uh… I don’t think that is how it goes, pipsqueak.”

“Oh yeah? Hope you’re ready to look like an idiot, then.”

With a hmph, you reach for a spare piece of paper. Fold it in half. Write something brief on the outside, then on the inside. Caleb watches your pen move, quietly enamoured. There’s a click as it retracts. You hand the paper over.

Caleb’s face wrinkles, but he still handles it like it’s sacred. “Totally official dictionary!” he reads from the front. Then he opens it, continuing: “Tit for tit. Noun. If Caleb cops a feel in the library, then I get to… hey now—” he frowns— “this doesn’t seem very legitimate.”

“You dare question the authority of the Hunter’s Association?”

“I do,” he nods. “I do dare. Yeah, you see… look at this.”

He scribbles something down in your dictionary, then passes it back to you. You raise an eyebrow but relent, reading the new addition out loud: “Deepspace Fleet. Proper (awesome) noun. Has absolutely every right to question the authority of the Hunter’s Association.” You toss the paper down. “Whatever.”

Caleb sniggers victoriously as you try to get back to your work. When he doesn’t stop, you give his chest another slap. The sniggering dies out. The space between you goes quiet.

Then he reaches— smacks one of your breasts back. You look up, eyes huge.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I think I’m gonna like this little arrangement.”

[gothamite-rambler]

I love how Slade and Trigon are so evil that in Raven and Rose's argument about who's worse they didn't even have time to scratch the surface of all the shit they've done 😭 bad dad club indeed

Lol omg I just realized there's so much more and I only touched the surface of their evilness. I still haven't talked about the times Raven's father has possessed her friends, her brothers are evil, or how Slade ended up with one eye and it wasn't from a fight from the titans. Lol that surface level evil.

[moonlightwonu]

전원우 // Jeon Wonwoo Fic Recsᡣ𐭩

나에게 어떤 슬픔도 없는 세상은  너니까~

Main Recs Masterlist

➣Part I // Part II

MINORS DNI!!!!!!!

Please like and reblog the fics to show the creators love and support~

“Play Again” by @shuarush

Fem!reader || Friends to coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, mild angst || W.C: 37.6k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･after ten years of not seeing your high school crush you find yourself partnered with him at the company you work for. Since you've been rejected before, you try your best to not let any feelings flourish, but Jeon Wonwoo's charms make that attempt especially hard for you. 

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“Underlying Pretense” (Part of the Game Over series) by @lovelyhan

Fem!reader || Streamer au, enemies to lovers, smut, fuck buddies || W.C: 10.3k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･being two of the most popular streamers across the board, your subscribers often speculate if your constant bickering with wonwoo has some underlying pretense. little did they know, the two of you have everything on display on a single, unsuspecting twitter account. 

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“Favorite Poison” (Part of the Game Over series) by @/lovelyhan

Fem!reader || Streamer au, enemies to lovers, smut, angst, fuck buddies || W.C: 15.5k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･no strings attached sex is easy. catching feelings for a person you supposedly hate is hard. it's in times like this when wonwoo wishes he can set the dial to his life on easy mode forever, but everyone knows he's nothing if not stubbornly competitive.  

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“Endpoint” by @highvern

Fem!reader || Uni TA au, FWB to idiots to lovers, fluff, smut, angst || W.C: ~19.5k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Senior year of college is meant to be full of celebration and smooth sailing. Years of work culminating in the final semesters that will send you off into the real world where clubs, sports, and weekends packed with hungover volunteering to pad your resume no longer mattered. It’d be a piece of cake if it wasn’t for your fuck buddy turned coworker having the same plan. But only one of you can get the department’s most coveted recommendation that all but guarantees your acceptance. Tension rises and the nearly four year thing you’ve had with Wonwoo approaches its endpoint.

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“Heart of the Sea” by @/highvern

Fem!reader || Pirate au, Royalty au, Angst, Romance, Adventure || W.C: 22k

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“34.6037° S, 58.3816° W” by @the-boy-meets-evil

Fem!reader || Strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, smut, fluff, angst || W.C: ~22.8k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･your latest assignment has you jetting off to argentina hoping to finally catch the infamous art thief that's escaped your agency one too many times already. you know what's at stake if you lose your focus. enter the beautiful stranger that has you questioning everything you know

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“HER” by @chocosvt

[Series] || fem!reader || Uni au, slowburn, strong angst, drama, romance, smut || Total W.C: 140k || Parts: 6 || Status: Completed

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

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“Payment Due” by @solarwonux

Fem!reader || Uni au, sexworker au, fluff, angst, smut || W.C: 56.1k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･HYBE U one of the top highly prestigious universities in the country. A shit hole, a total money making scam that liked to sucked the life out of its students. Not being able to meet the funds to pay for your tuition your best friend lets you in a little secret. A way he’s been keeping afloat for years now, easy money. The problem is you want in. 

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“Cats and Coffee for Two” by @multi-kpop-fanfics

Fem!reader || Coworkers to lovers, fluff, comedy, smut || W.C: 12.2k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Job hunting is a tough sport and Wonwoo has experienced it to its core. One fine autumn day comes where he's finally free from the shackles of unemployment, but he will soon find himself in the shackles of coffee, tea and cat hairs, But most importantly, he will have to share these shackles with you.

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“Flower” by @wonwoonlight

Fem!reader || Exes to coworkers au, angst, slice of life, fluff || W.C: ~13k

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“Wanna be yours” by @viastro

Gn!reader || Uni au, childhood friends to strangers to loversish, angst, fluff, humor || W.C: ~9k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･you thought that growing up as best friends meant you’d stick together for as long as you could. you never thought of that exact chance for you and wonwoo until entering university, where you were nothing but his driver when he was out partying for too long. so why do you still pick up the phone when he calls you if he’s the one who left first?

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“Twisted Fate” by @smileysuh

Afab!reader || Vampire au, soulmate au, enemies to lovers, smut || W.C: 14.3k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･“He deserved it,” Wonwoo assures you, reaching out to grab you by the back of the neck, pulling you closer. He’s covered in blood, and he looks like a sexy, wild monster. But he’s your monster, and you can’t help but react, leaning in- “Jesus Christ,” you hear Jeonghan breathe, turning to give you and Wonwoo privacy while he presses his lips against yours hungrily. At first, you can try to ignore the wet liquid on your fingertips as you grab at his strong shoulders, but you can’t ignore the taste on his tongue. Your body goes rigid and Wonwoo pulls back with a sigh, resting his forehead against yours. It’s an oddly peaceful moment amongst the chaos.

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“My Way to You” by @/wonwoonlight

[Series] || fem!reader || heir/heiress au, best friends to lovers, fluff, drama, angst || Total W.C: ~47k || Parts: 13(+1 epilogue) || Status: Completed

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･You don’t remember a time when you don’t have Wonwoo by your side. But when things happen and you’re left to deal with your feelings, you can’t help but wonder if what you have with him can be framed under the name of friendship after all. or, alternatively, Wonwoo’s been in love with you for as long as he can remember and he doesn’t know if he should be thankful or not that you’ve never suspected him for it.

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“By the Moon” by @/wonwoonlight

Werewolf au, fantasy au, angst, fluff, hurt comfort, action, suggestive || W.C: ~18k

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“All My Love” by @pepperonidk

[Series] || Fem!reader || High School au, fluff || Parts: 10 || Status: Completed

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･He's cool, smart, attractive... and completely out of your league. But that won't stop you from falling head over heels for him. (alt. jeon wonwoo is mr. darcy incarnated… a fumbling nerd turned popular kid)

Please let me know if the links have any problems~

[cressidagrey]

Aquatic Adventures

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar is gone for a Double Header. Felicity builds a sanctuary. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 I should have been writing something useful, that brings the plot forwards, but instead you get Felicity and one of. her "projects". It was very fun to write though. I am living vicariously through a character that has pretty much unlimited funds and is more productive than I could ever dream to be.

It started with Bee’s tears.

The kind that didn’t come with wailing or tantrums. No, those were easy. Manageable. A juice box, a cuddle, a nap.

But this was different.

This was the quiet, trembling-lip kind. The kind that crept up after hours of pretending she was fine. The kind that meant something had sunk deep — words or looks or loneliness that a three-year-old didn’t quite know how to explain.

Felicity sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, Bee curled into her chest like she was trying to fold herself into her mother’s ribs, breath hitching in little bursts. She smelled like sunscreen and finger paint and exhaustion.

“They didn’t want to play with me,” Bee whispered.

Felicity closed her eyes. “Baby…”

“They said my lunch was weird. And I wasn’t funny. And one boy said I was bossy. But I wasn’t even talking to him.”

Felicity kissed the top of her daughter’s head and didn’t say anything for a long time. Just rocked her, slow and rhythmic, like it would fix the cracks.

She  felt that slow, cold fury spread through her chest. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made her want to set fire to the entire concept of “socialization” if it meant protecting her daughter

Oscar was on a double header. Back to Back races. Italy, then Monaco. He’d FaceTime in a few hours, would listen and be gentle and say all the right things. 

He always did.

But right now, there was just Felicity. And Bee. And the ache in her ribs where her daughter’s grief lived.

By the time she got Bee to bed — two stories, one lullaby, and a full-body cuddle that ended with Bee curled into the duvet like a sea otter — Felicity was pacing barefoot through the kitchen.

The house was silent. The kind of silence you only got in the countryside, where the world pulled back and left you alone with your thoughts.

That had been part of the appeal.

When she and Oscar first bought the farmhouse, it had been for the space. The privacy. The outbuildings — old structures lined up like forgotten train cars behind the main house, tucked among the trees. Oscar had called them “rustic.” Felicity had called them potential.

One became hers — a workspace-slash-garage-slash-creative bunker where she could weld, sand, build, and paint without anyone breathing down her neck.

The second was the gym-slash-ballet studio-slash-sim room, because apparently their household only functioned on wildly specific, multi-use spaces. Felicity had added the barre herself. A space for her to stretch, to remember what it was like to move for herself.

A third had been left alone. It had once housed horses, long before the property had been theirs. Now it was just empty, echoing structure of exposed beams, weathered wood, and potential.

Felicity already knew what she was going to do.

The pool wasn’t a new idea — just one she’d shelved while life took priority. But now… now it felt like something necessary. Not indulgent, not aesthetic, not Pinterest-fluff luxury. No, it felt like armor. A gift. A promise.

Warm water. Floating. Movement without pressure. Gentle light. No sharp echoes. No mean boys. No group dynamics to navigate.

Just Bee. Just peace.

Felicity would build it herself if she had to.

She’d already started the mosaic months ago, half by accident. Ceramic tiles, soft sea-glass colors, arranged in what would become a leaping dolphin. It was supposed to be for a backsplash or an outdoor table. But now she knew exactly where it belonged.

She padded into the spare room that doubled as storage and gently rolled out the canvas — the dolphin, tail sweeping upward, water droplets in pale aquamarine and cobalt. She touched one of the tiles absently, her fingers steady.

Bee would love this.

She always loved dolphins. Said they were the smartest. The kindest.

That night, Felicity opened the plans she’d drawn up nearly a year ago. A fantasy project. Something she hadn’t told anyone about. Not even Oscar.

It wasn’t going to be a sleek, marble-lined infinity pool. Not some Instagram-glossy wellness sanctuary.

It was going to be Bee’s.

Quiet. Safe. Warm all year round. A sanctuary with soft lighting and temperature-controlled floors. A place where she could float and splash and forget the world existed. A pool built like a hug.

It hadn’t been real until now. But that night, with Bee’s breath soft and even in the room beside her, Felicity started making calls.

Permits. Contractors. Heating systems. A specialist in skylights.

She didn’t tell Oscar.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about practicality, or budget, or even architectural ambition.

It was about Bee.

It was about building something so full of love that it drowned out the noise of the world.

***

Felicity Piastri did not throw tantrums.

She’d been raised not to. 

She had been born a Leong. 

She had been raised to wield silence like a scalpel, money like a weapon, and intellect like a blueprint.

 Felicity did not raise her voice. She did not beg. She planned.

She might have stepped away from the world she was born into — from the emerald heirlooms, the art collction, the social calendars managed by secretaries — but that world had trained her.

And when she needed it, she still spoke its language fluently.

The pool was going to be built in ten days.

Not estimated. Not quoted.

Done.

She had the property. She had the design. She had the permits already prepped — half because she liked being prepared, half because, deep down, she’d known something like this might happen.

She started with one contractor.

He told her twelve weeks minimum.

She said, “No,” and called his boss.

The boss said the same thing.

So she called someone else. Then someone else. And then she made a few international calls — to a construction firm her aunt’s interior designer once used back in the day for a rooftop terrace in Dubai.

By 8 a.m. the next morning, there were three project managers in her driveway, holding reusable coffee cups and measuring tapes.

She wielded her iPad like a weapon. Spreadsheets color-coded. Timeline stacked. Materials sourced from three different suppliers. Overnight shipping arranged. When one contractor so much as suggested that “it might be more realistic to give it a few weeks,” Felicity smiled sweetly and said:

“Would you like me to call someone else?”

Felicity didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t threaten. She negotiated.

She offered more money up front. 

She offered bonuses for every milestone completed ahead of time. She cross-referenced three local contractors to cover shifts in 24-hour rotations. She arranged permits to be processed at double speed — because it turns out, local councils moved very quickly when the right legal phrasing and legacy donations were involved.

She even hired a private catering service to feed the crew. 

By the second day, the old concrete had been ripped up. On day three, the beams were reinforced. On day four, the heating system was being installed and a special-order shipment of light blue tiles had landed from Italy.

Oscar texted once from Monaco asking how things were going at home.

She sent back a photo of Bee asleep in her lap and didn’t mention the fact that there were currently four men digging a trench for the overflow piping system just outside the window.

Her phone never left her side.

She paced the hallways in socks and one of Oscar’s hoodies, laptop under one arm, toddler on her hip, telling one man where to reposition the skylight and another which grout colors were acceptable and which were absolutely not. 

She FaceTimed a mosaicist in Vienna to double-check adhesive drying times and personally called a logistics company in Dublin to charter a truck for the filtration system.

On day seven, she brought in fresh pastries for the entire crew and reminded the night shift foreman about the performance bonus.

On day eight, she caught one worker trying to substitute the dolphin mosaic placement.

She handed him a cappuccino and then gently, systematically, explained why that dolphin was going exactly where she wanted it — because her daughter had once drawn a picture where the dolphin was jumping just there.

The man never argued again.

By day ten, the pool was done.

And not just finished. Perfect.

Temperature-controlled. Skylit. Lined with handmade mosaic tiles. Soundproofed. A shelf for toys. A warm rinse-off shower with custom water pressure controls. A soft corner bench where Felicity could read while Bee splashed.

An oasis.

A fortress.

A love letter carved in glass, water, and tile.

***

It was quiet.

Not silent — there was a hum from the heating system, the soft ripple of water against the tile, the occasional creak of timber beams overhead — but the kind of quiet that felt sacred. Like the world had taken a step back to let them breathe.

Bee stood on the edge of the shallow shelf, wrapped in a tiny robe with a dolphin embroidered over the heart. Her hair was pulled into a lopsided ponytail, still sleep-soft, and she was clutching her purple goggles like they were a magic talisman.

She blinked up at her mother.

“This is ours?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Felicity crouched beside her, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek. “All ours.”

Bee took another step closer to the pool, bare toes curling against the warm tile. She was still in awe, still trying to process it, eyes wide as saucers as she took in the soft blue tiles, the underwater lights casting golden ripples across the ceiling, the dolphin mosaic swimming in joyful motion across the far wall.

“He’s jumping,” she said, pointing to the dolphin. “Like in my drawing.”

Felicity smiled. “Exactly like your drawing.”

Bee looked down at the water. Then up at Felicity. Then back again.

“Can I go in?”

Felicity didn’t answer. She just held out her arms.

Bee squealed — a real, unburdened sound — and wriggled out of her robe, revealing a bright swimsuit with little yellow fish all over it. She clambered onto the first step, then the second, and then launched herself into her mother’s waiting arms like she’d never had a bad day in her life.

The water welcomed them. Warm, clean, still.

Felicity caught her easily, arms strong, body steady as she sank into the shallow end with Bee held against her chest. Her daughter’s giggles echoed gently off the walls — not loud, not wild, just happy.

The good kind. The healing kind.

“You made this,” Bee whispered after a long moment, eyes full of wonder. “For me.”

Felicity kissed her wet hair. “For us.”

Bee kicked gently, floating with Felicity’s hands under her back. The skylight above filtered in soft afternoon light, catching in the beads of water on her cheeks.

“I don’t think it’ll ever feel bad in here,” Bee said after a while.

Felicity blinked back something sharp behind her eyes. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

Bee didn’t say anything after that. Just floated.

And Felicity, for the first time in days, let herself breathe.

She held her daughter close. She watched the light dance over the water. She ran one hand through the still-warm surface and felt the ripple carry all the way to the walls — like a promise.

They stayed there until the light changed.

Until Bee’s hair was damp and curling and her eyelids fluttered and she murmured “mama, carry” in a drowsy voice that made Felicity’s chest ache with love.

***

Oscar Piastri was used to coming home to chaos.

Not bad chaos — just the kind that came with Felicity and Bee. Small socks everywhere. A kitchen that looked like it had hosted a baking competition. Doodles taped to the fridge. A Sim rig covered in stickers. A house that was clearly lived in — loved in.

It was his favorite thing in the world.

But this time, the house was… quiet.

He rolled his suitcase down the hall and dropped his backpack by the bench in the entryway. “Fliss?”

No answer. Just the soft hum of the air vents and the smell of lavender and something faintly like salt. His brows furrowed.

He checked the kitchen — no one. The living room — empty, except for a plush dolphin wearing sunglasses.

Then he noticed it: the sliding doors at the back of the house, the ones that led toward the old stables.

One of them was slightly ajar.

Oscar stepped outside, following the faint sound of splashing water. The air was warm, windless. The gravel underfoot shifted as he walked across the path between the outbuildings.

He hadn’t been in the third one in months.

Last he checked, it was still full of unused storage crates and the old treadmill Felicity swore she’d list for pickup.

But the door was open.

He stepped inside.

Stopped.

And blinked.

The stable was gone.

In its place was a pool.

A full, glowing, indoor mosaic-lined oasis with warm lighting, soft acoustics, and — holy shit — was that a skylight!? The air was warm and damp in that gentle, spa-like way, and the walls looked like something out of an architecture magazine.

In the water, half-floating and curled together like sea otters, were his wife and daughter.

Felicity looked up first. She was sitting in the shallow end, hair braided over one shoulder, wearing one of his old t-shirts knotted at the waist and a black bikini bottom. Bee was curled into her lap, her damp curls sticking to her forehead.

Oscar blinked again. “I’ve been gone for two weeks.”

Felicity smiled. “Hi, love.”

Bee perked up immediately. “Papa!” she chirped, scrambling up and doggy-paddling to the edge like a very determined duck.

He dropped to his knees as she launched herself into his arms, wet and squealing and happy.

“We have a pool,” he said, slightly stunned.

Bee beamed. “Mama built it!”

Oscar looked past her, over her shoulder, toward Felicity — who had stood up, water lapping at her calves, and was walking over with that serene, slightly guilty expression she always wore when she’d pulled something massive off and hadn’t warned him first.

“You built a pool,” he said again, a little dazed, like repeating it might make it make more sense.

Felicity reached the edge and leaned her arms on the side, the water rippling around her. Her braid dripped onto the tiles. Her expression was unreadable — half sheepish, half composed, like she knew exactly what she’d done and was only 50% sorry.

“I had the plans ready,” she said. “And the permits. And the contractor contacts. It was going to happen eventually.”

“But you did it in… what, ten days?” Oscar looked around again, like the room might vanish. “There’s a skylight, Fliss.”

Bee, still wrapped around him like a koala, nodded helpfully. “And there’s dolphins!”

“There are dolphins,” Oscar repeated, mouth dry.

He caught sight of the mosaic — the dolphin mid-jump across the far wall, surrounded by sea-glass tiles that shimmered like actual sunlight on water.

Oscar blinked again. “Jesus Christ.”

Felicity’s smile curved slightly. “That’s not his name, love.”

Oscar just stared at her. At her damp hair, her flushed cheeks, the tiny tired lines at the corners of her eyes that only ever showed up when she’d done something monumental and wasn’t sure if she’d get away with it.

He looked at Bee, who was now patting his cheeks with both hands and saying, “It’s warm and it smells like clouds,” which made absolutely no scientific sense and somehow still felt like an accurate description.

He swallowed.

“You built a sanctuary,” he said quietly. “While I was gone.”

Felicity didn’t say anything for a moment. Just rested her chin on her arms, her eyes soft.

“She was having a hard week,” she murmured. “And I couldn’t fix the world. But I could do this.”

Oscar pressed his lips to Bee’s hair, held her closer, and closed his eyes for a second.

Then he looked back at his wife.

And said — with all the love and awe and overwhelmed, dizzy affection in the world:

“I love you so much.”

Felicity blinked. Her mouth twitched. “Even though I didn't warn you?”

“Fliss,” he said, laughing, “you built a pool. In secret. With heating and acoustics and mood lighting. For our three-year-old.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s a hell yes,” he said. Then looked around again and added, “I mean, I thought the bathroom reno during a triple header was bold, but this…”

Bee tugged his sleeve. “Daddy? Can you come swim?”

Oscar kissed her forehead. “Absolutely, sweetheart. Just give me one second.”

He set her down gently, watched her paddle happily back to the steps, then turned to Felicity and offered a hand. She took it, confused — and he pulled her up, wet and blinking and surprised, straight into his arms.

He kissed her like they were back at Haileybury. Like she’d just walked into the common room in his hoodie and undone him with one look.

“I can’t believe you,” he said against her lips.

She smiled. “You always say that when I surprise you.”

“This isn’t a surprise. This is a Bond villain level plot twist.”

Felicity shrugged. “You married me.”

He shook his head, completely smitten. “Best decision I ever made.”

Behind them, Bee was making dolphin sounds and trying to do somersaults.

Oscar grinned, forehead resting against Felicity’s. “Next time you secretly build a swimming facility in ten days, just… I don’t know. Text me first?”

She laughed softly. “Deal.”

“Also—” He kissed her again, warm and slow. “I love you. Have I mentioned that?”

Felicity’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Not recently.”

“Right,” Oscar said. “I love you.”

Then he toed off his socks, pulled off his shirt, and cannonballed into the pool like a six-year-old.

Bee screamed with delight.

Felicity covered her face with both hands — but she was laughing.

And Oscar, floating on his back in the water she built with her bare hands and brain and fury-love, thought:

This is what home feels like.

 Her. Bee. And everything they build together.

[thistlerock]

Gorgug joins the Bad Kids' nerd sub-club during junior year he really does. You saw that insane three years of artificer class because fuck you thing. Afternoons he would have previously spent with the Owlbears are now spent sprawled out on Adaine's rug doing math of all things. Bad Kids intelligence casters on top!! lol. I do find it funny that there's so few intelligence based spell casters but with Riz being an arcane trickster now it's 1/2 of the Bad Kids. Smart Kids. All they need now is an eldritch knight.

Speaking of Riz being an arcane trickster, I do think part of the reason he SO leans into the stuff his father gets him is Penny. But also, I think the adjustment period happens during their whole Night Yorb adventure so Adaine gives him a lot of magic pointers. I know that he in universe doesn't cast spells himself and instead uses gadgets but it's probably still helpful to have the wizard tell you how to handle magic. She also helps Gorgug with magic,,,all hail Adaine. Also Riz and Gorgug both have haste so they experiment with it on each other, I think.

Speaking of full casters helping their newly multi classed friends with spells. Fig and Fabian. As a fellow charisma caster and even more importantly fellow bard Fig does try to help Fabian with magic but while Adaine's help is step by step instructions and advice on how to handle magic whiplash Fig's is all "you have to feel the vibe" and "really put your feelings into it" and miraculously Fabian fully understands what the fuck she's talking about and thinks it helped and everyone else is like wow yeah I guess he's a bard now. Useless headcanon that is so precious to me is that Fabian learned pyrotechnics via Fig's general affinity for fire. I had more to say about this but I completely forgot.

[cheol-e-kat]

𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

pairing: choi seungcheol/ f!reader 

summary: seungcheol and y/n didn't meet in a traditional way, and they aren't a traditional couple, but they have an intense connection that only grows when y/n realizes she's pregnant.

word count: -- in progress

genre: smut, neighbors au, seasons of the year au, age gap, older!cheol, college/grad student!reader, pregnancy au

rating: 18+, mdni, explicit

warnings included with each part

part i (summer) reader pov - 2.2k

part ii (summer) seungcheol pov - 3.1k

part iii (fall / winter) - seungcheol pov - posted april 23rd - 3.0K

part iv (winter / holiday) - mixed pov - posted May 15 - 4.2k

part v - (spring) - in progress

a/n: i love this couple - they are unhinged af for each other but also totally perfect for each other and prove that i really can make anything fluffy - hope you enjoy

♡ kat

♡ my [master list] if you want to read more

♡ if you want to be tagged in my posts, go [here] - if you want to be tagged in this fic you can leave a comment or the tag list form

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞 ^^

angst - [ a ] || fluff - [ f ] || smut - [ s ]

teasers: all but break your heart |୨୧| tonight tonight

drabbles: co-worker & spanking [ s ] |୨୧| gamer boy [ s ] |୨୧| professor one [ s ] | valentine's day [ f ] #kat_drabbles

fluff: profound, not sudden [ f ]

smut: see bingo series above and random slutty thoughts collection

series: obvious affection [ pt. 1 f ] [ pt. 2 f & s ] |୨୧| 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] |୨୧| 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇. 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 s ] |୨୧| 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 [ pt. 1 s ] [ pt. 2 f & s ] [ pt. 3 f & s ]

seungcheol bingo [warning all smut]: knotting + marking | professor (prof. choi, pt. 1) | monster | spanking (neighbor seungcheol) | big dick + hate sex | forced masturbastion (prof. choi, pt ii) | voyeurism + punishment | coffee shop au + forbidden relationship (never let you go pt. 1) | bodyguard + drunk confession | anon sex + hair pulling + mask wearing | big dick!cheol + hate sex (choose your own adventure) | sexual frustration + ex sex |

omegaverse (a/b/o): alpha seungcheol [pt. 1 s] [pt. 2 s] || never let you go [master list] [part 1 f & s] [part 2 f ] ||

[ taglist ]

☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎ @coupsbestleader [e] ☁︎ @fleurloovin [e] ☁︎ @babybae-shisui [e] ☁︎ @asyre [e] ☁︎ @dcrlingyou [e] ☁︎ @yeosayang [e] ☁︎

☁︎ @haik-chu [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @gigglensnort [e - one/multi/priv] ☁︎

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Why Writers Don't Finish Writing Their Stories, and How to Fix It

Hello fellow writers and storytellers,

The journey of writing a story is an exhilarating adventure, but it's not without its share of obstacles. Many of us have embarked on a creative endeavor, only to find ourselves mired in the struggle to finish what we started. In this blog post, I'll unravel the common reasons why writers don't finish their stories and explore practical strategies to overcome these hurdles and reignite the flame of creativity.

The Perils of Unfinished Stories

As writers, we often find ourselves in the throes of unfinished tales, grappling with the intricate web of characters, plots, and themes. There are several reasons why the ink dries up and the story remains untold. Let's shine a light on the familiar adversaries that stand between us and the triumphant completion of our narratives:

1. Lack of Planning:

Some of us brazenly dive into our stories without a clear roadmap, resulting in uncertainty about the direction of the plot and the fate of our characters. The lack of a solid plan can lead us astray, leaving our stories wandering in the wilderness of aimlessness.

2. Self-Doubt and Perfectionism:

Ah, the relentless whispers of self-doubt and the siren call of perfectionism! These twin adversaries can cast a shadow over our creative vision, compelling us to endlessly revise and perfect the early chapters, trapping us in a whirlpool of perpetual edits.

3. Time Management:

Balancing the demands of daily life with the ardor of writing can be akin to walking a tightrope. The struggle to find consistent time for our craft often leaves our stories languishing in prolonged periods of inactivity, longing for the touch of our pen.

4. Writer's Block:

The mighty barrier that even the most intrepid writers encounter. Writer's block can be an insurmountable mountain, leaving us stranded in the valleys of creative drought, unable to breathe life into new ideas and narratives.

5. Lack of Motivation:

The flame that once burned brightly can flicker and wane over time, leaving us adrift in the murky waters of disillusionment. The initial excitement for our stories diminishes, making it arduous to stay committed to the crafting process.

6. Fear of Failure or Success:

The twin specters that haunt many writers' dreams. The apprehension of rejection and the unsettling prospect of life-altering success can tether us to the shores of hesitation, preventing us from reaching the shores of completion.

7. Criticism and Feedback Anxiety:

The looming dread of judgment casts a long shadow over our creative endeavors. The mere thought of receiving criticism or feedback, whether from peers or potential readers, can cast a cloud over our storytelling pursuits.

8. Plotting Challenges:

Crafting a cohesive and engaging plot is akin to navigating a labyrinth without a map. Faced with hurdles in connecting story elements, we may find ourselves lost in a maze of plot holes and unresolved threads.

9. Character Development Struggles:

Breathing life into multi-dimensional, relatable characters is a complex art. The intricate process of character development can become a quagmire, ensnaring us in the challenge of creating personas that drive the story forward. (Part one of Character Development Series)

10. Life Events and Distractions:

Unexpected events in our personal lives can cast ripples on our writing routines, interrupting the flow of our creativity and causing a loss of momentum.

Rallying Against the Odds: Strategies for Success

Now that we've confronted the adversaries that threaten to stall our storytelling odysseys, let's arm ourselves with strategies to conquer these barriers and reignite the flames of our creativity.

Embrace the Power of Planning:

A clear roadmap illuminates the path ahead. Arm yourself with outlines, character sketches, and plot maps to pave the way for your story's journey.

Vanquish Self-Doubt with Action:

Silence the voices of doubt with the power of progress. Embrace the imperfect beauty of your early drafts, knowing that every word brings you closer to the finish line.

Mastering the Art of Time:

Carve out sacred writing time in your schedule. Whether it’s ten minutes or two hours, every moment dedicated to your craft is a step forward.

Conquering Writer's Block:

Embrace the freedom of imperfection. Write, even if the words feel like scattered puzzle pieces. The act of writing can unravel the most stubborn knots of writer's block.

Reigniting the Flame of Motivation:

Seek inspiration in the wonders of the world. Reconnect with the heart of your story, rediscovering the passion that set your creative spirit ablaze.

Reshaping Fear into Fuel:

Embrace the uncertainty as an integral part of the creative journey. Embrace the lessons within rejection and prepare for the winds of change that success may bring.

Navigating the Realm of Criticism:

Embrace feedback as a catalyst for growth. Constructive criticism is a powerful ally, shaping your story into a work of art that resonates with readers.

Weaving the Threads of Plot:

Connect the dots with fresh eyes. Step back and survey the tapestry of your plot, seeking innovative solutions to bridge the gaps and untangle the knots.

Breathing Life into Characters:

Engage with your characters as if they were old friends. Dive into their depths, unraveling their quirks, fears, and dreams, and watch as they breathe life into your story.

Navigating Life's Tempests:

Embrace the ebb and flow of life. Every pause in your writing journey is a chance to gather new experiences and perspectives, enriching your storytelling tapestry.

The Ever-Resting Pen: Harnessing the Power Within

Fellow writers, the journey of completing a story is filled with peaks and valleys, each offering us the opportunity to sharpen our resolve and unleash our creative potential. As we stand at the crossroads, staring at the canvas of unfinished tales, let's rally against the odds, armed with the power of purpose, passion, and perseverance.

Let the ink flow once more, breathing life into tales left untold, and watch as your stories triumphantly reach their long-awaited conclusion. You possess the power to conquer the adversaries that stand in your way, and within you lies the essence of untold narratives waiting to unfurl onto the page.

Here's to the journey that lies ahead, the stories waiting to be written, and the unyielding spirit of creativity that thrives within each of us.

Warm regards and unwavering encouragement, Ren T.