#still making tweaks here and there when i have time...

[nyaruelle-designs]

🦄 Mane 6 + Family Redesign! 🦄

aaaaa this took so long, but it's finally done 😭 here's some art of mane 6 with their families. If you haven't seen my first redesign for the Mane 6, click me!

Keep reading below for design notes! (most of them are very small tweaks to get the palettes to look close to the Mane 6 hahaha)

OK! starting off with twilight's family, I tried to keep her parents' colors close with her own colors, I took both twilight's and shining's colors to match along with their mom and dad. I think Night Light is the most noticeably different of all the parents so far??

shining's colors are quite good but I guess I make it a point to give some siblings matching coat patterns to relate them to each other haha

also I had to add spike. He is apart of the family after all <3

For Rarity's family, I really took a lot of creative liberties haha

I kept Sweetie Belle's colors quite similar but yeah, tweaked it to match more in her sister's color scheme and gave her shared coat patterns with Rarity.

Rarity's parents also underwent some tweaks HAHA (i swear, every time I give the mlp character a unique coat pattern, they turn out looking so different but good??)

Fluttershy's family still looks relatively the same just with a few tweaks to the colors. (Fluttershy definitely gets her soft wings from her mom hehe)

I gave Zephyr a tattoo which I imagine he got in his youth while figuring himself out, thought it would complement his 'surfer?? chill bro' character

Also, fun detail: the tips of Fluttershy and Zephyr's wings compliment/relate back to each other which I think is really neat

Rainbow's family is quite self-explanatory, not a whole lot of difference HAHA

I think I let myself have a little bit of fun when redesigning the Apples. Idk why I thought it'd be interesting to add a bit of green to Pear Butter but ye??

I also kept Pear Butter as having a more petite frame as my personal handcanon is that while she did do farm work, she mostly did the less intensive work like watering the crops or something ahaha

neat detail: Applebloom inherited her eye color from granny smith, thought it'd be interesting to link them together

And last but not least, the Pie familyyy

As Pinkie and Marble are twins, I modelled Marble directly off Pinkie's desaturated form but gave her a longer mane. Other then that, I tried making them look as similar as possible

It's not very noticeable but I also gave Pinkie's dad a bit more pink in his colour scheme to show where she could've gotten her pink genes from. (I want to believe that in the past Igneous Rock had a pink mane before it turned grey from age)

also out of topic but I have this personal headcanon that the pie sisters are actually quadruplets with pinkie being the only one out of the 4 having her recessive pink gene, thought it would be fun to share.

Anyway, congrats on making it to the end! Thanks for reading all my design notes :’D I’ll definitely be drawing more. (next I'm gonna try to draw the secondary characters and hopefully not take too long to get it done-)

[agoldenblackbird]

Here it is, the first chapter of the Buck's Bakery AU from @peppermintquartz's prompt!

I tweaked the timeline a little bit and have Buck choosing not to go back to firefighting after the lightning strike, mostly because me writing a 3a/lawsuit era fic where Buck doesn't or can't return to firefighting would be action-packed with angst and have at least one scene of either suicidal ideation or Buck yelling at everybody. And I mostly want this to be a cute happy fic about tevan making heart eyes at each other and Buck letting himself have a career with low risk of physical or emotional trauma.

Of all the times he's almost died, for some reason it's the lightning strike that's changed him the most.

He doesn't love the random muscle spasms, or the sudden shooting pains or pins and needles that come from nowhere, that the doctor calls 'peripheral neuropathy' and Buck calls bullshit, but both are already lessened compared to when he first got out of the hospital and will most likely continue to improve. He's not firefighting fit right now, but it's only been four weeks since he woke up from the coma. It took him longer just to be allowed to start weight-bearing after the ladder truck, or for Eddie to get the sling off after the shooting, and he actually died this time.

It's the 'actually died' part that's messing with him.

The past six, almost seven, years have been the best of his life, because of finding a purpose in firefighting and a family in the 118. But from the standpoint of emotional and physical trauma, they've also been some of the worst.

Every single member of the team has survived attempted murder. So have Maddie and Athena. Buck, Eddie, Maddie, Hen, Chim, Harry and Josh have all been kidnapped or taken hostage – for Maddie, twice. Most of them have either attempted suicide or had to be prevented from making an attempt. They've had to watch or listen to people die, been drenched in the blood of the injured or dying.

And the things that have happened to Buck himself, well. He's thirty-one years old – just – and some mornings, especially when the weather changes, he feels sixty. The crush injury and the lightning strike are the most seriously he's ever been injured, but there's been myriad strains, sprains, broken ribs, dislocations and concussions over the years, too, and sometimes he feels every single one of them.

The emotional toll weighs more heavily. Devon still haunts him some nights, all these years and hundreds, thousands if he counts the tsunami, of losses later. He still finds a purpose in helping people, saving them. He's just beginning to wonder if there's some other way he can do it that doesn't involve meeting them on the worst day of their life.

He's no longer convinced he'll lose his family if they don't work together. None of them gave up on Eddie when he went to Dispatch, or wrote off Chim or Maddie when they left the state, out of sight, out of mind. When Hen was considering leaving, after Jonah, to do med school full time, he'd known he'd miss her, but he hadn't been scared of losing her. He knows, now, that they might argue or even get mad enough to not talk for a bit, but they'll always come back together eventually.

So if he doesn't need to be a firefighter to keep his family, or to feel worthy of love – the coma-driven revelation that he's Buck and that's enough has stayed with him – then it comes down to, does he still want to be one?

And the answer is that he doesn't know. And as annoying as some of the lingering symptoms from the lightning strike are, the extra time to make up his mind is useful. He's been doing a lot of walking, soothing Maddie's sisterly worry with the excuse that both Dr. Copeland and his GP recommended it and his neighbour Mrs. Cleary's dogwalker quit so he'd be taking her labradoodle out anyway.

Really, it just gives him time to think and an excuse to be unreachable. He needs both, right now. Everyone trying to make up for how isolated he was after his leg was crushed by smothering him – Maddie denied the existence of a schedule but Buck knows from how twitchy Chim got that there is one – is sweet, but also lowkey driving him crazy.

Buck finds the place on one of his walks, when Noodle stops to sniff at a sickly sidewalk tree for long minutes. It's a second-hand bookstore called The Borogoves. Clearly not a very popular one, given that when he peers in the window, he sees nobody there on a Saturday afternoon. The fact that the two storefronts to the right of it are empty might have something to do with it. On the left is a Chase Bank.

Something about those two empty storefronts with their papered-over windows and For Sale Or Lease signs with the matching phone number piques his interest. There's offices above, but when he looks up the notary public on his phone, Google lists the business as permanently closed.

Huh.

——————————————————————————————————

Tommy doesn't usually have time on his commute to look around. He's got to pay attention to what the other drivers are doing. But when he's on his way home from his first night shift after two months of days, he's cruising down the nearly empty streets at just after 6 am with nothing else to do but look.

He understands why the schedule is the way it is, pilots can't do 24-hour shifts because they risk being too sleep deprived to fly or maxing out on flight hours before the shift is over or both, and that means 12-hour shifts in a 4 on, 4 off cycle, switching from nights to days or vice versa every 8 cycles. It makes sense, but god is it a pain in the ass.

The older he gets the harder it is to switch, plus it's a nightmare for dating guys who have a regular 9-to-5. Tyler had a lot to say when Tommy spent all of his last four off switching his schedule around and couldn't go with him on a business trip to Seattle. (He may have used the switch as an excuse to decline being dragged to schmoozy work dinners, but nobody, especially Tyler, needs to know that.)

Tommy goes past what he's pretty sure was two empty storefronts when he was last on nights. They're not empty now, lights are on and the paper's taken down from the windows, and he can hear the sounds of a table saw and a pneumatic nail gun. There's gold paint on the windows. First Javawocky, then Looking-Glass Cakes.

Huh. He'll have to keep an eye out for the grand opening. If nothing else, it'll be handy to have a coffee shop on his commute that isn't Starbucks.

——————————————————————————————————

No promises on when the second chapter will be out, (comment below to be added to the taglist for updates if you want!) but I think I've finally found my rhythm with doing one bit from each POV so that's helpful. Also I haven't made a moodboard in YEARS and I really had a lot of fun with it, so that's helping with motivation!

And if you believe that in this AU, after his heart attack Bobby chooses to stay retired and joins Buck at the bakery, and then Gerrard dies of a circular saw to the head bc his completely unrealistic face turn and unearned HEA was bullshit, Hen becomes Captain because she deserves it and Chim had previously said after his turn as Interim Captain that he never wanted to lead again, and no one dies of super-ebola because SoCal utilizes basic lab safety and security procedures and also does background checks and psych screenings on their employees, you are so sexy and correct and that is absolutely what happens!

[skzdominate]

NON REQUEST

A/N: I was so excited for this I delayed to make a few tweaks but ended up stalling for wayyy longer 💔 anyway here's my fun little thing I thought of.

p.s I finally had to get my shit together and write actual warnings cause this is filthyyyy

Title: off limits

Pairings: Skz OT7 (excluding chan) x Fem! Reader

Warnings: 18+ NSFW Explicit sexual content, Voyeurism, Group sexual dynamics (multiple partners), Dubiously consensual situations ( power imbalance, teasing without full verbal consent) ,Mentions of masturbation, oral, handjobs, suggestive language, Slight somnophilia-esque tension (sneaking in/out while others sleep), Mild possessiveness / light dom-sub language, Age difference themes (older!reader, younger!members)

🔞 MINORS DNI

The minute you stepped into the dorm, you were trouble.

Two weeks. That’s all it was supposed to be—two weeks of crashing at your little brother’s place while visiting Seoul after his latest concert tour wrapped. Chan had insisted you stay, grinning while tossing you a spare key, promising you could relax. “The guys will behave,” he’d said.

He had no idea.

From the second you entered, their eyes were on you. Wide. Curious. Desperate. Seungmin dropped his chopsticks, Hyunjin choked on his water—They all had different reactions. Jisung—well, he didn’t say much. He just stared, lips parted slightly, like he forgot how to speak.

They were all polite, sure. But you were irisistable—and to men with years of pent-up energy? Filthy.

You walked around the dorm comfortably, and Chan made sure the boys knew you were specifically "off limits" during your stay.

They mutter yeah's and sure's, but they all ignored it themselves.

They treated you like a real lady. Never got into your personal space, never butted into your conversations with Chan, never stopped you from eating their things, never made physical contact—which was for their own sanity most of the time.

Once while Jeongin was sitting at the kitchen counter, you had walked in wearing a tank top and your favorite skirt. You casually ranted to him about gossip from back in Australia, but he didn't hear anything you said. It was like your mouth was moving, but your body was the thing speaking to him. He had to excuse himself mid rant to the bathroom.

They all avoided you, and when you asked your little brother about it, he said "They're just shy, they'll warm up to you in no time. You're only staying for a week and a few more days."

But that hasn't happened yet—they still avoid you, eyes suddenly roaming the room when you walk past them.

They secretly huddle up together, whispering about you and how they hadn't been so turned on before. They joked about how mad Chan would be if he knew they were absolutely insane for his sister, older sister at that , but they still talk nonetheless.

You eventually caught the way they lingered in when you walked past, how their eyes followed your hips. But it was Jisung who always lingered the longest. Quiet. Tense. Red-cheeked and restless. He couldn’t look at you for more than three seconds without fidgeting, fingers tapping, legs shifting.

The first week passed, you pretended not to notice.

By the start of the second, you were hearing them at night.

They thought you were asleep. The amount of times you lay in your brother's bed and listen, hoping he didn't hear as well from next to you. You heard the sounds. Breathy and desperate groans muffled into pillows.

One night, you heard your name. Whimpered. Stuttered. From Han's room.

Your heart thudded.

You should have fallen asleep. Should have let him have his privacy.

But curiosity—maybe something deeper—overrode you.

The next night, you waited. You made sure Chan was passed out in the living room with his headphones on, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Then, barefoot and silent, you padded down the hall. Right to Jisung’s door.

It was literally open.

And the sight hit you before the sound.

“F-Fuck…” A hushed whisper, drawn out, needy. The unmistakable wet sound of skin-on-skin. “Gosh, no—fuck, that body…”

You stood shocked, He didn’t see you.

The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow of his phone on the nightstand. Han lay sprawled on the bed, shirt riding up, tattoos on display, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temple, hand wrapped around his cock. Fast. Desperate. His hips bucked into his palm like he couldn’t help it.

“Y/n…” he whimpered, eyes shut tight, voice a broken gasp. “Please…”

Your mouth went dry.

This wasn’t some lazy jerk-off session. He was overwhelmed. You could feel it. Like he’d held this in for days—weeks—and finally broke.

You took a step forward, silently.

A floorboard creaked.

His eyes snapped open.

For a second, he didn’t process it. He blinked once, then twice. Then all the blood drained from his face.

“Y-Y/n—!” He scrambled, yanking the covers over his lap like it could erase the sight you just witnessed. His voice cracked. “I—shit, I didn’t know—”

You should have turned around.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you closed the door behind you. Slowly.

His breath hitched.

He swallowed, panting still. “You weren’t—supposed to—fuck, please don’t tell Chan—”

“You were moaning my name."

He went silent. Shaking now. His lips parted but no sound came out.

You took another step toward the bed. The air between you burned.

“Were you thinking about me?” you asked softly, tilting your head.

He made a broken whimper, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t make fun of me—”

“I’m not.” You came closer. “I think it’s cute.”

He froze.

You sat on the edge of his bed, and he looked at you like you were the devil herself. Wide eyes, flushed face, and trembling legs under the blanket.

“Cute?” he echoed. You nodded.

You leaned in and kissed him. Softly. Deeply. His whole body went still, then melted. Like he’d waited for this every night since you arrived.

He moaned into your mouth. Sloppy and sweet.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Do you want me to help you?”

He nodded helplessly. “Please noona.”

You flipped the blanket over, and took in the sight of him. Twitching, tip red, and leaking pre-cum. He was a good 5 inches, but he was thick.

You trailed your fingers down his stomach, pausing just before his cock.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes." His voice was hoarse. “I want your hand. I want your voice. I want to feel like… like I’m yours.”

Your heart squeezed.

You wrapped your hand gently around him, stroking once—slow and firm.

He gasped, hips bucking up to meet your hand. “Fuck—yes—”

You kissed him again, slower this time. Letting him whimper into your mouth as you stroked him, every tug of your fist matched his shaky little breaths.

“You’re so sensitive,” you whispered, lips brushing his jaw. “Did you get close before I walked in?”

“was gonna cum thinking about your mouth,” he admitted, voice cracking.

“You like my mouth, baby?”

“I dream about it.”

You licked a stripe along his throat. He choked on a moan.

“You taste so good,” you said. “I bet you’d make such pretty sounds if I had you all to myself.”

“You do,” he gasped. “You do—fuck.”

You sped up a little, just enough to make his thighs shake. His cock twitched in your grip, dripping now. He was falling apart.

“You gonna cum , Jisung?”

“Yes—yes please, fuck, don’t stop—”

“Where do you want it?”

He blinked, dazed. “W-What?”

“Do you want to cum on your stomach, baby? on my hand? My tongue?”

His whole body shuddered. “Anywhere—please—just need it—”

You leaned down and kissed him again, deep and wet, as you stroked him faster.

“Then cum, baby,” you whispered. “Let me see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

That did it.

He came with a loud cry, cock pulsing in your grip, warm ropes spilling across his stomach and your hand. His whole body arched into you, breath ragged and eyes fluttering.

You slowed your strokes, milking every last drop, whispering soft praises into his ear.

He collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, lips parted. His eyes were glassy with bliss.

You reached for a tissue from the nightstand, gently cleaning his skin.

He watched you, quiet. Still catching his breath.

“You okay?” you asked, voice soft.

He nodded slowly. “That was… the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You smiled.

He reached out and grabbed your hand before you could pull away.

“Stay,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “Please.”

Your heart throbbed.

You crawled up beside him, nestling into the sheets. He turned toward you, arms shyly wrapping around your waist. Still sticky, still flushed—but glowing with something warmer.

You ran your fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t expect you to want me back,” he mumbled into your neck.

“I didn’t expect to find you moaning my name like that,” you teased gently.

He blushed so hard it reached his ears. “Gosh, I was so embarrassed—”

“Don’t be.” You kissed his forehead. “I actually did kind of expect it from one of you boys. 'skinda cute."

He looked up at you, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“You mean that?”

“I mean it.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Sweeter.

And you knew in that moment that this—whatever it was between you—wasn’t just heat.

And it had only just begun.

It started with the forehead kiss, but it didn’t stop there.

That night, Han  fell asleep in your arms like he’d finally exhaled after years of holding his breath. You lay with him for a while, fingers in his hair, watching the rise and fall of his bare chest. You slipped out just before sunrise back into your brother's bed. You slipped under the covers—quiet, soft, sneaky, and just as he had started waking up

And it only made everything worse.

Because now he couldn’t stop.

Not the stares. Not the blushes. Not the aching tension that followed you both like a shadow through the apartment.

You played it cool. Wore the same skirts. Swiped his juice in the kitchen. Sat close on the couch.

Four days later, it was late—past 2 AM. Everyone else had gone to bed, lights off, silence heavy. You were in the hallway in your sleep shirt when you heard it.

A whisper.

“Y/n…”

You turned.

Hyunjin stood in the dark, shirtless, eyes wide with need. “Can you—can you come to my room?”

You didn’t answer.

You just nodded—because how could you refuse when he looks so delicious.

The second the door closed behind you, he pushed you against it, lips on yours. There was no hesitation.

He kissed you like he was starving. His hands were everywhere—shoulders, waist, thighs—and his breath hitched every time you moaned softly into his mouth.

Yo caught a glimpse of behind him, everyone— except Chan of course— sat somewhere on or close to his bed. They all looked at you with the same hungry expression.

“He told us what you did,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown.

“Can you do that for us?"”

You smirked, letting your fingers trail under the waistband of his sweats. “Aren't you guys a little too young to be so bold?”

He shook his head quickly. “not when it comes to you.”

The boys in the back looked needier as ever, all of them shirtless and waiting for you. You smiled at them as you pushed away from hyunjin.

"I'm all yours tonight."

and they all pounced.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

It became a game to them.

Innocent glances over breakfast. A not-so-innocent brush of whomever was next to you that night's hand on your thigh under the dining table. And the long, silent moments in the hallway where one or more of them would corner you—bodies pressed close, hard under their sweats, breath ragged.

“Just one kiss,” they’d beg.

You’d always give them each three.

except one night, Chan almost caught you.

You were perched on seungmin’s lap, shirtless, straddling him on the edge of Felix's bed. In contrast to Jisung, Seungmin was longer— about 7 and a half inches but not as thick. They boys all watched you intensely, fully clothed but hard under their pants.Your hand was wrapped gently around his cock, dragging slow, teasing strokes that made him whimper and dig his fingers into your hips.

“F-Fuck—feels so good—”

You shushed him with a kiss. “You’re so noisy, puppy. You want my brother to hear?”

He flushed. “No—shit—don’t say that—”

“Then be quiet,” you whispered against his ear, kissing just below it.

That’s when you heard the sound.

Footsteps. In the hall.

everyone froze.

Your eyes went wide with panic as you yanked a blanket over you and him, hearts pounding. The door creaked open a few inches.

“Oi, Felix, you still awake?” Chan’s voice.

Felix cleared his throat, voice tight. “Uh—yeah mate, what’s up?”

You stayed still, half-naked and buried under the blanket, your hand still loosely wrapped around Seungmin, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

“I thought I heard something,” Chan said from the hall. “And I can't find Y/n.”

“Ah—sorry. I dropped my phone. I think I heard her go into the bathroom.”

A pause.

“Alright. I won't disturb her. Goodnight.”

The door closed.

You didn’t move until the footsteps were gone.

Then you looked at him.

“Dropped your phone?” you teased.

He groaned, “I’m gonna die.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The longer it went on, the bolder everyone became.

One morning, you found Jeongin in the laundry room. No one else was up yet. His hair was wet from a shower, towel around his neck, baggy shirt hanging off his shoulders, grey sweats.

You locked the door.

His eyes widened as you pushed him against the washer, lips crashing into his.

“I missed you last night,” he murmured between kisses. “So bad—couldn’t sleep.”

You sank to your knees.

“Then let me help you relax.”

He choked on air, hands trembling as you pulled down his waistband, eyes glazed as you kissed the head of his cock like it was holy.

“what if someone—”

“Then you’ll have to stay quiet ,” you smirked, tongue dragging over his length.

He didn’t last long.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

It wasn’t just about the touching.

It was the little things.

The way Seungmin curled into you like a lovesick puppy after. The way Changbin's voice got breathy when he begged. The way Minho looked at you like you were the only person who had ever really seen him.

One night, you caught Felix in the mirror.

You were behind him, hands on his hips, kissing a line down his spine. He looked over his shoulder, breath catching when your eyes met.

“You’re so pretty when you fall apart,” you whispered, dragging your fingers up his chest. He gasped.

“I think about you even when you’re not here,” he admitted, flushed.

“Oh?” You kissed his jaw. “What do you think about?”

“Everything. Your mouth. Your hands. The way you say my name. Sometimes I even—fuck—sometimes I imagine you calling me baby in front of everyone, like I belong to you.”

You turned him around, kissing him hard.

“You do belong to me.”

He moaned like it was the only thing he ever wanted to hear.

---

But every flame wants more fuel.

And the fire between you all was getting bigger.

One night, Minho climbed into your bed instead.

You were still staying in Chan’s room while he crashed on the couch with a sore back. You almost yelped when he snuck in—boxers and hoodie, eyes full of heat.

“You’re brave,” you whispered.

“I’m desperate.”

You let him slide under the covers. Let him touch you, worship you with his mouth, moaning soft praises into your skin.

You didn’t stop him when his fingers dipped under your waistband. You just guided him, slow and sweet, gasping when he stroked you right.

“Like that, baby,” you whispered. “Keep going. You’re doing so good.”

His jaw dropped when you came on his hand, back arched, thighs trembling. You watched him suck your fingers clean, eyes wide with adoration.

“I love making you feel good,” he whispered.

You kissed him deep.

And knew, without question, you were in too deep now.

Two weeks became something else.

Your flight date came and went. Chan teased you—“Still hanging around, huh?” and "You love me that much?"

You laughed it off, saying you "weren't ready for Australia yet"

But the real reasons you stayed were lying in different beds every night with your name on their lips.

last but not least my beautiful supporter and first ever person to be tagged: @bananacatt67 I LOVE YOU PRETTY TY FOR THE MOTIVATION

thank you all for your continuous support!! let me know how you liked this one!

[goatlilly]

May I ask, how do you come up with your designs? Because I'm SOOO bad at character design and I would really use some tips

Hey, sorry, I sort of answered the wrong ask when I first posted this. (My bad.)

For most of the designs I just took the character’s personalities, my knowledge of kid fashion/children in general, and their Akkuma designs and went from there—For example, Princess Ladybug is a mixture of her Puppeteer design, a ladybug dress that my five-year-old sister has, and the idea that she likes magical girls and just wants to be one. :)

Hope that helps.

*Edit

I realize I should probably talk about my process for the adult designs some, since those are a bit more complex. Let’s go one by one:

Lady Luck—Her design was probably harder than any of the others, because I had to balance a lot of different ideas—I wanted her to look mature, competent and inviting, while also incorporating some more Chinese elements into the design. In her case, I sort of started with one design and worked off of it until it reached a point where I was happy with it. Here’s each of those in order (top left to bottom right.)

Elements of each made it into the final design.

Matagot—This was a lot easier, since all I had to do was work off of his canon design for the most part. The trick was making him look more like an antihero than a villain, since his canon design is at the height of his corruption. Really, all I changed from the first version of the design was to have his hair showing. Made him a bit more inviting. Here’s some bonus concept art from back when I was feeling out his character:

Not gonna lie, I still kind of vibe with the hair covered version, but I had to go with what felt right. If you want to see my first posted design for him, click here.

Vixen—So she was actually one I knew almost immediately what I wanted for. She only took a couple passes before I was happy with her. Basically I knew I wanted her to look like a mature version of Alya, with a sort of professional look mixed with a playful nature. Once I had the first sketches done, it was just a matter of streamlining the design.

Queen Bee—Audrey was easy—She just kinda came into existence pretty much perfect the first time. I just thought Chloe but older, and there she was. A couple tweaks to her original design and she was ready to go.

Venadrone—Easiest design by far. I don’t think I even changed anything from my first pass. I was just thinking I needed him to look a little like a bumbling fool while also trying to imitate Queen Bee’s charisma and commanding personality. Like a peon, basically. So yeah.

Bombshell—Here’s where I got stuck. I knew what vibes I wanted, (Reckless and Iconic, like a big name streamer but if they were a superhero,) but I was having trouble translating that into an actual character design. The first rendition was passable, but it wasn’t really giving enough sass for me, and it felt way to tame for a hero named Bombshell.

So I had to sleep on it for a while. Then I finally figured out what vibes I was going for—Deadpool vibes. That made everything so much easier. I just referenced a bunch of images of Deadpool and Deathstroke, then Incorporated it into a new design. It took a couple passes for me to get it right still, but the end result landed close enough to what I wanted that I was ready to post it.

That last one was almost the final design, but the chest part was too thin and looked too much like a snake, so I redid it one last time.

Violeon—Not as hard as I expected him to be. Honestly, his design came pretty naturally to me. (It helped that I had previously worked on a Chat Noir/Butterfly fusion design as a concept.) really I just took Gabriel’s design, made it more childish and… Adrienish I guess? And I had what I wanted more or less.

Anyways, the final result is good.

Foulette—this one took a bit longer, not because the concept was hard to come up with (Once I thought Swan Lake tragic heroine the design for that pretty much made itself,) but because I was struggling to balance the colors. Color balancing is easier in some ways with traditional art than digital art thanks to having a more unified and limited pallet to work with, but that doesn’t mean color placement is easy. In particular I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to be lighter or darker. So yeah. Anyways, here’s how that went.

Eventually my design landed closest to the last image. I tried giving that version light blue gloves at one point, but in the end I decided dark was the way to go.

Gorgana—She was pretty darn easy once I had enough references to work off of—it was just a matter of compiling a bunch of the right ones—snake fangs, that one KDA rapper girl’s light up mask (can’t remember her name, but it was from their first music video “Popstars,”) and couple of killer gorgon ladies and a whole bunch of rocker fashion from before I was alive. After that the rest was just simplifying all that into a super-suit, and there she was. :)

So… yeah. Hopefully that’s more helpful than with the Minnie’s. For most of them it really was as simple as my first instinct mixed with messing around. Those guys are so much easier to draw.

[albatris]

sNiPpEt SuNdAY......

waow

here's quinn being quinn

tw: blood, torture

They shoved the knife up to the tender pink of Fairchild’s neck and leaned in close. “Don’t grovel.”

Quinn rather liked the grovelling, actually. But they also liked how hard people who liked to grovel squirmed when told not to grovel.

Fairchild squirmed, and grovelled. “I’m sorry! I made a mistake! Quinn, I can—I can still be useful! Just tell me what to do!”

Bring Rex back from the dead, Quinn almost snapped. Or find me a suitable replacement.

“I want you to do your job,” Quinn sighed, exasperated. “You’ve gotten a touch too rebellious for my liking, and that just won’t do.”

“No. No, Quinn, it won’t. I’m sorry, Quinn.” Fairchild’s head nodded and nodded and nodded. “I’ll do my job, Quinn, and I’ll make sure Perks does his, too. Is there—is there anything I can do to make it up to you? Anything at all?”

No, there was nothing Quinn really needed from Fairchild now other than his company and a good time. In fact, they’d originally been planning to let the whole ordeal with Rex’s death slide, not give Fairchild the satisfaction of a reaction… until it became apparent how hard finding a replacement would be. Everyone in Darwelaide was leaving Darwelaide and everyone outside of Darwelaide wanted nothing to do with it. The few Quinn did have at their disposal were not the type for the job—Quinn didn’t want to push them. But Quinn’s frustration had only been building and building these past three weeks, and they’d finally accepted they needed an appropriate place to put it down.

“Bradley, love. It’s so rare you disappoint me.” Quinn tweaked Fairchild’s ear fondly. “You’ve always been good to me, haven’t you?”

“I try, Quinn.”

He was a blubbering, sorry mess already, and it was unlikely he’d be on anything but his best behaviour for a while. The blade of their knife had laid some very pretty lacy cuts across his neck and arms, and the hilt had dealt some dazzling blows to his face. One set of fingers was bloody and smashed, too—not enough to break bone, just enough to hurt like hell. There was still an itch Quinn hadn’t scratched, though.

“You’re usually so well-behaved it’s a touch boring,” Quinn went on. “And despite the monumental hassle, this is almost a relief. I’ve been simply dying with curiosity, you understand.”

“Wh… what do you mean?”

“I haven’t had any excuse to find out what noise you make when I do this yet.”

With a motion so swift Fairchild had no time to prepare, Quinn gripped his ear and shoved the blade of their knife right through the back of it. In one side and out the other with a delectable pop, then ripped to the side and out. Fairchild’s scream tore through the room, awful and gurgling, and he thrashed about some. The way his voice echoed, bounding around the arched ceilings, lent it a lovely reverberating sound. The tone was dull, though. The officer didn’t have much vocal range to him.

Fairchild dissolved into sobs, and Quinn wiped their knife on his shirt. God forbid they wipe it on their own.

[pfcware]

hey im revamping/updating my website! key things..

new layout (most pages)

changed pay method preference on commission sheet (paypal doesnt work)

contact page now up to date

[arolesbianism]

GUYS.

New dupe real! Also new pod????? Olivia is that you girlie speak to me

[minglana]

just this emoji panel is making me wanna uninstall windows completely tbh

[venomgender]

it might also be the result of every timei read a novel it ends up turning out like shit causing me to drop the series completely but the manhwa for mission save the hunter is so fucking good it is such a like. faithful adaption of the novel (besides. the stupid fucking dream sequence.) and i know this is the case because every time a scene happens it plays out 1:1 EXACTLY how i imagined it while reading. which is just so awesome because that doesnt happen often

[valiasims]

Wisteria Whisk - Part 2

Hey everyone!

The second part of the Wisteria Whisk collection is here! This time, I wanted to add lots of decorative food to help fill up your bakeries. I made new shelves which can showcase all basket and tray pastries I made for this set. As I mentioned in an earlier WIP post, I tweaked the wood colors a bit, so I also went back and updated the previous set with the new shades. If you want everything to match nicely, please redownload the first set!

Some additional information: The tray holder has slots that fit the tray items perfectly! It might be a bit tricky to find the exact placement, but the slots are in the center of each layer, so aim for that.

The baskets of baked goods and tray of sweets have multiple mesh variations, so changing the swatch will not only change the color but also the object itself. This way they don't take up too much catalog space.

The shelves include rotated slots, which I had to set as fixed so if you place there an item it stays rotated. If you want to reset the rotation of a slotted item, just place it somewhere else first, then it will return to its default straight position.

I hope you’ll enjoy this set as much as I enjoyed making it, though I have to admit, working on all these food items made me very hungry during texturing. :D

As I mentioned earlier, I’ll be starting the third part of the collection a little later, since I’ll be walking the Camino de Santiago next week. So there won’t be any WIPs during that time but once I’m back, I’ll jump into working on the next (and probably final) part of the bakery set. Though who knows, that might still change depending on how I feel.

For the next part, I’m planning to add kitchen items and a coffee bar that matches the other display pieces. I’m really excited to get started on it!

Let me know what you think of this set or if you run into any issues! I was so frustrated today, was almost done when I spotted a small problem and ended up spending hours fixing it. So I really hope everything works smoothly now!

Lastly thank you so much for reaching 20 000 followers on Patreon! I'm so thankful for all of you!

The Set Includes

Display Shelves (2 sizes)

Basket of Baked Goods 1 (bagels, 2 types of buns)

Basket of Baked Goods 2 (pretzels, croissants, breads)

Big Basket of Baguettes

Tray Holder Trolley

Tray Sweets 1 (cream puffs, eclairs, empty tray)

Tray Sweets 2 (croissants, pastries, empty tray)

Menu Board (2 sizes)

Wall Basket Baguettes

Wall Basket Buns

New York Rolls

Pretzel Stand

Wall Tiles

Wall Tiles and Paint

-DOWNLOAD HERE- Public release on the 17th of May 6PM CET

[helaintoloki]

Hey there! I’ve got a little request for you.

What about a fic where the reader has to go back in time to the 40s (perhaps for an infinity stone? Work it however you want). It’s supposed to be a quick mission. Until they run into a young Bucky.

a/n: hi anon! i hope you don’t mind but i made some tweaks to the request to fit the story i came up with. however, the original idea of reader going to the 40s is still there!

warnings/notes: angst, fluff, sort of an enemies to lovers piece

summary: after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him

“You’re such a jerk!”

“Oh, so saving your ass makes me a jerk now?” Bucky retorts in annoyed disbelief at your insult. The two of you haven’t exactly been getting along as of late, so it wasn’t a surprise to either of you that your first assignment together was proving to be disastrous.

“Saving me?” You repeat incredulously, halting in your steps to whirl around and angrily point a finger against his chest. The firmness of his muscles has you faltering for a split second, but you’re adamant not to let your stupid little school girl crush on the man stop you from tearing into him.

Sometimes you’re not even sure why you have feelings for someone who constantly pushes your buttons and tests your patience, but it’s hard not to fall for his good looks and charm, especially during the rare moments of pleasantness you experience when he’s not getting on your nerves. You and Bucky rarely see eye-to-eye, and though for the most part you can tolerate each other, your camaraderie doesn’t last long.

“Shoving me out of the way when I had a clear shot isn’t saving me! I had it covered before you decided to play hero and treat me like some damsel in distress!”

“You had a clear shot and so did the sniper sitting on that rooftop,” Bucky points out with an irritated tick of his jaw. “You couldn’t have gotten the hit with a bullet hole in your head.”

You falter momentarily at being presented with your error, face beginning to heat with embarrassment at being in the wrong. However, your stubborn nature takes over and causes you to double down on your anger instead of admitting fault.

“I don’t need your help. In fact, because of your little stunt my inhibitor is broken,” you state indignantly while lifting your wrist to show the damaged metal band, “so now I have no way to safely get us home.”

Bucky blanches at the realization, and now it’s his turn to feel hot with embarrassment and guilt for his mistake. You’re one of the enhanced members on the team, an Avenger with the power to teleport not only from place to place but also through time, but your ability isn’t always the most reliable. It can be unstable when used too often or without proper concentration, which is why Tony had crafted your inhibitor bracelet to ensure you didn’t accidentally teleport yourself or your teammates to the middle of nowhere. You didn’t trust yourself to make the jump back to the compound without it, and now the two of you were stranded.

He curses under his breath and runs an anxious hand through his hair before saying, “We’ll have to call for someone to come get us.”

“No shit,” you retort only to earn an eye roll from him in response. “But that’s going to take hours, and if we stay here we’re dead.”

“Look,” Bucky sighs depreciatively, “we need to figure this out together, so I’d appreciate a little less sarcasm and a little more-“

The sound of gunfire interrupts Bucky’s rant and sends you both ducking for cover. Your arguing had allowed enough time for the enemy to counterattack with an ambush, and now you were cornered with nowhere to go. You find yourself pressed against a metal crate, making yourself as small as possible while trying to form some sort of an exit plan. Your attackers were closing in, and you felt the anxiety beginning to rise in your chest at the fact that you had nowhere left to run.

Bucky calls your name frantically, breaking you out of your panicked daze quickly enough for you to register the woman approaching you with her gun raised. Your eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights, and when she pulls the trigger you feel your powers activate on instinct as you’re teleported out of the line of fire.

You land on the ground with a groan.

Tingles run down your body from the use of your powers, and it takes you a moment to adjust to the new surroundings you find yourself in. The packing warehouse you’d been dodging gunfire fire in is long gone, and instead you find yourself in an alleyway nestled between two apartment buildings. Your mind is frantic as you try to scramble back up onto your feet only to crumple down in pain from your fall. You think you’ve twisted your ankle, and you don’t know where you are or how to get back home.

You attempt to use your powers to jump back to the warehouse to help Bucky, but without the inhibitor bracelet your teleportation has become shoddy. You let your head fall back with a frustrated groan at being completely helpless and try to clear your mind to figure out your next move.

“Excuse me,” an oddly familiar voice calls from the other end of the alleyway, “are you alright, miss?”

You lift your head at the sound of approaching footsteps and are met with a set of kind blue eyes that have your breath catching in your throat. His face is so much younger and full of life, not yet tainted by the trauma he’d endured after the events of the war. He’s beautiful, and you find your heart nearly leaping out of your chest when he makes his way towards you. He reaches out to you with his left hand, and you stare down with uncertainty at the warm flesh that replaces metal.

You’d accidentally sent yourself back in time, and now you found yourself face to face with a Bucky who had yet to become the Winter Soldier.

“I… I’m fine,” you finally manage to get out after willing away your initial shock. You hesitantly accept his hand and are unnerved by the unusual warmth his palm emits against your own. He helps you back onto your feet only for you to stumble as a result of your bad ankle. His strong arms catch you in an instant, holding you upright while you brace yourself against his firm chest.

“Looks like you had quite the fall,” Bucky says with a lighthearted smile while meeting your gaze. You see something shift in his features when he looks into your eyes, an awestruck sense of admiration washing over him as he takes in your disheveled appearance. You begin to fear that he has you figured out, that somehow he knows who you are and that you don’t belong, but instead he merely wipes away a smudge of dirt from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You’re a knockout,” he compliments before letting out a sheepish laugh at his own boldness. Your stomach flips at his confession, and you have to stop and remind yourself that this is a completely different Bucky from the one you know. The Bucky you have back at home would sooner call you a pain in his ass than ever call you beautiful.

“Thank you,” you breathe out nervously, flashing him a meek smile while subtly trying to free yourself from his hold. You have no idea what repercussions will come from you interacting with him, and you still need to figure out a way to get back to your own time now that it’s been made clear you sent yourself to the past. You attempt to walk only to wince again at the ache in your leg, something Bucky notices immediately.

“You’re hurt. Let me take you home with me, my Ma can fix you right up and get you something to eat,” he offers only for you to quickly shake your head.

“I couldn’t impose. I’ll be fine, really,” you try to assure him, but your obvious discomfort isn’t very convincing.

“Nonsense. What kind of a man would I be if I left you here in this dingy alleyway to fend for yourself? My mother raised me better than that.”

You can’t help the soft smile that forms on your lips at his kindness. Steve had often mentioned how charming Bucky was in his younger days, how he had swept countless girls off their feet with his chivalrous nature and good looks. Bucky would always grumble about his friend’s need to exaggerate on the details of the past, but you were now seeing firsthand the truth to the Captain’s stories.

You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t stop yourself from finally relenting to Bucky’s request. How can you deny him when he flashes you such an endearing grin and looks upon you with eyes full of tenderness? You expect him to take your hand or give you his arm to steady yourself for the walk home, but he instead surprises you by literally sweeping you off of your feet and carrying you in his arms. You gasp, fingers anxiously clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt while you look to him with wide eyes; his strength is unwavering, and his lips sport a proud grin as he whisks you away to his apartment.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got you.”

Your inner turmoil is almost unbearable as you struggle to comprehend the sweetness of this Bucky in comparison to the brooding nature of your own Bucky. You’re not used to such acts of chivalry or flirtatious remarks, and it certainly doesn’t help alleviate the crush you harbor on your teammate. If anything, you’re even more confused now than you’ve ever been when it comes to your feelings for the Winter Soldier. You’re adamant about not falling into the fantasy, about staying focused on the task at hand, but it’s hard to do so when Bucky is so obviously sweet on you.

“I’ve just realized I don’t know your name,” he notes thoughtfully. “Most guys usually know the name of the girl they plan to bring home to their mother.”

“Y/n,” you reply gently despite the heat that spreads across your face at his jest, not even sure if giving your real name is the right move.

“Y/n,” he repeats sweetly, devoid of the usual tone of annoyance or irritation you’re used to. “I think that suits a pretty girl like you. My name is James, but most people just call me Bucky.”

“I like James,” you admit truthfully while avoiding his burning gaze. “I think it suits a gentleman like you.”

“A gentleman, huh? Mom will proud to hear that.”

You find yourself subtly sneaking a glance at his face while he speaks, unable to resist drinking in the details of a younger, innocent Bucky who has yet to endure the horrors his future has in store for him. He exuded confidence and light, and you could see why girls would throw themselves at his feet just to see his smile. This Bucky was full of hope, and your chest ached at having to keep what you knew about him hidden. You couldn’t risk stirring up trouble in the past by telling him what would take place after being shipped off to England and meddling with a future that had already been set in stone, and you knew he might not even believe you anyway. You had no choice but to keep your mouth shut and maintain your composure until you managed to get back to the present.

You eventually make it to his apartment and find your stomach twisting with nerves as Bucky carefully sets you down so he can unlock the door. You’re not sure how you’re going to handle meeting his mother or setting foot into his childhood home, and the entire situation feels much too intimate for you to bear. You’re an intruder in his life, the one he kept close to his chest away from everyone but Steve, and you wonder how much he’ll hate you for this when you finally get back.

“Let’s get you inside,” James urges, gently guiding you through the doorway while being mindful of your bad leg. He lets you hold onto his arm while escorting you towards the couch. The living room is quaintly decorated with photos and antique furniture, and the floral patterned wallpaper reminds you of the one your grandmother had kept in her home. The smell of a freshly cooked meal wafts through the apartment, and from the distance you can hear the quiet crackle of the kitchen radio playing a tune.

“Wait right here,” he says with a wink before disappearing down the hallway and leaving you to your own devices. You debate making your escape while he’s gone in order to avoid delving deeper into Bucky’s past life, but you know you won’t get far with a twisted ankle. Instead, you choose to quickly comb your fingers through your hair and dust yourself off to make yourself somewhat presentable in the presence of his mother.

“I’m telling you, Ma,” Bucky’s voice echoes through the hallway as he makes his return to the living room, “she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat at his flattery and try to appear as inconspicuous as possible despite your nerves. You can’t help but wonder how you’re supposed to go back to normal after all of this is over, and a part of you is starting to dread returning home.

Bucky walks into the room with an older woman on his arm. She has beautifully curled hair that’s been pinned back neatly to frame her weathered face. Despite the wrinkles under her eyes, they are bright with joy when she gazes upon her son, and her ruby red smile flashes pearly whites your way when she finally rests her attention on your awkward form.

“Mom, this is y/n,” Bucky introduces proudly, “I promised her you could fix her right up.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” his mother croons as she seats herself beside you. “James told me all about your nasty fall, but I don’t want you to worry. You’re in good hands here with me.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Miss,” you express earnestly as you look into her striking blue eyes she shares with her son. “I promise I won’t be in your way long.”

“Nonsense,” she dismisses you with a wave of her hand. “Any friend of my James is welcome in this home. And please, call me Winnifred.”

“Thank you, Winnifred,” you repeat with a grateful smile, the woman’s kindness having alleviated some of your stress. You watch as she begins to scan over your features for any other possible injuries while taking in your disheveled form; her brows furrow slightly when she takes note of your attire.

“What peculiar clothing,” she murmurs while running her fingers along the rip in your tactical suit. You blanch slightly at the realization that you aren’t exactly dressed for the time period you’re in and scramble to come up with a lie.

“It’s my factory uniform,” you quickly fib, grateful for the fact you’d paid attention in your high school history class. “I make munitions for our boys overseas.”

“I love a woman in uniform,” Bucky notes with an innocent smile despite the flirtatious tone of his words.

“How admirable of you! But surely it must not be very comfortable. Why don’t you get cleaned up and changed out of that uniform before I wrap your ankle? I’ll find you something else to wear.”

“I’ll show you to the bathroom,” Bucky offers before assisting you back onto your feet. You wrap an arm around his midsection to keep yourself propped upright while lamely limping down the hallway with his help. “Mom really seemed to like you, not that I’m surprised.”

“I can see where you get your charm,” you tease gently, almost melting at the boyish grin that forms on his lips in response. Would it be wrong of you to wish you could have such an easy rapport with your own Bucky as you do with this one?

You make it to bathroom where James shows you how to work the shower before giving you your privacy. The water pressure isn’t as strong as what you’re used to back at the compound, but it does the job. You’re grateful to finally scrub off the grime and dried blood that had accumulated from the mission, and you feel like you’re in a much clearer headspace now to start planning your next move.

A simple dress is laid out on the dresser for you when you finish your shower, and once you’re decent Winnifred sits you down and wraps your ankle. She insists you keep off your foot and rest for the remainder of the evening in her daughter’s bed seeing as she’s off at a sleepover. You know better than to object to the woman’s demands, and so you find yourself seated on the cushiony mattress with a dinner tray on your lap. You’re absolutely starving, and you’re grateful to finally have the chance to eat considering you need your strength in order to attempt teleporting without the help of your inhibitor.

A gentle knock on the doorway interrupts your ruminative dinner, and you watch curiously as Bucky slowly peeks his head into the door.

“Mind if I keep you company?”

“Of course not,” you hum gently, heart thrumming in your chest when he seats himself on the edge of the bed beside you. The scent of his cologne mixed with his natural musk drowns your senses, causing a longing ache to settle in the pit of your stomach as you’re reminded of the fact that you must leave him behind when this is all over.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Your mom says the swelling should go down in a day or two as long as I keep off of it.”

“Does that mean you’ll be sticking around here a bit longer?” Bucky asks with a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. You smile faintly, but it isn’t very convincing.

“I can’t,” you relent gently, guilt consuming your entire being at the way his features falter in result. “I have to get back home.”

“You have someone waiting for you?” He prompts softly, absently fidgeting with a loose thread from the comforter.

“I do,” you confess quietly. You watch his gaze drop down to hide his disappointment, head shaking slightly as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“I should have known a girl like you would already be spoken for. Is he handsome?”

“Very,” you nod sheepishly, your face growing hot at having to confess such thoughts to the younger version of the man you picture in your head. “His eyes are blue like yours, but his hair’s a bit longer. He doesn’t smile much, but when he does it lights up an entire room.”

“Does he treat you the way you deserve?”

“He can be cold and closed off at times, but I know deep down he cares. He just isn’t very good at showing it, and I certainly don’t make it easy for him. I can be a handful, and we fight a lot, but I think I love him anyway.”

Sighing, Bucky runs his fingers through his perfectly combed hair before meeting your gaze. You watch as he reaches out to gently take hold of your hand in his left one. You can’t remove your eyes from the flesh no matter how hard you try, and you don’t think you’ll ever get over the feeling of being able to touch the arm that has yet to be tainted by Hydra’s touch. You almost want to tell him, but you’re able to bite your tongue.

“There isn’t anything I can do to change your mind?” He asks while giving your hand a gentle squeeze. His eyes are full of hope and admiration for the woman that had spontaneously fallen into his life, and though he’d only known you for a short period of time he knew that something about you was special. You were unlike any woman he’d ever met, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life getting to know you.

“I don’t think so, James,” you comfort softly. You feel so bold as to rest a hand gently upon his cheek, and you’re rewarded by the feeling of him leaning into your touch as he melts into your palm. “You’re a wonderful man, and I have a feeling this won’t be the last time our paths cross.”

Smiling faintly, Bucky cheekily turns his head to press a chaste kiss to your palm. Your breath catches in your throat at the act while your stomach flutters with nervous butterflies, but you don’t make a move to pull your hand away.

“I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart. I’d be a fool to let a girl like you out of my life,” he says with a wink before reluctantly beginning to pull away from you. Before you can stop yourself or think it through, you frantically shoot your hand out to keep him in place.

“Wait!” You exclaim desperately, catching both Bucky and yourself off guard. You know better than to bring the future to the past, and you know in the end that altering the course of his life won’t change the events of your present time, but you owe it to the man who had shown you such kindness to warn him about his fate.

“What is it, y/n?”

“I…,” you begin to say, faltering as you struggle to get the words out. He looks to you patiently for you to finish your sentence, and despite the guilt that consumes you for changing your mind, you continue, “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful in the future. I couldn’t stand anything happening to you, and I just want you to be safe.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes as if he hadn’t been expecting such a serious profession. After processing your words, the man simply gives you an affirming nod and replies, “of course I will, doll. Anything you ask.”

The turmoil within you at keeping the truth to yourself persists, but you’re unable to say nothing more as Bucky rises from his seat on the bed and takes your empty tray from your lap. “I’ll get this out of your way.”

He leans down to press a tender kiss to your forehead before excusing himself from the room, shutting the door behind him to give you your privacy. You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding and blink back the tears that threaten to spill. You cherish the time you’ve spent with him here in his own time, but you also miss the Bucky you have back at home. You’ve never hated him, you just never understood him or the walls he insisted putting between you, but you can see now just how much Hydra had taken from him. He hadn’t always been the grumpy soldier you knew him as, and your stubborn nature certainly didn’t help him come out of his shell.

You needed to make things right, not only with the Bucky from your timeline but also with the one who had just spent his entire day looking after a complete stranger.

Despite the painful throbbing of your ankle, you will yourself out of bed and desperately rush towards the door. You know that exposing his true fate will not alter the course of your timeline, but perhaps there’s a possibility it can give him the chance to create a new timeline where he never gets the chance to become the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky!” You call out in hopes he’ll come rushing back down the hall. You’re so desperate to reach him that you don’t notice the soft glow of your inhibitor bracelet, and your frantic state of mind creates a lack of control over your teleportation ability.

You reach the doorknob just as your powers activate, and when you step through the doorway you are no longer in the apartment of James Barnes but instead in your own bedroom back at the compound.

You stagger forward in a daze, mind reeling from the use of your powers as you struggle to adjust to your new surroundings. Your heart drops to your chest when you finally come to the realization that you’re back where you belong, and you slowly sink down to your knees in tears over the fact that you’d been too late. Bucky would return to an empty bedroom, and he would go on to live the life that fate had chosen for him.

You couldn’t protect him- you’d failed.

You begin to sob as the amalgamation of emotions from your experience overtakes you, and you’re so consumed in your grief that you fail to hear the sound of your door sliding open behind you.

“Y/n? It’s been three days, where the hell have you been?” A startled voice sounds, causing you to jump in surprise. You turn to find Bucky standing in your doorway, his irritated features morphing into confusion at the sight of your distraught state. Tears steadily stream down your cheeks in time with the trembling of your shoulders, and he slowly makes his approach towards your figure on the floor. “Y/n?”

Bucky cautiously sinks to his knees beside you and places a careful hand on your back. The coolness of his metal arm has you shivering, a stark contract to the warmth you’d felt when he’d held your hand in his Brooklyn apartment. “Are you alright? What happened?”

You don’t think before throwing yourself into his arms and holding tightly onto his frame. Bucky nearly topples over from the impact but is quick to regain his balance so he can hold you both upright. Initially he isn’t sure how to react considering this is the first time you’ve ever willingly gotten this close to him let alone hugged him, but he’s eventually able to reciprocate the act by wrapping his arms around your trembling figure and holding you close to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, fingers tightly clutching at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to ground yourself. “I’m sorry for always giving you such a hard time, for being so stubborn. You don’t deserve that, and I should have tried to be a better teammate.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky shushes gently, his tone unusually gentle as he carefully pulls away to look you in the face. “I know I’m not exactly the most pleasant person to be around sometimes, and I haven’t always been the nicest to you either. I’m sorry for that.”

“You mean you’re not going to yell at me for disappearing on you? You don’t hate me?” You snivel, prompting his lips to quirk up into a rare smile.

“I’m not going to yell at you for something you can’t control. And I never hated you. I just… never really knew how to be around you. Steve always speaks so highly of you, you’re everyone’s favorite, and I never felt like I had the right to know you so intimately the way they do. I figured keeping my distance would be easier, and I thought you preferred it that way considering our track record.”

“I don’t want you to keep your distance anymore,” you plead softly. “I want to be around you, I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

“That can be arranged,” Bucky notes with a faint smile while carefully brushing away the last of your tears, “but can I ask you what brought this on?”

“It’s a long story,” you admit while guiltily avoiding eye contact with the man. You’re not sure if you should tell him the truth about your venture just yet, but you don’t have it in you to lie to him. You know you’ll have to tell him one day, but for now it can wait. “Being gone these past few days just gave me time to get a new perspective on things.”

“Well, whatever happened, I’m glad it did,” he says truthfully. “Now let’s get you cleaned up so you can let the rest of the team know you made it back safe.”

You allow him to help you up off the ground just as he had in that alleyway, and when he looks down at you with his soft blue eyes you’re able to see his younger self once more. The charming, chivalrous James Barnes who had taken such good care of you still existed within Bucky, it would just take time for him to come out of his shell and open himself up to you the way his past self had done so.

And you would wait all the time in the world for him.

[girlyteengirlcore]

— first time for everything

abby anderson x fem!reader

cw: established relationship, porn w/ no plot, readers first time squirtingggggg, abby is so sweet, def soft!dom abby, fingering, nipple play, lots of making out, overstimulation, clit stim, she talks you thru it☺️, anal fingering

a/n: writing this with one hand omggg, she makes me so feral I can’t even think normally

wc: 1.3k

“Wait, hold on. What’d you just say, baby?” A slight teasing in her tone.

“Abby! Why are you laughing?”

“No! I’m- I’m not laughing. I’m just.. shocked? I don’t know, I just didn’t expect that.”

“No one’s ever made me, and I’ve just never tried. Are you like fucking.. sq- the squirting master or something?”

The laugh she lets out triggers your own laughing fit.

“The squirting master? Oh wow, that’s hilarious. But, apparently, I definitely am compared to you.”

“Ha ha, you’re so funny.”

The silence settles between the both of you for a second. She doesn’t let it stay that way for long, though.

“You wanna try it?”

“Huh?”

“Do you want to try it out?”

“Oh- um Abby, I don’t even think I could. It’s oka-“

“Trust me, baby. You can squirt, you will.”

The confidence in her voice makes you believe her, but you’re still nervous.

“Okay, sure,” your unsureness was obvious.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart. Promise.”

“Okay, yeah let’s do it then.”

—

So now, you’re sitting against her on the couch. You’re completely naked while she’s fully clothed. Back against her chest, she tweaks you bare nipples. Teasing them, making you whimper into her mouth, her tongue pushing past your lips.

She has your legs separated with her own, trapping you in her hold. Her other hand is making its way down your torso, but once she reaches where you need her most, she chooses to softly rub your thighs. Bucking your hips to meet her hand wasn’t even possible with the way she has you restrained, you just have to sit there. She won’t let you pull away from the kiss either, so you couldn’t even ask her to touch you anyway. You were dripping, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted, needed you desperate.

Instead, she gathered some of your slick and rubbed her finger against your tighter hole. Pushing past slowly, she feels you gasp against her mouth. Once she fully submerged her finger, she brings it back out again. Before pushing back in, a little faster than before. But that’s not where you need her, arousal is now pooling around her fingers. You pull away from her mouth as best as you could.

“Abs, ohhh fuck. Baby, ple- please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

“What’s up, baby? What d’you need?”

“You, please. I need you.”

“You have me, I’m right here.”

“No, I need you here.” You cup your pussy with your hand, running two fingers through your soaking slit.

“Can you ask a little better than that?”

“I want you to make me cum, please?”

“Thaaat’s better, you got it baby.”

She takes her finger out of your ass, rubbing her middle and ring finger up and down your cunt. From the top of your clit, alllll the way down to your entrance.

“Fuck you are wet baby, soaking my fingers.” She pushes both her fingers into you, filling you up. She isn’t touching your clit though, and that was a problem.

You decide to take initiative and do it yourself. So you cover a couple of your finger in your spit and bring them down to where you’re aching, but she grabs your hand before you even reach your clit.

“Nuh uh, baby. Let me do it, keep your hands to yourself, please.” You sighed out in disappointment, she kept a slightly playful tone but you could tell she wasn’t joking around. You bring your hands down to her sides, grabbing onto her pants instead.

“Thank you.”

“Abb-“

“I know, princess. I’ll get you there, just let me take my time.”

Everything was so much; her fingers playing with your nipples, squeezing them lightly, and her fingers inside of you. It felt so good but it wasn’t getting you anywhere and she knew it, she just needed you to be a little more patient.

When she finally focused on your clit, it was as if the world around you didn’t exist anymore and you were only put on earth only to take her fingers. She brings her other hand down to hold up the hood of your clit, and uses her pointer finger on her other hand to draw small, fast circles on your clit. You wanted to flinch away at the direct contact but it felt too good, instead choosing to relax all your muscles and loll your head back against her shoulder. She doesn’t pick up speed when you ask her to, opting to get you there slowly so that you don’t get too overwhelmed. And when she could tell you were finally about to cum, she still stayed at that pace.

“You gonna cum, princess?”

A string of mhm’s left your mouth. You were too focused on cumming and not focused on answering her properly, something she never took too kind to.

“Answer me, baby. C’mon, I can tell you’re close.”

“Yea- yeah, yes I’m gonna cu- I’m- oh my god I’m cumming- cumming!”

“There we goooo, let it all out.”

You were twitching in her arms by the time your orgasm had subsided, but she didn’t stop. She slowed down significantly, but she was still rubbing your clit softly.

“Breathe, princess. I’m gonna keep going yeah?” You nod, trying to regulate your breathing.

And with that, she goes back to the speed she was doing before. If her legs weren’t holding yours down, you surely would’ve made this a lot harder than it needs to be.

“Slow down!”

“Baby, breathe. It’ll be a lot for now, but after a little while you’ll be fine. Just take some big deep breaths.”

You listen to what she says, trying to calm yourself down so you stop involuntarily moving around.

Your second orgasm doesn’t take very long to build up, she can tell. You were struggling and holding your breath made it feel like you would cum quicker, but Abby didn’t approve of that approach at all.

“I said ‘breathe’, baby. So breathe.”

Her words right in your ear were making you clench around nothing, she was tickling the hairs on the back of your neck. That string at the bottom of your stomach stretched and pulled, the noises that were coming out of you were unholy.

“Oh, my god- Abs, I’m cumming ag- again!”

“Yeah, you are. Go on, princess.” You moan loudly as your second orgasm rips through you, your body is now trembling involuntarily. She finally lets up her abuse on your sensitive clit, pushing three of her fingers into you with ease.

Showing absolutely no mercy at all, she pumped her fingers in and out of you at an insane speed. Your mouth is stuck open in a silent scream, all of the muscles in your body are locked. Then suddenly, a new sensation filled your abdomen.

“Abs- wait, it fee-“

“Feels different, huh?”

“Mhm,” your lip finding its place between your lips as you look down at her fingers pummelling wet mess of a cunt.

“Yeah I bet, don’t fight it, baby. Let it happen, I’ve got you.”

Her words of encouragement were helping you to sprint faster towards the finish line.

Your legs are shaking under hers, signalling how close you really are.

“Rub your clit for me, princess.”

You bring your hand to your clit, shaking fingers rubbing it softly. It helped the speed of the process almost immediately. A clear steam of liquid pouring out of you, wetting the couch, your legs, and Abby’s hand. It doesn’t stop, so you take your hand away only for it to be replaced by your girlfriends. She uses four fingers to rub over your clit roughly, making even more squirt find its way out.

“Enough- enough please, I- I can’t.”

“Okay okay, I���m all done baby,” she looks down at your face, your glossed over eyes, mouth still hanging open, eyebrows still pinched together, “and I think you might be too, huh?”

[nejiverse]

"Kay so this is what I was thinking and hear me out first before you say anything", Satoru spoke to the three month old that was tucked against his chest while sucking on her fingers.

"You get boob time early in the morning, around like midday then in the afternoon, I was thinking like around two to three?”, the man tapped the pen in his hand against his cheek, trying to reach an agreement with his daughter…not like she had much of a choice anyway seeing as she was, well, three months old.

“Then the nights are all mine, you’ll probably be asleep anyway", he went through the timetable he'd written down on the back of a receipt he found lying on the kitchen table, face scrunched up in all seriousness, the tip of his tongue even making an appearance and poking out the side of his mouth.

"But Saturdays I want a little bit more time. They were my head rest before they were your feeding grounds remember that princess", he continued, booping her button nose.

"Toru what the hell!", you folded your arms, tapping a foot against the floor.

Satoru’s shoulders jerked up as if he had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. “Hey!”, he frowned. “We’re having a very serious conversation over here and you’re interrupting”, he huffed.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah right. Like a one sided conversation with your three month old baby about boob rights is serious”. You never thought those words would ever come out of your mouth in the same sentence but here you were.

“It is very serious, we’re trying to keep the peace”, he glanced down at the girl who looked back up at him with big blue eyes. “Tell her peanut, we were making real progress!”.

The little girl’s gaze moved from her father to her mother, completely clueless as to what was going on.

It was brave of your husband to think he could have a serious conversation with someone whose greatest achievement to date was figuring out how to grab her own toes.

You stepped closer, getting a better look at the sheet of paper he was writing on and realising what it was. “Toru i literally still need this”, you waved the receipt in front of his face. There was no way you were going back to the store with a receipt that said “boob schedule” at the back in all caps followed by a gazillion exclamation marks.

“Babe focus, this is more important!”, he stressed, pointing at his absolutely atrocious handwriting. “I even gave her the golden hour in the morning. That’s when you’re at your most glowy and maternal, can’t be any more fairer than that”.

You blinked up at him. “Glowy..?”.

He grinned sheepishly. “Like a hot mom angel”.

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped.

“Well this schedule needs serious tweaking, she only just got here so she deserves more time”, you nodded.

“Hey! You’re not allowed to change the schedule without board approval!, Satoru exclaimed.

“My chest, my rules!”.

masterlist :)

reqs open

[norristeria]

Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

[muffinlance]

Some spirit manages to get the gaang and zuko a link that connects their minds. They can share thoughts and their past with each other.

Tweaking this to “and they share dreams” because that’s how I started writing it.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, wrapping his sleeping bag around himself, and grabbing a comfort Momo, too. “Whose dream was that?”

No one ‘fesses up. But it was kind of a rude question, and also a little rhetorical, anyway.

They all have nightmares with fire.

Having the Fire Lord himself looming over them, while they were on their knees? Not exactly a stretch.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how does Prince Jerkface keep finding us?”

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, “how did he know that seal jerky seasoned just right with honey—not too much, just enough to add a sparkle of sweetness to the depths of savoriness, a perfect balance for the distinguished tongue to relish—was the perfect bait for his Sokka and Sokka-affliated-parties trap?”

“Maybe if you stop dreaming about it, Sokka,” Katara snaps.

...And they all stop.

---

“I’m going to think really really hard about being friends,” Aang says.

“I’m going to think really really hard about that time my boomerang hit him,” says Sokka.

---

Snatching the boomerang out of midair? Impressive.

Ignoring the Avatar to go hit Sokka with it? Repeatedly? Uncalled for.

---

“Sokka. The city is under attack. Right now.”

“Okay,” Sokka says. “But this is a strategic nap, Katara. We need to know what evil things our Evil Other is up to.”

It’s not like the evil fleet part was a surprise, at least. They’ve been dreaming of it for weeks.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, looking down. “So the ship-blowing-up-thing. Not a nightmare?”

“No,” says Zuko, glaring up with his glare-face all glare-ful but his thoughts mostly full of bruises so deep they’re making Sokka’s ribs ache, and also his legs are going numb.

“Going to get out of the turtle-seal tunnel now?” Sokka asks, still standing over the opening. With his boomerang.

“...No,” the Prince of the Fire Nation says, as he clings onto the edge of the hole, his legs still very much in freezing water.

---

“Okay,” Sokka says, when they have a Fire Prince all tied up in Blankets of Imprisonment. “So. What actually was your plan here? Do not,” he interrupts, before the teenage-shaped bloodhound-leech can do more than open his mouth, “say ‘capture the Avatar.’”

The prince closes his mouth. Glares. And kind of fuzzes at the edges, in the way all of them do when they’re about to fall asleep.

BOOMERANG, Sokka thinks, and Prince Largely Ineffective As An Enemy jerks back upright. His Momo hat chitters a complaint.

“Since we both know your answer is ‘I had no plan, Sokka, ‘plan’ starts with ‘p’ and there’s no ‘p’ in ‘Avatar’’, we’re going to play a game instead. It’s called ‘sleepy prince free association interrogation time.’”

“...What?”

“Battle plans,” Sokka says. “Attack. Fire Navy fleet. Ship numbers.”

Alas, “Fire Nation intelligence” is not something with which the prince’s brain is overly burdened.

“...Are you insulting me?”

“Are you proving my point?”

Elsewhere, Yue laughs in all their heads. Zuko flinches. The prince has a very marked reaction to the laughter of princesses.

---

“Okay,” says Sokka. “So that just happened.”

Commander Mutton Chops is groaning. Kind of flopping. Much like the bag he tried to fireball. Yue picks it up, and gently wrangles a fish back into water. Sokka is still not clear on what the fish-napping was about.

“It’s the Moon,” Aang says. “Or maybe the Ocean?”

Aang’s thoughts are full of a FACE STEALING EVIL CENTIPEDE MONSTER THAT IS JUST ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE THIN VEIL OF REALITY and that is NOT helping Sokka think.

“Okay,” he says again. “So. At least we can all agree on one thing.”

This is a very diplomatic way of saying they all wanted to dropkick Zhao. But some of them wanted to do it more than others.

The prince of the Fire Nation is even paler than normal, and staring across the clearing at his uncle.

“I can explain,” the prince says, while he’s thinking, oh shit treason oh crap uncle wouldn’t hurt me thought that about father too

Sokka wordlessly plucks Momo from the edge of the pond, where he’s been swiping at the spirit-fish, and drops him on the prince’s head.

Everyone needs a comfort Momo, now and again.

---

“A raft, Zuko?” Sokka says. Outloud. Because it makes things louder when you say it and think it. “A raft?”

Aang is bouncing on his toes. “We should go get him.”

The Avatar is grinning. And thinking, really hard and deliberately, as behind them the Water Tribe ship finishes packing, We should capture the Fire Prince.

“Okay,” Sokka says, with a grin of his own.

[evenyvn]

Is That Me?

Streamer!Yunho x Fem!reader

summary : in which yunho makes his in game avatar eerily similar to you and thought no one will notice.

cw : she/her reader, sfw, fluff, gaming streamer yunho, yunho is a tsundere, the reader got some sort of cute agression towards yunho, kisses, they are in love your honor🙏 very short.

this is inspired by this trend on tiktok where people makes their game avatar look like their girlfriend and i find it absolutely adorable

Masterlist

Yunho had been live for a couple of hours now, the streamer is deeply focused on customizing his character in a new RPG. He had spent an embarrassingly long time tweaking the facial features—adjusting the shape of the eyes, softening the lips, picking the right skin color. His chat had caught on quickly.

> “Yunho, that’s literally Y/N.”

> “Bro, you’re not even being subtle.”

> “Tell me why this character looks IDENTICAL to your girlfriend.”

> “Obsessed much?”

He scoffed at the comments, shaking his head. “Nah, nah, it’s just a coincidence,” he muttered, but his chat was relentless.

> “Sure, dude. You even picked her exact beauty mark.”

> “The denial is crazy LMAO.”

But Yunho paid no mind. He was too immersed in finalizing the outfit choices, his eyes locked on the screen, completely unaware of the soft creak of the front door opening behind him.

You had just gotten home from work, tired but excited to finally see your boyfriend. You walked through your shared apartment, following the familiar sound of your boyfriend voice on his gaming room, opening his door only to stop dead in your tracks when you caught sight of his screen.

your eyes widened.

Is that… you on his game?

Yunho was still too focused, humming to himself as he adjusted the character’s hairstyle.

You grinned mischievously before creeping up behind his chair. Without warning, you threw your arms around his neck from behind, pressing against him as you practically yelled in his ear, “IS THAT ME??”

Yunho jumped. His whole body stiffened, his hands jerking the mouse so hard that his character spun in circles on screen. His chat exploded.

> “SHE CAUGHT YOU LMAOOOO.”

> “BUSTED BUSTED BUSTED.”

> “OH, YOU’RE SO DONE.”

He turned his head slowly, wide-eyed, meeting your smug gaze. “Wh-What are you doing here?” he stammered, ignoring the way his ears turned pink.

“I live here, Yunho.” You giggled, squeezing him tighter. “Now tell me—” you pointed at the screen “—why does this character look EXACTLY like me?”

“I mean how are you home so early? and It’s just a coincidence.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound nonchalant.

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “So you’re saying I look basic?”

Yunho’s hands shot up in defense. “No! No, that’s not what I meant—” While he's trying to think of an excuse, his chat was having the time of their lives.

> “AW HELL NAW HE FELL FOR THE TRAP.”

> “RIP Yunho 1999-2025.”

> “Just admit it, bro.”

Meanwhile, you leaned closer, pressing loud, exaggerated kisses all over his cheek and jawline. “Aww, you’re so cute~” you cooed between kisses. “You made me in your game and tried to act like you didn’t! That’s adorable!”

“Quit it!” Yunho whined, wiggling in his chair, but he wasn’t really resisting. His face was completely red now as he tried to hide a big grin on his face behind his hand.

You finally stopped, grinning ear to ear. “Admit it, baby,” teasingly tilting your head. “You remember my face so well you made my character without even looking at a picture, huh?”

Yunho pursed his lips, staying painfully silent, face still hidden behind his hand. His chat knew the truth.

> “He 100% did.”

> “Bro has her memorized at heart.”

> “Simp behavior and I respect it.”

After a moment, Yunho sighed in defeat. “...Maybe.”

“Maybe?” you gasped again, dramatically clutching your heart. “The bare minimum acknowledgment??”

Yunho rolled his eyes, finally relenting. He reached for your wrist and tugged you onto his lap. “Fine, fine. Yeah. I made her look like you on purpose. Happy?”

You beamed, wrapping your arms around his neck again. “Very~”

“Alright, but now you have to stay and stream with me,” Yunho said, acting as if he was the one making the demands.

You didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

And so, for the rest of the stream, You sat comfortably on his lap, constantly pointing out every little detail he got right, down to the curve of your smile and the arch of your eyebrows—while Yunho pretended to focus on playing. His chat, however, wouldn't live this down.

> “Yunho’s whipped and we love to see it.”

> “Best stream ever.”

> “Y/N never shuts up about how cute he is and honestly? Same.”

Even though Yunho stayed quiet, his shy little smiles gave him away. And deep down, he didn’t mind because, well… they weren’t wrong.

divider by @.adornedwithlight | likes, reblogs, and comments, are very appreciated ♡