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[copper-skulls]

“Alright alright, calm down, I was joking. And you weren’t a color. You were every color.” Grillby blinked, “... Seriously?” “Yep,” Gaster grinned, “Purple, blue, green, orange, yellow… just about every color I’ve ever seen a fire magic monster use. It was cool - er - awesome. Fire can’t be cool. Anyway, it started sometime while you were going through the sets.”

Did you know you should read Casting Rain by @silverskye13? Because you should read Silver's Casting Rain.

anyways.

[livinghostly]

i will hold on to you for as long as you let me — megumi fushiguro x mom!reader, satoru gojo x reader

a/n: sorryyy the fushiguro-gojo family dynamic was rotting my brain and i needed this out of my system. LOTS of projection of my fear of growing up in this one soz. this was fully meant to be a drabble and it just kept going idk wc: 3.1k angst/fluff. mom!reader has a lot of bittersweet thoughts about megumi growing up and satoru is there to comfort <3 lots of parentheses and lots of repetition

you put on a brave face all day. all week, even. despite the burn in your chest that engulfed your lungs and squeezed unrelentingly. despite the tears that burned the corners of your eyes delicately balancing on the your waterline, one blink away from breaking the surface density and opening the floodgates to pour down your cheeks. despite the non-stop ache of your stomach, churning what you ate every day but still holding the same emptiness as anxiety consumed you.

megumi didn’t pack much, he never held on to many things to begin with. (you always prayed for that to change, for his comfort your home. you prayed he would see it as his own, as well). he neatly folded his clothes into his suitcases and stacked his hangers on top. he purchased a new sheet set for his bed in the dormitory because the one he was used to was much bigger, much softer. 

he packed most of his books, carefully picking out the ones that tugged at the nostalgic parts of him, frayed along the edges after many years of re-reading, as well the ones that still had vibrant covers and stiff spines he hoped to finish. you noticed the leather journal he kept tied together– the ink-blotted pages bursting at the seams –sitting on the shelf before he tucked it into his box of personal belongings. it was his third one since living with you, all filled to every last page and used beyond ruin. the rest were hidden between his headboard and the wall. you pretended not to know, after stumbling upon them while changing his sheets.

closing the door to your home felt eerily empty. it looked the same as every day. the couch was cleaned and the floors swept. dishes rinsed and promptly put away. but with your lingering gaze your mind fixated on the dining table set for four, two adult pairs of shoes at the door, one pink backpack slumped on the hook of the closet door with an empty space below. your chest twisted at the lack of clutter, though it’d been like that for some time, with tsumiki and megumi growing older and cleaning up after themselves properly like you taught them. like you wanted. the pride you initially felt with those memories of parenting were becoming eclipsed with resentment and despair.

the ride to school was quick and familiar, megumi knew well what he was getting into after visiting there to train. satoru liked to call them little getaways from megumi’s civilian life, claiming he wasted too much time around non-sorcerers when he could be on missions with his ever-loving benefactor instead.

satoru, who was whining while he laid himself across the three seats in the back of your car. you’d banished him there for such a special occasion, and he threatened to transport himself to the school alone. an empty threat, at best. he didn’t want to miss this. 

megumi had sparred with the older students and found himself thrown around the field many times already. he knew his way to the infirmary by heart, he knew where gojo tucked away his most powerful curse-imbued weapons (that were supposed to be under the surveillance of higher ups), and knew what letter-number combination granted him the ginger chips nobody else seemed to like. 

you were glad he was comfortable. you were glad he would fall into routine easily after the repeated trips to jujutsu high and developing a rapport with his upperclassmen. you’d waited for the day that he’d truly be part of the jujutsu world and welcomed into a better suited environment for people like him. and you knew he would be great, he already possessed an incredible technique and wielded it like he’d been fine-tuning it since birth. far ahead from most kids his age, you were proud.

still, your gut was sinking, sinking, sinking into the floor with each passing second.

megumi picked his room in one of the far-away corners of the boys dormitory, leaving inumaki and panda heartbroken (panda said he would find a way to organize sleepover. megumi said he would drop out before that happened. inumaki cried– no, wailed at the rejection). yuuta fell into step with you, slipping one of the boxes out of your hands and insisting on helping instead. it was sweet, if it didn’t feel like he was ripping precious time away from you.

but you smiled, and granted his wish. megumi wasn’t complaining, he liked yuuta more than the others. it was a good chance for them to talk more. all of this, a chance, a new chapter, the rest of his life. the thoughts weighed on your shoulders with a disgusting strain traveling to your fingertips.

you were painfully aware you were in your own head, doing this all to yourself. he wasn’t going away, you would still be seeing him, more than you used to when he went to his other schools. he would always be here.

satoru found you in your classroom, while you were organizing the stationary with an unnaturally stiff composure. your arms were tense, he could see the muscles constantly flexing with each of your movements.

your jaw was clenching and unclenching again. you made a point not to look outside, where the second-years were training brashly after successfully moving their things back into their dorms. you made a point not to meet satoru’s dangerous stare as he shut the door to your classroom, as if it granted any privacy with the seven large windows running along the wall that showcased the hallway. 

“what are you doing all by yourself, beautiful?” his tone was soft and inviting, begging you to open up and let yourself fall against the cushion of his words. 

“um,” you exhaled, voice shaky. you scrunched your face to break apart the tension that had hardened your expression. “i figured i would get a few things ready for tomorrow.”

it took satoru’s long legs two-and-a-half strides to meet you at your desk, where you gently shut the drawer. there were a handful of dated photographs in there, signed with his name and the chicken scratch of two children. 

“it’s all ready, baby. we did that last week.”

(correction: you did it. he tagged along for the shopping trip).

“there’s just… a few things...” you mumbled, not finding the strength to finish your own sentence. 

satoru gently placed his hand on your shoulder, emitting inhuman warmth that spread across your skin. you leaned into him as he dragged his hand down your arm and intertwined your fingers with the care of handling fine china. his presence brought you solace, effortlessly bringing the walls down that you desperately wanted to wait until you got home to break.

he kissed the back of your hand and rubbed the skin. “you know you’re going to see him every day, right?”

it was embarrassing how well satoru knew you, knew your thought process like it was an extension of his own. he knew your doubts and insecurities, your fears and desires. he could predict the words before they came from your mouth, more in tune with the way you spoke than his mother tongue.

“mhm.”

“you know we’re going to be the ones chaperoning his missions, right?”

you closed your eyes and looked away. “i know.”

“do you remember when he said he’d like to go home some weekends, and have dinner?”

“he said that to be nice.”

“when has he ever been nice?”

you opened your eyes to glare at him, though he was right. megumi was not nice. he was polite. he was too self-aware for his own good, too perceptive of others and their emotions. in all the time that you’d known him, raised him, he made himself smaller for the convenience of others. he walked on his tiptoes for a year and a half so no one else would wake up because of him. he made his own breakfast and bit back his tears when he burned himself. he didn’t ask for things or food and didn’t offer his input unless asked directly. for some time, he was a ghost in his own home. 

it seemed as soon as the bits of his shell started to break off, he was being swept away from you by the jujutsu world, leaving you with looming fears that consumed your mind and disrupted your sleep for weeks.

satoru smiled, though it was weighed down with your sadness. “hey, he’s not going anywhere, you know that. just because you’re not driving him home everyday doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

it’s funny, it’s nearly the same speech he gave you when tsumiki started middle school. and when megumi followed those same steps.

tsumiki didn’t make it this far, though.

the thought makes your lip wobble again, and you bite it back pathetically.

“i know. i know that. it’s just that…” your voice cracked, and you shoved your head in your hands. your palms squeezed your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop the already-flowing tears. “he’s not my little boy anymore.”

satoru’s soothing hands pull you into a tight hug, and you don’t have it in you yet to move your hands from your face. his embrace makes you sob harder, louder as all your emotions from the last week begin to pour out at once. his chest rumbled with your cries, and he tucked you further under his arms as if to shield you from what was making you hurt so much. it was all you.

“baby…” he chuckled, without a hint mirth or mockery. he squeezed you with compassion and adoration. “you know that’s not true. he’s still pretty short, he’s got another growth spurt coming.”

a small laugh slipped through, but was quickly drowned out by your cries.

“he’ll be okay. he’s still here.”

he was so, so warm. he gently began to rock back and forth with you, the heels of your shoes gently clicking on the tile floor. a small hiccup erupted from you as you found the strength to wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest. the familiar thrum of his heartbeat welcomed you.

“i know, i’m sorry. i know he’s not leaving, or anything… i just… i thought i was ready.” you blubbered into his button-up. surely, there’d be two wet spots where your eyes were when you pulled away.

he swayed side to side with you, staring at the blackboard ahead of him. he nestled his chin on the top of your head, wondering if you could hear the cracks tearing through his heart. “it’s okay if you’re not ready. but you’re treating this like it's goodbye.”

“but what if we don’t get a goodbye?”

“okay, you really are overthinking this,” he pulled away from your embrace, your fingers still digging into the material of his shirt. he brushed away the hair covering your eyes, stuck to your skin by the wetness of your cheeks. streaks ran through your foundation and the corners of your eyes were smudged. “there you are. so pretty.”

it was silly how he believed he could make things better like that. it was silly that he was a little bit right.

“don’t think for a second i’ll let megumi be sent on a mission he can’t handle. he’s going to be fine.”

satoru’s love ran deep. for you, for megumi, for all his students. he fought curses everyday for you, rotted himself with his technique and stitched himself back up in a moment’s notice to fight for you. to come home to you. all of humanity be damned, those closest to him were the ones he fought for, and he would do everything in his power to preserve their lives.

he already towed the line with the higher-ups and their conservative rules and regulations, but he would tear them down if you asked. for megumi, he’d fight tooth and nail to see that he wasn’t being sent off on a mission ill-prepared. under his watch, things would be different for his students. 

you nodded meekly, wiping away your tears with one hand. “i hate when you’re right, toru. it’s really annoying.”

he smoothed down your hair and grinned. “i know, just let me have this one, though.”

his sweet murmurs filled your ears, along with the gentle shuffling of your clothes as you made yourself presentable again. you balled up your sleeves and patted the corners of your eyes gently, and he straightened out the hem of your shirt. it was wrinkled, a reminder of how harshly you clung to him.

you smiled at the water stains on his shirt now, and he claimed it was in need of dry cleaning anyway.

neither of you noticed the eyes of megumi and yuuta, both stuck in place at the very corner of the windows leading to the hallway. they had training staffs with them, megumi’s grip becoming tighter as he watched you wipe your eyes and knock your head into satoru’s chest lazily. your shoulders low, clearly drained from the amount you cried. 

yuuta was frozen, eyes flickering from you to megumi repeatedly. he found his courage in placing a hand on his shoulder, a feather-light grip. “hey, let’s go through the east wing. i’m pretty sure it’s faster that way.”

it wasn’t. but megumi nodded anyway, begrudgingly tearing his gaze from you and turning around with yuuta. 

you stared down the red light of the intersection with a blank face, blank mind. letting it all out of your system had successfully flushed out your emotions, taking the rest of your energy along with it. the car was painfully quiet, but no part of you wanted to listen to anything.

satoru was whisked away by yaga, being delivered another mission he swore would take less than a day. ‘less than twelve hours’, he promised to be back for megumi’s first day. he would make it.

it was dark, and you milked all the time you could on school grounds. speaking with yaga and shoko, running through the still-developing information of missions to be sent on. cleaning the classrooms. the lockers. stocking the teachers lounge. dusting the armory. before you knew it the curfew ushered the students into their dorms.

a ringtone broke through your thoughts, making you jump. though the tune was soft, the sudden intrusion made it much more shrill. you fumbled with your phone in the passenger seat, seeing megumi’s contact on the screen.

“hello?”

“hey, mom?”

it took everything you had left not to gawk. he said it before, sparingly in desperation for comfort. his voice was quiet, a near-whisper despite the fact he was alone in his dorm. like he was nervous.

“yes, megumi?”

“um… are you home?”

you wondered if he forgot something. “no, i’m still driving. are you okay?”

“i’m fine, i just… can’t sleep, i guess…” he trailed off, hoping for you to fill in the gap.

“oh. okay. did you take–“

“do you think you could pick me up?” he interrupted. “and i just stay home tonight? you could drive me in the morning.”

you were quick to dissolve into a smile, pointed at the streetlamp on the sidewalk. sadness struck your eyes but you were too occupied by the warmth of his question to feel it.

“yeah. i can be back there in a few minutes, just let me turn around.”

“thanks.”

he didn’t hang up. neither did you. the silence lived on for a few seconds.

“mom?”

“yeah?”

“… gojo’s on a mission, right?”

you laughed, your hand sliding across the steering wheel as you reouted back to the school. “yeah, megs, he’ll be gone tonight.”

“he’s back tomorrow?”

“yeah, we can leave before he gets home.”

“thanks.”

bonus:

satoru tiptoed through the entrance of your home, brushing his blindfold over his hair and peeling it off his head. he hung it up with his keys, lax arms nearly missing the hook on the closet door meant for him. it was beyond late, and he was tired, but he was home like he said he would be.

he bent down to tie his shoes, buffering momentarily as he caught a glance of well-worn sneakers at the front door. they were as clean as they could be, though scuffed rubber turning gray and the laces becoming frayed where they were tightened most.

satoru made a grunt in acknowledgement to no one but himself, as he tossed his shoes down. he glanced around the living space, cautiously bringing himself to each room with a curious itch to scratch. a third pair of shoes. both backpacks on the door. dishes for two placed on the drying rack. 

he was expertly quiet by nature, but found himself avoiding the squeaky floorboards on the stairs and all the way to the hallway. he was greeted with a blue sign, corners covered with dog stickers. the frilly handwriting of tsumiki warding off unwanted visitors with the phrase: “megumi’s room. keep out!!”

the door opened quietly, satoru pushing it open to the limit and stopping before it would let out an ungodly squeak. he insisted on never getting it fixed, knowing it bothered megumi.

megumi had his face shoved in his pillow, a desperate attempt to block out any light creeping through the crack of his bedroom door or the streetlamp just outside the window. he was always a light sleeper, always on edge, sleeping with his back to the wall so if something barged in the night he was ready. it was horrible he thought that way, you always said. 

his duvet covers were black and white plaid, per his request three years ago when he begged to be free of the puppy sheets. still, he seemed small, curled up in a ball. his face was released of the usual tension and his light breathing filled the room. for a moment, he was little again.

satoru smiled, taking a step back and closing the door gently.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Just Like Dad (1 of 4)

Content & Warnings: referenced military career, domestic fluff, some humor, brief mention of pregnancy, canon-typical swearing, Simon is a girl dad

Word Count: 890

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Filling out a parent questionnaire leads to Simon having to answer a hard question.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // just like dad

“Daddy.”

 A small fist curls around the bottom of Simon’s shirt, tugging. He glances down, finding his daughter there holding out a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Simon takes it from her, his gaze shifting to the black ink.

“It’s for school.”

It’s a questionnaire. Simons scans over the questions quickly before returning his gaze to his daughter. “Give me a second, love.”

Simon packs up the files he brought home from work. Grabbing a pencil, he strolls out to the living room, his daughter on his heels. Simon takes a seat in the middle of the sofa, placing the paper and pencil on the coffee table. His daughter snags a pillow off the couch, dropping it on the floor next to his legs. Sitting, she stares at him expectantly.

Simon nods toward the paper. “You need to practice your letters.”

She groans. “But it’s about you!”

Simon slowly slides the paper and pencil over to her. She pouts but takes up the pencil, the graphite tip poised above the first line.

“Name,” she says, glancing up at him.

“You know my name.”

She squints at him and looks back at the paper, taking her time to write each letter. She holds it up and Simon smiles. It’s stilted and a bit sideways, but it’s there. She asks several more questions like favorite food and color. Simon doesn’t understand the point to it but they’re likely doing a project on a parent.

“Job,” she says, expectant.

Job. His occupation. That’s a fucking complicated question.

“Military,” he answers.

She frowns. “How do you spell that?”

“Sound it out.”

She does so slowly, elongating each letter as she writes.

Simon glances over her shoulder and chuckles. “That’s an ‘i,’ darling.” He points and she aggressively erases her mistake.

When she finishes, she looks up at him. “Explain.”

Explain. Explain.

Explain…what?

That he kills people? That he negotiates the release of hostages? That he faces violence every day he’s on the job? That he sees some of the worst in people?

How the bloody hell does he explain all that to a six-year-old girl? How does he summarize the violence into a watered-down version that’s digestible enough for her, her teacher, the other students, and her school.

Simon swallows. “I stop bad people from doing bad things.”

She blinks. “Do I have to write all that?”

Simon barks a laugh. “It’s one sentence.”

She silently mimics him, shaking her little body in annoyance as she begins to write. Simon has no idea where the attitude comes from, but it’s likely from Johnny.

“Next question,” prompts Simon once the sentence is written down.

She hesitates and then turns in his direction. “Can I be like you when I grow up?”

Could she? Yes. But the very idea of her in the line of danger frightens him. It twists his stomach, knowing all the things that could befall her if she were to follow in his footsteps. Simon’s gut-instinct is to tell her “No.”

“Why do you want to be like me?” he asks.

She shrugs. “You’re strong. I want to be strong like you.”

“You don’t need to do what I do to be strong.”

“Uh, no,” she says, matter-of-fact, peering at the next question.

Fucking hell, she’s going to be an absolute hellion when she hits puberty. Sighing, Simon rubs at his temple. For some reason, he glances away from his daughter, his gaze landing on you in the hallway. With your hand cradling your slightly swollen belly, you watch on with an amused expression.

Number two. Will this one be like her? Wanting to do what he does?

“Daddy.”

Simon turns back to his daughter. She points at the paper with the tip of her pencil, head tilted slightly to the side.

He leans forward. “What’s the next question?”

“What does your day look like?” She grins up at him, ready for his answer.

Simon hears your soft laugh from the hall, and then your footsteps across the carpet. Your hand reaches out to cradle the back of Simon’s neck. On instinct, he lifts his arm, resting his hand on the small of your back.

“Go on, Simon. Tell her,” you tease, knowing that he’s struggling to form an answer.

“Do you put your mask on first?” The question is innocent but Simon laughs anyway.

“No,” he chuckles, gently taking the paper and pencil from her. “I kiss your mother first.”

Simon drags you in for a kiss.

“Ugh. Gross.” She makes a face, tiny nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Still want my job?” Simon presents the paper and she snatches up in her little fist.

“No thanks,” she sing-songs, stuffing the paper in her backpack, crinkling it up.

You hide your grin in Simon’s shoulder, and Simon tugs you closer. “Good save,” you murmur.

Simon presses his lips to the top of your head. “She has one of my masks.”

“I know,” you giggle. “Found it under her pillow this morning. I put it in your bag.”

“Was it covered in your makeup this time?”

“Had to wash it.”

Simon shakes his head in exasperation. He’s not annoyed. Just perplexed. He doesn’t understand why his daughter wants to be just like him.

It’s because she doesn’t know.

No. She doesn’t know. But one day she will. She might even change her mind.

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[akuma-coffee]

may i request for !tattooartist geto :333 love your writingggg !!!

suguru geto x reader tattoo au!!

sfw, reader gets tattooed, totally a cute comfort scenario! geto and reader totally end up dating at some point after this >.<

geto suguru, an artist you've followed for a little while; a respected figure within tokyo's tattoo scene. after contacting him regarding a flash piece, he'd responded quickly to say his books were full, but as you're a friend of satoru's, he would fit you in after hours.

the date preoccupied you all week, a churning within the pits of your stomach when you envisioned the needle puncturing your skin. this isn't your first tattoo but it's your first with geto - someone you had only admired, never spoken to. satoru was usually the one to push ink under your skin, a friendship blossoming somewhere along the way when he'd invited you out for drinks.  "not, like a date - other people will be there..." the machine stops and he withdraws, and you laugh.  "yeah, alright." 

some years later and you're still reaping the perks of befriending the gojo satoru; discounted tattoos, and now, you're able to get inked by someone you've admired for a long while.  you've been in the shop after hours once or twice (day sessions running a little over schedule), though never with anyone other than satoru. 

it's odd seeing the shop from the outside while it's lingering into evening, streetlights brighter than the ebbing sun, the shop's florescent white peering through slats in the blinds. your fist rasps over the glass door, eyes lingering momentarily over the closed sign before geto's pushing keys under the handle and your lips are forced upward into a friendly smile. 

"hi, it's me..." you're a little awkward, but geto's already been briefed on your personality through satoru; he knew what to expect. he returns the smile and steps to one side, allowing you to pass through the doorway before it's closed behind you, locked again. 

there's the usual dividers in the shop, though at this time they're no longer housing artists and clients, instead darkened by the lack of headlamps or ring lights, the framed ink of each person's flash or prided art less vibrant by the missing luminosity. one station is still well lit, though. 

"mind just filling this one out?" geto picks up a clipboard from a seat in the waiting area, a pen latched between the metal teeth. you take it from his hands, pulling the biro out and glossing over the sheet of paper - nothing you haven't done before. "i'll just set up over here, take a seat." 

you do as he says, the small wooden bench by the door groaning as you allow yourself to perch upon it, legs bouncing a little from nerves. your handwriting scrawls over the white page, name, date of birth, allergies... a form you've filled out tens of times. there's the tearing of kitchen roll and you're pulled from your entrancement from the health declaration form and instead gazing at geto. the bed is out of your sight but you can see his height, occasionally dipping down as he leans, setting up clingfilm, pouring ink into the small pots. lastly, he removes his gloves and tugs at the loosened bun that'd been hanging at his neck, placing that little black elastic between his teeth and re-tying the bun much tighter than before.

"all done?" he asks as he glances over his shoulder, and you nod, taking your lips silently between your teeth. hopefully he hadn't noticed you staring. "i'll do the stencil now." he comes to the front desk's computer, and you hear the printer stutter. he takes the clipboard from you, glancing over your answers. "perfect. come on over."

the placement is over your left shoulder, a large spider lily beginning on the shoulder and ending over the collarbone. geto's gloves are on once more, black latex clinging to the skin, and he grabs a small bottle of gel, pouring it over his own fingertips to run over your shoulder. you sit in silence as he draws a small line in sharpie to figure out the central point, occasionally moving your arm. eventually, the stencil is on, and you're glancing in the mirror to check. it's beautiful, perfect.

laying down, you're forced to look at the ceiling tiles. you feel your throat tighten with anxiety, even with experience, getting a tattoo is nerve-wracking. there's that familiar hum of the machine, and your eyes glance to your side as geto's dipping the needle in the pot of ink, allowing black to collect in the tip. "ready?" he asks, flickering from his focus on the machine to you. you're a little lost in his eyes before you're responding, the deep brown hues mesmerising. they're mellow and friendly, relaxing to your anxious state. you nod.

the needle finally penetrates the skin, but despite your discomfort you remain still and loose, focusing on your breathing. in, out. the pain is only a stinging, a prickling that you've grown used to over the years. nothing that you can't handle.

"all okay?" geto asks, and you appreciate the check-in.  "yeah, good thanks." he stretches your skin with his left hand, steadying his right to control the needle. his touch is delicate, gentle as if to ease your nerves, hard focused on the artwork over your skin with a stoic but pointed expression; a furrowed brow. there was something about being tattooed by geto that was so different to satoru, he was so much calmer, almost timid. by now satoru would have to stop from laughing too hard, or offering you candies for the hundredth time. geto was mellow, and it was nice. not to mention the face of concentration he held was cute, his pretty features a match to the art he drew.

"how did you meet satoru?" geto's voice hangs in the air a few minutes after you'd been sat in silence, though his gaze is still transfixed on his work. you smile at the memory, a puff of air from your lips. "he was a regular at the cafe i used to work at, i started in winter and by spring he had buddied up with me. the first time i didn't wear a jumper to work he this god-awful tattoo i got on my 18th birthday, it was my star sign, but looked more like a blob. offered to cover it up at a discounted cost - or if i gave him free chocolates for the week." geto smiles and you don't miss it, peering through your peripheral. "what did you do?" he questions, and you raise your free arm. "i got tattooed."

the hum stops, silence enveloping your ears as geto's attention is diverted to your inner arm, covered in ink he'd recognised to be his close friend's. he squinted as he tried to spot the cover up, and when looking closely he could see the older, blown out ink hiding under more controlled lines. "wow, it looks great. looks like you came back, too."

you nod, relaxing your arm. the buzzing doesn't start straight away, and you peer back to him. "what about you?" you questioned - it felt like he'd been waiting for you to ask. he smiles now, shaking his head. "there's no fun story, we just went to school together. one day i didn't know satoru, the next he was my brother." he raises the machine a little, left hand meeting your skin once again. the thrumming returned, and he glances over your expression before the needle meets your flesh.

"he was a pain in the ass, but he was the reason i went to school every day." a small piece of hair has escaped from the bun, hanging over his forehead. "i almost dropped out, but he kept me in check." you picture satoru in your head, trying to place them together as highschool buddies. they're so different, you wouldn't believe they were so close if satoru hadn't already chewed your ear off over his best friend, and their history together. they've gone through a lot, though you're sure there's so much more you don't know.

"was he as high maintenance in school?" you ask, in attempts to continue the conversation. geto laughs, his teeth peeking through his lips. "worse, somehow. he mellowed out in his twenties." the machine is pulled away and placed on the table beside him, his gloved hand wrapping over a sheet of kitchen roll, a small squeezy bottle in the other. the paper is placed over your shoulder, the liquid poured over alleviating the hot stinging of your skin.

"gonna start on the shading now." geto's eyes bore into your own, and there's a fluttering in your chest.

"are you still working there?" the needle is different now, as is his technique, the machine dragging in faster sweeping motions as he uses a stippling effect. "at the cafe? no, after giving satoru his free chocolates i got fired." geto's expression widens. "it's fine, i work from home most of the time now, no more annoying customers." you inhale sharply as he works on a sensitive area, swallowing back any discontent and putting on a brave face. 

"you're doing really well." he comments on your easily discernible unease, and those words of affirmation go straight to your head. geto flickers up at you, then back down to his work. there's silence for a little while more, the hum of the machine growing to hypnotize you as your vision hangs over the white ceiling.

"want anything? water, or some music?" his voice almost makes you jump as you realise how heavy your eyes had been. they're torn from the tiles above you to meet his face, and the white noise stops. "music would be nice." you reply, and he peels back a glove, using the free skin to unlock his phone. a soft guitar tone meets the air, you vaguely recognise the melody and listen as the chugging continues. it's accompanied by buzzing only moments later.

"it's deftones." he explains, weight shifting on the pedal to gain the momentum the machine had previously held. "how long have you been tattooing?" you try and further converse. "coming onto ten years, got an apprenticeship at twenty. tried art school and dropped out - showed up to some shithole with my portfolio and worked for free until i got good enough. opened this place about six years ago with satoru."

"do you enjoy it?"  "of course, i get to do what i love as a job... that's everyone's dream, isn't it?" he pauses for a moment, wiping over the skin with a scrunched piece of kitchen roll before the needle is brought back.  "yeah." you're quieter as you picture your own dream job. admin certainly wasn't it, but it pays the bills and isn't too taxing. 

"okay, i think we're done." suguru speaks, and repeats the same steps as before, washing the ink with solution before wiping it over. the coolness causes goosebumps to prickle over your skin, a balm applied with gloved hand as you know this will be the last time his fingers linger over this part of your shoulder. you're glad the session has finished, though as you make your way over to the mirror to peer over geto's art, you feel a little heartbroken this is coming to an end.

"oh, it's perfect." the words leave your mouth as you stand in awe, admiring the new ink embedded in your skin. it's breath taking, and exactly what you'd needed to fill in that area. you flicker up to meet his gaze through the reflection, eyes jolting downward when they meet his to instead linger over his arms - you hadn't paid all too much attention to the black lines covering his skin until now. his sweater sleeves are rolled back to his elbows, allowing you to peek at his forearms. it looks like satoru tattoos geto too, his style clear in his work. 

"will i see you around?" geto asks, his demeanour shifting back into shyness. you allow yourself to meet his eye, butterflies coming to swarm within your belly as he awaits your answer.  "definitely." you smile - you're definitely going to be asking satoru more about geto once you're home, you can picture him sussing out your crush instantaneously, though.

pleeease let me know if you want more from this au cause i loved writing this omg!!

[redcherrykook]

── ˙✧°📷 TORN PICTURES AND FROZEN LENSES 4

────୨ৎ────

College Photography Teacher!Jungkook x Student!Reader

27 year old, stupidly handsome asshole teacher Mr. Jeon has absolutely no human decency, he believes your victim complex is what keeps you from ever achieving anything, letting people use you as a bridge. When something unexpected happens, the ice starts to melt as a foreign word called "empathy" enters his egocentric lense. Maybe he will finally manage to teach you a lesson now, since you keep failing his class.

(Mini series)- Episode four!

Song recommendation: circles- post malone

Content: Cold, mean, distant, unprofessional Jungkook, hurt, stubborn reader, enemies to lovers, lowkey dramatic, accident happens, mutually beneficial relationship (emotionally), Jk learns a lot from her, Jk is mean but has a soft spot for reader (eventually), 6 year age gap, Reader is from a struggling background, Jk kind of rescues her, happy ending, angst at first, fluff, smut, comedy/crack, bickering, college setting, brief hospital setting

Warnings: swearing, name-calling,mentions of an accident involving a biker, mentions of hospital, mentions of injuries, really mean Jungkook, i promise he gets sweet, mentions of trauma and abuse (non detailed), mental health struggles (semi detailed), arguments

Taglist: @bts-iris @kaeysv @khadeeeeej @rockstryoon

────୨ৎ────

"Jungkook?" you shout when stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in a pair of baggy, low sitting sweats and a black tanktop that you had taken with you earlier. Appropriate for late night Fried chicken runs. Your voice filling up the empty hallway, no sight of the handsome teacher.

His groan can he heard from behind his bedroom door as he opens it.

"Finally done?", he walks out, a comfortable white hoodie with matching bottoms hanging loosely on his body.

Something about these damn casual clothes just make him look attractive.

It felt like your own little secret, seeing Jungkook outside of his classroom, his perfectly correlated image.

In the comfort of his own home, messy, having just woken up or going out casually.

It made you feel giddy, even if it was not supposed to.

Jungkooks eyes glue on your neckline, collarbones so delicately on display, damp hair sprawled out.

The drops of water dropping on your shirt reminding him of him of the forbidden thoughts tangled in his mind minutes earlier.

Gulping, he points to it "Dry your hair, you´re gonna catch a cold"

"Was gonna ask you for the blow dryer" you say, noticing the way his eyes focus on your cleavage.

No, you're over analyzing things now.

"Let me get it, right here" his inked arm reaching into a cupboard of the bathroom, pulling out a hairdryer and handing it to you.

"Thanks" your smile spread across your face as you dry your hair quickly, Jungkook gathers up his wallet and car keys, waiting for you at the front door.

"Lets go get drunk" you giggle with a fist pumped up into the air, walking past him to put on your shoes on. It had been ages since you had last gotten drunk with someone.

"The shit I do with you hm? How did we even get here" he shakes his head, trying to hide the little smile playing on his pierced lip.

"No idea, but I´m trying to forget all that mess anyways. you ready?" you reply to him, opening the front door to make your way to his car.

Buckled in, excited to loosen up a bit, you hit the radio to play.

The thrid time´s a charm right?

"Yeah no shut it off" he says, reaching to turn it off with his free hand.

"Nope. Only now please, not even the ride back, Are you allergic to music?" you slap his hand away, chuckling and waiting for the news segment on the radio to conclude.

"You´re in my car idiot, turn the radio off" he groans, his face beaming with annoyance.

Instead of responding and complying to his wishes, you turn up the volume and start singing along to the song playing, arms swaying in motion as happiness fills your body up. Being around Jungkook made you able to stop worrying so much about everything, you enjoyed a moment like this. Devoid of any care in the world, any problems or uncertainty.

Glancing over to him, his eyes locked on to the road with his lips tugging back a grin.

"See? not too bad" you tease while continuing to sway to the music.

"Horrible actually, your awfully off key singing just makes it worse. Check if my ears are bleeding i feel you´re ruining them"

"Drama queen. I´m a music major, I know i can sing stop pretending" your eyes roll, looking out of the window as the next song plays. he scoffs, secretly waiting for you to resume your screeching.

Instead of singing your heart out, you hum lowly to the soft vocals playing in the car. Jungkook snorts suddenly, making you shoot him a look of anger.

"Took that to heart? Keep singing idiot, you sound fine" his eyes move to yours in an attempt to show he´s just fooling around with you, while also pulling into the drive through of the chicken place.

"You suck. I forgive you because you´re buying me food" your hands reach for the radio, turning it off to make the employee hear Jungkook´s order. He smirks slightly, shifting in his seat to turn to you. With the way he´s looking at you, you expect him to say something serious.

"Ridiculous" is all he says before placing the order.

"Are we going to get soju from a convenience store?" You ask him, noticing he's driving back in the direction of his place.

"Yeah, its closer to me. I'll let you pick the flavors even" his voice in a low but playful tone.

"That´s crazy you're sooo sweet" obviously sarcastic you touch his shoulder, eyes squinting at him.

He grins, "I'm doing great at being nice aren't i? Come on, we need to get out here" he says when parking on the side of the street.

The store had many, many flavors. You examine each one carefully, wisely choosing which one fits the current vibe of well, getting drunk with an unexpected new friend who you happen to live with now. All the while, Jungkook is peacefully clutching hands full of snacks and ramyeon.

"I think ill take two melon, one strawberry and one peach. Sound good?" You mumble, looking over at him.

Immediately you start to laugh, he is standing there looking like a hungry kid left alone in the snack aisle. Tightly gripping on to as many snacks his large hands could hold on to. To capture this hilarious moment, you pull out your phone to snap a pic.

Rolling his eyes at your gesture, he nods, "Take one more peach, i like that one the best" he adds, already scanning his snacks at self check out.

"Noted" you reply, grabbing one more peach soju and setting down the five bottles of liquor for him to scan.

When he does, you walk back to the car, a bag full of alcohol, snacks and ramyeon in Jungkook's hand.

This was going to be a long night

"I guess we're calling in sick tomorrow?" He says, pulling the car out of the parking spot and driving back to his apartment.

"Naah, we'll be fine, right? Or are you a lightweight?" you smirk at him playfully, knowing very well that four shots are enough to get you very tipsy.

"Unfortunately that is one of the very few flaws i have. Don't act like you're all hard-core huh" he scoffs, remembering how horrible his last time being drunk went. He completely lost his mind. Drank way more than he should have and ended up waking up at some random girl's couch, next to two other men.

25 was definitely a crazy age for Jungkook, lesson learned.

That is however, also how he met his best friend Mingyu. Him being one of the other guys on this woman's couch.

That's a story for another day.

"Mister perfect over here. Yeah yeah, i'm also a light weight. But I'm a funny drunk"

His eyebrows furrow, "funny drunk?" he asks

"Yeah, like when i'm drunk i get super funny and unserious. Some people are angry drunks or emotional drunks" you explain, your eyes focused on the steering wheel. Studying the way his hand wraps around it, his fingers tapping against the smooth leather whenever he stopps the car.

He hums in return,

"Which one are you?" you ask him curiously, imagining what it would be like if he was also a funny drunk, dancing on his living room table or cracking up at something stupid.

It's not nearly as impossible to imagine as when you had first met him. After this past week of spontaneously getting to know parts of him, he is not actually as boring as initially anticipated.

Still, the thought seems particularly interesting, maybe a little over exaggerated.

"Don´t know. I guess we'll find out today" he says shrugging, his lips curving into a small, meaningless smile.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

"Wahhh finally" you exclaim, letting out a huff of air when setting down the bottles of soju on the table along with the food and some snacks.

You plop down on his couch dramatically, waiting for him to sit down next to you. He does exactly that, opening one of the peach soju bottles and pouring both of you a shot.

Slowly, you reach for his hand to place the small glass in your fingers, focused on the millisecond his hand would graze yours. He hands it to you carefully before taking his own glass in his hands.

"What do you wanna toast to?" He asks, leaning back against his couch. His legs are spread, his right arm supporting his head by propping it up on a cushion.

"Gosh i can't pick one, there's so much that happend" you giggle, zoning out while looking at the table and remembering how you were hit by the biker, how you had an argument with him, the day of getting kicked out and much more.

He snaps you out of your flashbacks, "You're trying to forget all that right? Stand above it?" his question makes you nod at him.

"Then lets just toast to a new chapter" he says blankly, his eyes moving to yours, awaiting approval.

"Sure, good idea" you smile slightly, extending your arm forward to meet him in the middle as he does the same, glasses clinking together.

You pour the shot down, the alcohol slightly burning your throat in a delicious, satisfying way. It truly felt like things had gotten better.

Washing away whatever has led you here in the first place.

He does the same, his hair falling behind him messily, his neck beautifully on display as he swallows down the shot.

"So? Good right, told you this flavor is it" he says, waiting for you to say something in return. His hands reach to take his glasses off, revealing all of his softened face to your wandering eyes.

"Tastes sweet" mindlessly licking your lips, savoring the remains of alcohol on them, you look into his eyes.

You watch them go down where your tongue had just been before, shooting back up again quickly.

"Lets eat im hungry" you fake whine, setting down the glass and opening up the bag of food.

Jungkook groans in return, reaching to take out some food as well.

"Always so impatient"

The time passes rather quickly. Soon the food was finished, both of you had already drunken one soju bottle each, the next one already half empty, opened on the table.

"You know.." you say, tipsy and with a wide smile sprawled across your face. Cheeks flushed pink from the liqour you consumed.

Lightweight indeed.

Jungkook tilts his head, listening to you closely.

"I'm reaaallllly thankful for you kook" you giggle, the nickname just naturally spilling out from your lips. Your vision is blurry, but you´re almost certain you see a smile creep up his face.

He notices it too, feeling his heart turn warmer as his brain gets irritated at the feeling. To try and conceal his painfully loud heartbeat, he reaches to pour another shot. Throwing it back into his mouth, right after doing the same with the second one.

"Me tooooo" you laugh, reaching forward with grabby hands, trying to take the bottle away from him.

He stops you, pushing your arm back down, noticing his body becoming more dizzy and uncorrelated.

"You've had enough idiot, no more drinking for you" his voice is low and sultry, his eyes remaining glued to the smile on your face, not a serious thought behind your red and glazed eyes.

You´re a funny drunk for sure.

"Okay thennn but, kook?" You question, scooting closer to him on the couch. He winces at the nickname, it's not easy to ignore when you keep calling him that, keep reminding him of that feeling in his chest.

He stiffens up at your proximity, feeling the need to run away from this.

But he simply can not bring himself to do so.

"Hm?" he says, setting the bottle down and waiting for your question. He expects something stupid and senseless, his mind growing more fuzzy as the soju's effect kicks in.

"Why are you always so mean? I learned once in psychology class... you know.. people are mean to protect themselves" you slur, tugging playfully on his hoodie when asking the question.

He pulls his arm away, looking at the table and scoffing.

"Come onnn you know sooooo much about me too jungkook" you´re back to giggling again, the wide and drunken smile still spread on your face.

He takes another shot to prepare himself for this uncomfortable conversation, if he was even to engage in it.

Just in case.

The thoughts in his head are blurry, raw in emotion and unclear all at once. Memories of his past resurfacing in a haze, reminding him of the scars he carries within him.

Whether from the alcohol or the questions, his eyes become glossy.

"Had a bad upbringing, got bullied and beat a lot for stupid shit like my interests" his voice starting to slur out lowly, shaking his head at the memory of his hometown school. Jungkook sighs before taking a deep breath.

"Made me toughen up i guess" he says, his eyes wandering to meet your face again.

You were not smiling anymore, instead a big overly expressing pout on your lips. Mumbling a couple "M'so sorry kook"

He nods, ready to change the topic.

"You've a gooooood heart. Promise"

Your hands are both pressed against his chest, firmly.

Your touch feels like fire on his body, even if covered by a thick piece of clothing, he can feel it. He can feel every crevice of your skin slowly imprinting on his chest. Your words only leave behind a bigger mark, staining his brain with them.

Instead of pulling away, his eyes glue to you, remembering to engrave this moment into his mind, hoping it would still be there once he sobers up.

As he stares, he can't help but bite his lip at you flushes cheeks, how soft your hair looks, slightly draping on your lazy smile.

Suddenly, you take your hands off his chest, hugging them around yourself, dramatically shivering.

"Aahgg, so cold. Wow, are we in the arctics?" you laugh wholeheartedly at your stupid joke, convinced it must be the funniest thing you had ever said.

For the first time in a while, Jungkook acts before he thinks. Excusing it by his clouded state of mind, confident he can blame it all on the alcohol, not on his feelings.

He pulls his white hoodie above his head, leaving him in a tanktop. Without hesistation, he pulls you closer. So close, your knees are on top of his thighs, one more move and you would be sitting on his lap.

He puts the hoodie over you gently, telling you to push your arms up the sleeves.

You comply, laughing loudly.

He smiles when you get stuck in the hood,so he reaches to pull it down, revealing your messy haired head inches away from his own.

The world freezes and becomes yours only.

His face inches closer to yours, looking into your eyes softly. Your breath is quiet on his face as you are stood still, a small smile hung up on your lips. Screaming to be kissed, screaming for him to close the distance.

You might be drunk, but you aren't wasted.

Jungkook's face looks even more beautiful up close, the scar on his cheek perfecting his features, his sharp eyes looking at you as big, brown, doe ones instead.

He looks at you like you hung up the stares for him.

Your heart is clenching at the closeness, the moment feels eternal, only one more second until you would break all you had known and get what you had wanted most right now.

Jungkook licks his lip piercing, pulling away from you before clearing his throat.

It was almost like you could hear your heart shatter if you had listend close enough.

Foolish little me.

"We're both too drunk. Come on, let's get you into bed" he smiles at you softly, standing up wobbly and reaching his arm out to help you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The alarm rings, causing Jungkook to wake up. Still on his couch, a annoyingly heavy feeling on his head.

Stupid hangovers.

Turning off the alarm he sits up, staring at the messy table before him. Three empty bottles of soju laughing at him for his stupidity.

Nothing goes right when he drinks.

He rubs his head in annoyance, noticing that he is not wearing his hoodie.

Memories of your face close to his, your hand on his chest, flashing in his mind.

Get yourself together, Jungkook, that's all meaningless. You can't keep flirting with your student.

Groggyly he calls into the office, announcing his absence for the day before cleaning up the mess that yesterday's night has left.

Throwing out the empty containers of food, gathering the two left over bottles and putting them into the fridge.

When taking the last steps to a clean living room, still thinking about the way your voice sounded saying his name yesterday, he knocks over an empty bottle of soju.

Crash.

You shoot up from the loud noise, immediately groaning at the penetrating headache that was the result of yesterdays escapades.

Should've known better.

When rubbing your eyes and yawning, you quickly walk out to room to look for the noise, spotting Jungkook crouched down, cleaning up the shattered glass.

"Ah fuck. Sorry i woke you up" he says, voice still raspy from sleep, turning his body to look at you. You stood there, sleepy and still in his comically large hoodie.

He wanted to stop thinking about you.

"Yeah its okay, you good? What time is it?" You stretch your arms up, only now noticing that you're still wearing his clothes.

Remembering the way you wanted him to kiss you just hours earlier.

"I´m good. Its dawn crack in the fucking morning because i thought I would be able to work today. No way in hell am i leaving this house" he groans, throwing away the glass shards.

You hum, awkwardly creating silence between the both of you.

Luckily he breaks it soon enough.

"Nice dress you got there" he remarks with a smirk, obviously making fun of you.

You scoff, pulling the hoodie over your head and throwing it at him.

He chuckles briefly at your actions, remembering how he threw a shirt at you before.

"Fair enough" he mumbles as you walk past him to the bathroom,

"Emotional" stopping next to him to pat his shoulder.

He glances at you, confused

"Are you talking in riddles to piss me off?"

"You're an emotional drunk, kook" you say, closing the door on him once again.

When having done your morning pee and it's time for you to walk back out of the bathroom, he´s sat on the couch.

"Why are you calling me by a nickname so suddenly?" he blurts out, his eyes sternly glaring at you. You scoff, wondering why he's so worked up about it.

Jungkook wanted nothing more than to forget what had happened, to not have to confront his feelings.

But if you were gonna call him 'kook', he would be constantly reminded of it.

Even if he liked the way it sounded, replaying in his mind.

"Because it suits you" your reply seems to anger him even more, unsure what you meant by your words.

"I'm not your little friend y/n. Don't get to comfortable" he spits out rudely, fully regretting it the moment his words leave his mouth.

Why was it so difficult to ignore you?

You roll your eyes at him, not taking it to heart. Well aware he's just saying things to hurt you.

After the way he opened up yesterday, even if drunk, you trusted him.

Trusted that he trusted you too.

His defenses are hard to lower, but you want to. Even if that means sometimes taking hits.

Jungkook needed someone to understand him, just like you needed someone like him as well.

Someone that accepts the way you are, while trying to help ypu change into a better version of you.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to strike a nerve" you reply casually, walking into the kitchen.

"I'm cooking hangover soup. If you're done being an asshole go get you some" your voice shouting from the kitchen.

"Whatever" he says, laying back down on the couch.

Googling up a recipe, you began cooking, occasionally looking at Jungkook passed out once again on his couch.

"Ridiculous" you huff out, lips pursed.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

"I'm NOT going to do that, no way Taehyung" you laugh at the guy in front of you.

Two days have passed since drinking with Jungkook. It's now friday afternoon, you're sitting in the library with the freshmen from the orientation.

Taehyung came up to you after class, asking to study for a test together. He´d been eyeing you ever since, still calling you ´´pretty´´ instead of your actual name.

The days have passed as normal, bickering with Jungkook and talking about things here and there.

You would be lying if you said that it hasn't been a little awkward.

It was getting harder to ignore the way you felt when Jungkook was around you, the way his strong veiny hands looked, the way he groaned at his laptop, adjusting his glasses.

How you wanted to trace every line of his sleeve tattoo.

The way you smelled his shirt he had given you to sleep in.

He was slightly more distant, restraining himself countless of times.

From thinking about you, wrapped around him.

"What? Why not. It's just a party" Taehyung smiles, closing down his laptop and taking a sip of his drink.

"Exactly. A freshmen party. I'm not a fan of parties, i pass. Hope you'll have fun though" you give him a thumbs up, shaking your head.

It was obvious that Taehyung wanted to take you there to get a chance at getting in your pants.

After seeing him on campus, he was always talking to some girl. It had only been two days that you hung out, counting today.

His flirty personality making it evident that although he could potentially be a good friend,

He was definitely not looking to date you.

Or anyone at all.

"A shame. You're kinda boring. Cute, but boring" he winks, packing up his stuff with you following suit.

"Thanks you party animal. Can't wait to hear about how many girls you've slept with after. Text me yeah? Stay safe" pulling him into a hug, you both walk outside of the library.

"Okay mom, will do"

Your face scrunches up in disgust at the nickname,

"Never do that again" you say hitting his arm, earning a loud laugh from him

Once you made sure Taehyung has left your eyesight, you walk behind the building to get into Jungkook's car.

Two minutes past the agreed upon time, you find him biting the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

"Hey, sorry I'm a wee bit late. Had to fight off demons" you joke while buckling in your seat.

"What happened this time?" Jungkook's eyebrow lifts curiously, he remembered Taehyung stopping you at the end of his class.

The thought pissed him off heavily,

"I was studying with Taehyung but he wanted me to come to a party with him" you explain, watching as his eyes darken and his hand tightening on the steering wheel.

"Is that so?" his voice sounding husky, "Are you going? I need to be prepared if i have to come pick you up disguised" he scoffs, looking out the window.

"Of course not. He's just saying that to get me tipsy in hopes of getting in bed with me" you giggle, amused by Jungkook's reaction.

When he stays silent, you decide to tease him.

"What? You look like something's bothering you kook" purposely using his nickname to push his buttons further.

His eyes look down at you, licking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

"Yeah? You're bothering me. I don´t wanna hear about some college boy in your pants, none of my business" he says, driving off to his apartment.

Another lie passing his lips, he definitely cared if you were going to sleep with some campus playboy.

Surpised at the fact he's not fighting you on the nickname, you decide to test your limits. Pushing his buttons could end up in a fight, if not, the smile he gives will have made it worth the risk.

"I told him to text me how many girls he'll sleep with. What do you think kook? Im guessing four" you nervously watch his features, concentrating on any changes that might indicate anger or annoyance.

"You're gross. I'm not playing that game with you. Also, i know exactly what you're trying to do. I don't mind the nickname, stupid"

You smile at his reaction, patting his shoulder,

"Good. I wouldn't have stopped using it anyways"

[sh1-n0bu]

♡︎ 𝙛𝙤𝙘𝙪𝙨 ♡︎

anon asked: babes can i pls request sub!albedo? just teasing him and making him unable to do his work lives in my head rent free

characters: sub!albedo x nb!dom!reader

warnings: handjob, fingering, degrading and praising mixed together lol, rough sex, dacryphillia, edging, dumbification, size kink, exhibitionism (i forgot the word for it and had to search it on google), reader is completely nb so the cock part can be interpreted as a strap on!!

notes: this was actually meant to be posted like 2 days ago i think??? but i caught a cold and had sudden exams coming up while still having a fever lmao. also here have this 1.8k words of smut bc i re edited it and made it longer after seeing a bunch of mf sub reader on my tumblr fyp. tumblr give me dom reader on my fyp bc this is my revenge

you can flag it as mature all you want you coward tumblr but i ALWAYS COME BACK

the chief alchemist, kreideprinz, mondstadt genius, captain of the investigation team of the knights of favonius - albedo has many names however his most favorite, as lewd as it may be, would be [name]’s pretty cockslut.

the blond always liked that nickname. it slipped out of your mouth once accidentally during an incredibly messy sex between you two and since then it has been stuck in the alchemist’s mind like a dog on a leash. and now was no exception.

it was just a simple day in mondstadt. the chief alchemist being cuddled in his office in kof headquarters while sitting on the lap of his lover, scribbling away at on his notebook of his latest experiment and the results with furrowed eyebrows - trying to stay focused but always failing and ending up thinking of that one goddamn word.

it was just a slip of the tongue, an accident from his lover during a heated session. his darling apologized afterwards of course but the alchemist just can’t help his mind lingering on that single word. breathing starting to get heavier, doughy thighs rubbing together with his ears flushed - trying to refocus on his work before failing miserably with a groan.

upon hearing his distressed noise, you let out a confused hum. rubbing small circles into his waist to help him destress - where your arms are wrapped around - you left a small peck onto the back of his neck with a low mumble of what’s wrong.

“nothing my love. i just… can’t seem to focus on my work” he answered back. his other hand coming up to pat you on the head - ruffling your hair a bit in the process - while also hoping that you wouldn’t notice him getting hard. archons he was a mess. getting aroused by just the thought of a simple word? how pathetic.

unfortunately for the alchemist, you noticed. glancing down at his thighs clenched closely together, making the small bulge in his shorts almost unnoticeable if you were to simply glance over. almost.

“oh? what’s this? is my pretty prince getting hard over a simple act as cuddling?” moving your hands to hold his waist, you ground him down on your crotch making the blond gasp. hands flying up to cover his mouth with a frantic nerve yet also lust swimming in his eyes, albedo looked back at you as if asking you what you’re thinking with a faux glare.

“focus on your work darling. don’t you dare stop writing” letting out a low groan next to his ear, your hand guided his dominant one to grab his pen once more. after hearing him curse lowly with his fingers wrapped around the ink filled pen, you slipped your other hand past the waistbands of his shorts.

jolting when your finger touched the tip of his already hard cock, albedo felt his face burning up more, hands twitching, making a mistake on his experiment report. you let out a chuckle at that. sweet chalk prince making a mistake on his reports? an unusual thing indeed.

rubbing the precum oozing out of the slit of his already hardened cock, you heard him muffle his groan but still continuing to write his work. pulling away from his weeping dick, you heard albedo let out a disappointed whine before letting out a loud gasp, bucking his hips when your lubed up hand grabbed ahold of his hardened cock once more.

“mmfgh! [n-name], my lo-oohh… my aammh f-fuck! let me wo-oRKK MFFGH!!” bucking his hips to try and keep up with the thrusts of your hand, albedo threw his head back to rest on your shoulder. eyes screwed shut, hand clenching around his pen in a vice grip while panting and whining - archons your prince was so pretty.

“focus ‘bedo. wouldn’t want your work to be forgotten right?” sucking a dark hickey into his neck, your hand jerked him off at a faster pace. he let out a loud whine at that. shaking knees closing up as if trying to get you to stop so he can just focus but his bucking hips was telling you the truth of him wanting to chase after his approaching high.

letting out a delicious sob, the chief alchemist bent over the table. twitching and shaking as he soon spilled his load on your hand. peeking back at you with a shy glance and red cheeks, albedo reached one hand back, tugging on your pants frantically as if asking for his most favorite treat.

getting his hint you stood up, pushing the alchemist to lay on his stomach on the desk while taking off his shorts and lowering your pants and undergarments’ waistband.

“oh? have you become a cockslut for me my pretty prince? not wearing any underwear under your usual stockings now hmm?” tearing a small hole over his cute pink rim, you heard the man in question let out a loud whimper at that.

“getting desperate for me, my pretty slut?” albedo shook his head timidly. biting down on his lips in a desperate way to stop himself from moaning when hearing you call him such a lecherous name. it was so wrong, he knew that but it just turned him on even more! making his cock twitch and knees buckle as if being called something like that was something he was used to.

using his cum as a make shift lube, you pushed a finger into his cute pink hole - hearing him whine at the feeling of your finger filling him up so deliciously, so easily. after wiggling your fingers for a while you felt his walls start to loosen - a sign that he was starting to relax and get used to the feeling - before adding one more finger. scissoring him open while hearing his adorable high pitched whimpers is always a nice way to de-stress. loosening him more and more, you felt around his tight muscle, searching for that one spongy spot that makes his pretty blue eyes roll to the back of his skull as he lets out a surprised shrieks of pleasure. ah! found it.

abusing his prostate with your fingers as you hear him let out cute, almost girlish, breathy moans was the best thing you could ask for. he always reacts so adorably - pushing his hips back into your hand with a fervor want, knees buckling under him as his bare hands scratch against the desk with some hope of grounding his mushy mind.

“aah mmfgh awWHH~!! [n-name]~ don’t… don’t tea-aammfg!! tease me!♡︎♡︎” letting out another squeal, albedo turned his face around to look at you. hair messy with sweat clinging to his forehead, cheeks a shiny red of hue and eyes hazy with lust. archons he looks fucking delicious.

pushing him to lay on the desk again you pulled out your fingers - making him whine at the sudden emptiness as his loosened rim clenches and unclenches around empty air - before he let out a loud sob at the feeling of your tip pushing inside his loose hole. looking down at the mess of a genius you made, a smirk slipped on your face as an idea popped up.

“hey ‘bedo. what type of mixture is blood?” stopping after only slipping the tip of your cock in you stopped to ask him a question. he let out a confused noise before stuttering out “a h-heterogeneous mixtur-EEP!♡︎” as you slipped your cock halfway in. archons you were only fucking halfway in and yet he could already feel your cock bumping into all the perfect spots inside him. he’s just so sure that if he were to slip his hand down to his tummy he would feel a bulge. one that is caused by you!

“then if you were to mix acetic acid and water what would you get?” fuck were you being serious right now? albedo just wants to be fucked silly by you and not think of something so useless dammit!

“… vinegar” letting out a huff, he replied back. tone becoming annoyed and sarcastic before he let out a sharp gasp, clawing at the edge of the desk tightly when you shoved the rest of your dick inside him, the tip of your cock kissing his prostate so fucking nicely.

“good job. so if i were to mix up potassium nitrate, sulfur and carbon what would i get hmm?” letting out a stuttered curse under his breath to try and get his bearings back together to answer your question, albedo inhaled sharply before giving you your answer.

“f-fuck… it’s aamff… g-gunpowder mmngg!! p-please? please? [name] just fuck me already~ ple-ase!! i’ll be so good! pleA-GYAANH!!♡︎” letting out a shriek, the genius held on tightly to the edge of the desk. knees giving away from under him, leaving him to lean his body limply on his office desk as you grip his waist - slamming into his prostate with a groan over and over - using him as if he was a your personal cocksleeve, which he sure was turning into by now.

the room turned hotter, his breath being cut short by his own whiny sobs, tears rolling down his cheeks as a thin line of saliva ran down his jaw with pretty heart shaped pupils rolling to the back of his skull. he was completely spent. head dizzy and mushy, his sensitive spot being abused by you so easily as he tries to cling on to the small thread of his mind but failing in the process.

“a-aangh… albedo… what is f-fuck! the compound of water?” leaning your full body weight on his shaking body, you pistoned your hips to slam into his at a faster pace - feeling him tighten around you more and more, getting closer to cumming again. he couldn’t respond this time, only garbled whines and unintelligible sobs being your answer. letting out a sigh of disappointment you stopped moving, cock halfway pulled out as he whimpered loudly. trashing his trembling legs under the desk as a protest, trying and failing miserably to push his hips back to you.

after a while of a sex drunk protest, he seemed to gain a small sense of mind, whispering out “h-hydrogen and oxyge-ene…” in an almost unnoticeable small voice. hmm, perhaps he deserves his reward.

continuing to thrust into his spongy sensitive spot, you heard him let out a tired whimper - completely drained by your teasing and edging - letting out a long drawn sob of what seems to be your name, the alchemist came over his desk soon followed by your warm seeds filling him up. shaking legs failing to keep him up as he leaned against you for support as he felt you holding his waist close to yourself, flopping back down on the chair of his office while cuddling him close, uncaring that anyone could easily walk into his office at the moment.

[blueparadis]

❝ HAUNTED ❞ + XAVIER THORPE !

+. CWs —» f!reader, switch!reader, outcast!reader, fluff, she/her pronouns, mutual pining, sexual tension, family drama, flirting, manipulation, mentions of abuse, blood, wounds & therapy, flashbacks in italics, supernatural themes ; explicit smut, s & d dynamics, bottom-dom!xavier, cowgirl position; word count-3.5k

+. PRECIS —» Xavier Thorpe has finally found the girl of his dreams after being haunted by her.

+. NOTES —» this is for my beloved sister @zoraedits ’s brainrot contribution.she won't stop making edits on him. && I'm tagging @orchid3a cuz i luv u

you can browse more of my works here. || also available in AO(III). reblogs and comments are very much appreciated.

feel free to send in thirsts and suggestions for this show, Wednesday. This is my first time writing for shows like this; my main fandom spectrum is animanga but I do hope this was a good read for ya’all as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3.

The table calendar was full of red inks all over, dirt sedimented on the sketchbook, and the pencils laid in the case in absolute solitude. Xavier looked at the calendar kept on his desk near his bed in all despondency and a heavy sigh escaped from his lips. It has been days since he stepped into his studio, have not touched his art accessories for almost a month. One thing was for sure, he was plagued by visions in his dreams but this time it was nothing demising. 

This time his sketchbooks were not filled by a monster, this time he was not afraid to draw rather he was drawn to it; part of him was stoked while sketching while a part of him was reluctant to draw the whole picture. He had spent countless sleepless nights before, not resorting to sleeping as he was threatened by nightmares. And now his sleep was peaceful as if entering into the realm of dreamland.

Xavier was sure that his mind was captured by a girl who came to visit him in his sleep, never showing her face, only showing herself in bits and pieces. He had spent his childhood receiving showers of praise for his talent for drawing but the origin was never happy. Of course, he enjoyed it and liked to show off his talent for art but secretly he wished his power would vanish into oblivion, for it was never pleasant.

People say that the art of someone reflects one’s persona, one’s raw feelings but Xavier always begged to differ since those memories, those incidents were never his. There always had been a wave of remorse that washed over him after he stepped out of his art studio since the praises he received never belonged to him. 

Many were astoundingly taken aback by his knack for drawing and suggested he pursue art, to be a renowned artist but he knew he would lose all the glory once he stopped having those dreams. Moreover, he did not always have such dreams so the possibility of waking up one day and being unable to paint and as a result, staring at a blank canvas scared him to death. Heck! He even considered going to Doctor Kinbott so that his sanity would not be hanging by thread.

For the last couple of weeks, he has been dreaming of odd landscapes. Xavier had never seen them in his life yet he saw how the dusky crimson hue smothered the snowy mountain ranges, how the clouds gathered before the arrival of a rainstorm, how the birds sang songs and all the owes and pangs of nature. One thing he could conclude from those dreams was that whoever it belonged to was a chaser of freedom, that is, was a soarer of the sky.

Xavier had not told anyone about his dreams, nor put them on paper to ease his mind. What would he tell? What would he draw? Last night was particularly odd concerning the regular pattern of his dreams. He dreamt of falling from a high cliff into the water and a broken wing. When he woke up, he was all soaked, even his bed, and his olfactory senses did not miss the subtle scent of stagnant water. He was breathing rashly as if he was the one who drowned as if he was the one to fall.

He closed his eyes and tried to recapitulate his dream, searching for a mark, searching for a recognizable feature, searching for something, anything, anything at all. His desperation knew no bounds when left his dorm and rushed into his studio in the middle of the night since somewhere at the corner of his hopeless heart he knew he found one, a ray of hope.

A lot of crumbled papers surrounded Xavier as he tried accumulating the pieces from his puzzled mind. Around two o’clock he left his studio on his bicycle, the paper where he drew tucked in his pocket. He was sure he had witnessed the scenery before unlike the others.  When he finally reached the top of the highland, he witnessed the view from his most recent dream. 

The only thing that engulfed his presence was the sound of the waterfall echoing through the woods. He noticed a pond nearby and an adjacent high plateau near it. It was higher from where he was standing. After looking around for a few minutes he figured that there was no way to go there unless one swam through the stream or flew toward it.

On his way back, he felt happy, he felt sane. At least he had proof of the existence of a creature that haunted him, even in his wake. Xavier showered before going to bed just to clear his head before a good night's sleep. He kept a white feather as a bookmark in his sketch pad while a smile smothered his face. He was right. He was haunted by a fairy-like creature.

“Two cappuccinos”, Xavier mumbled as he went back to the counter at Weathervane. It was another event where all the students of Nevermore set foot into the world of normies to carry on the ties between two polar opposite worlds. But no matter how much one tried, the other always tried to retaliate. Their relationship was always on a tightrope, it could snap at any moment. And it certainly did.

“And you did not bother to tell me about this. . .”, Principal Weems trailed off as she left her seat, walked past her desk, and inclined against it, “until everyone in town became aware of it.”

“I thought I was going to be called insane or bullied. Last time I told something about my dreams, I found myself behind the bars.”, he responded, keeping his eye on the ground. Principal Weems exhaled grudgingly. She had no grounds to punish this boy since he was not entirely wrong. Hence, Xavier was dismissed with mere detention. 

Xavier was forbidden from the school campus for a week. Everyone felt sorry for him, in his situation but secretly he could not be happier because he had all the time to draw, sketch, paint and think — and it was all about her, y/n. 

That day at the café, Xavier was the sole witness of a crime. It happened so quickly, so fast that all she could do was succumb to her fate. A man was standing near the corner of the kitchen with his back facing Xavier. Xavier was not supposed to be here but he had to fetch some ingredients for making pastries and cupcakes. 

As the man turned around, Xavier saw a bloodied butcher's knife in his hand. Near his feet lay a girl with a bloodied back the blood quickly spread all over her blouse. She stood motionless, like a statue. The eye contact was merely for two seconds and he immediately smashed the sugar jar on his head, distracting him, to tackle her out of the way.

The other townies turned up for help. Not all people in the world came to be cruel and heartless. All Xavier did was contact Principal Weems so that she could swiftly take care of this matter, which she had to otherwise the reputation of the Nevermore Academy would be in danger. The girl was taken to a nearby hospital. 

Y/n L/n was her name. After the untimely death of her parents, she was raised by her uncle, by a normal family. Naturally, when she began to bloom, she was forced to be normal. One would think she tried to run, tried to hide or fight but Alas! none was the case for this matter. She felt indebted to her uncle and his family, for taking care of her, aiding her upbringing, fulfilling the role of parents, and hence helping her to be normal. But Xavier's presence on that day turned her life upside down. She was now a student at Nevermore Academy, funded by Principal Weems’ study forum. 

After you recovered within a week, the first thing that dawned on you was to meet him, Xavier, the ‘ hero ’ of your life. You knocked on the door of his studio and waited for a while. There was no answer for a few minutes and when you finally made up your mind to leave, Xavier showed up. He was in his casuals with a teeth-flashing grin on his face.

“How’re you, y/n? The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed and now you’re here. in front of me.”, Xavier danced on his toes as he walked into his studio. You followed him and the moment you stepped into his studio you were taken all in awe. The room was filled with artboards, canvases, and sketch supplies, and everything reflected you. Indeed, y/n did not come here to be thankful for what he did since she was not. She was not happy with how her life seemed so devoid of any family. Her uncle was the last of her family and now he is gone. All because of him, Xavier.

“You look better than the last time I saw you.”, Xavier added as he felt the silence between the two of you deafening. You swallowed hard as he tried to ease the tense ambiance thinking how rude of him to remind you of the very wound he was responsible for. There was a desk with a closed sketch pad that caught your attention. 

“Your drawings are very beautiful.”, you pitched in opening it and your heart dropped at the sight of your feather that was kept safely in between those rusty pages. A short gasp escaped your lips as the whirlwind of your life hit you.

Xavier was standing behind you, close to your shivering body. “They are all about you.”, a low whisper before he extended his hand to remove the veil from the canvas. The cloth dropped at your feet revealing every bit of dreary in you that you always wanted to hide. You hated how he could see through your pangs and pathos, you hated how he could and would have eradicated all of it, even if it meant being burnt by it. You swiftly tackled out of his towering frame, feeling naked even though you were more dressed than him. 

“Stay away from me. You shouldn’t come near me.”, Surprise took Xavier in all proportions. His eyebrows became congested as you continued. “I’m grateful that you saved me but do not do that again, ever.” With that, you walked out of his studio but a firm grip on your wrist kept you from running away anymore.

“Listen, I’m being haunted by you, your pain, your emotions, and everything you feel for the past few months, and all you could say to me was to stay away from you… not even a proper thank you.”, His breath hit your lips as he drew in a sharp breath before his amber eyes landed on you, your shaky lips and pale eyes.

Embarrassment rushed into your cheeks and you pushed him lightly uttering, “Stay away” with a little glare to ward him off but when you vanished out of his sight he was not dejected, not at all. Sure, he was conflicted but the way you told him to stay away whereas your body spoke otherwise made him relish the chase that has haunted him for months now.

They say one can only save people only if one wants to be saved. You neither needed help nor saving but you could see why Xavier begged to differ, wanted to be the odd one out, and craved the crown from saving you from your only family. You always had been a rebel since your childhood, going against the flow of the stream. Somewhere in the corner of your heart, you knew you were different, you would be different. 

It was the end of June when you first felt your body ache, back arch, muscles cramping excruciatingly as if someone was poking needles in your skin. Your arms clung to your body as your back bled for the first time. The wailing of such lethal agony submerged amidst the sound of rain as two enormous wings grew with lustrous hues of carmine and amber. Your breathing became regular again, your body stopped hurting as the wings flapped open involuntarily. Every mark, scar, and wound on your body since you were a child began to heal, all by themselves. 

Everyone rejoiced when you went through the family ritual and stood in front of your clan as the last phoenix of your bloodline. It was a miracle that a phoenix had been born in the bloodline but just like with blessings it came with a massive price. You were a healer and a destroyer at the same time. Somewhere something has to die to keep you alive, again and again. Every time you were wounded or hurt, your mother had to lose some of her life until she became lifeless, forever. But the family oracle told your father that it is a part of the process, part of a phoenix's journey that every one of their loved ones had to sacrifice in one way or another. 

Your father just had a miraculous idea to save you and himself from the bottomless pit of despondency and mutual hatred lurking in his heart because of you. He volunteered to sacrifice himself even if that was against his will. The oracle seemed to be unsure about the idea, saying that the cycle might shorten but not cease. But your father was right, the cycle did cease and you became aware of it when your uncle tried to chop off your wings, uprooting the evil once and for all, and no one in your family was harmed. Still, unfortunately, you were under the radar of an outcast, Xavier Thorpe. ‘What would happen if someone not from your bloodline were to sacrifice? What would happen to your mate if they were not an outcast? What would. . . thoughts would not cease to bombard your mind until a knock disrupted your trail of thoughts.

You lifted your eyes for a glance only to find Xavier inclining against the bookshelf with a saccharine smile on his face. Your stomach turned at the sight of him. ‘How can a person be so forgiving?’ but it seems that he is rather forgetful than forgiving. He picked up a random book from the shelf and sat in front of you.

“You’re hurt. . .”, you murmured to which he responded, “more than you think . . .” while turning the pages of the book and occasionally stealing glances from you. You rolled your eyes and leaned towards the table eyeing his hands that had a lot of scratches. It was probably from a silly fight with other boys, maybe the normies; for him, it was just a scratch yet for you it was an opportunity to apologize for the other day. 

“Give me your hand.” As you extended yours, Xavier's reflexively recoiled under the desk. “I’ve no intention of harming you.”, you uttered touching the palm of his other hand that was still on the desk. “Besides, I’m just clearing my debts.”

“Um-hm.”

You inhaled sharply before you flapped those lustrous enormous wings to heal with him, his wounds. Your wings glowed for almost a minute and the hand that was hurt was healed which he was hiding under the desk. It is impressive how Xavier hurt the very hand that can create masterpieces. What a clutz!  He interlaces his fingers with yours as he murmured, “A touch . . . is all you need.”

You begrudgingly pulled your hand away standing up and yelling whisperingly, “stop it. stop this. . . and don’t come near me.” With that, you grabbed your book and went towards the exit of the library. Xavier sat like a child who would mourn for the broken toy rather than demand anew.

“Wait.”, Xavier followed you. He kept yelling in the middle of the corridor, “Y/n. wait.”

“Your wings.”, you finally turned your head but not without letting out a sigh of annoyance. “You’re hurt. . .bleeding” and that is when fear crawled underneath the skin. 

“I never bleed.”, you retorted.

“And, I never lie.”

If it were someone else, you would have shooed them away. But this was Xavier, who saved you from an inevitable, to whom you owed nothing but the truth. Even though you tried to heal yourself you could not, perhaps because you healed someone and that too for the first time. 

Xavier might be persistent but he was not dull. It didn't take him long to connect the dots and hence you had to do the very thing you wanted to avert from the first place. His room was not tidy but not neat and clean either. With Rowan gone he has the room all to himself. You wanted to go to the infirmary, but there wasn't anyone available. Besides, with all the mess you are in you didn't want to risk it.

“I promise I'll behave.”, he said, swinging his hands up in the air in a form of surrender. That made you smile a little as you turned around so that he could tend to the wound. He unzipped your dress and carefully tucked it along your waistline without harming the feathers. Even though you had your camisole on, you still felt naked. His fingers brushed against your skin. It was ice cold. You had to hold your breath as he dressed the wound. 

Xavier noticed how your shoulder blades had been marked. He grazed his fingers over the part from where your wings grew that made you instantly shriek and move away from him. 

“Are you done?”, you asked, surprise and embarrassment coursing through your skin. Your upper body was barely clad, nothing but an unhooked bra. 

“No.”, and within a blink, his lips were already on yours. You could taste the longing and desperation with each suck. Your hands curled around his nape as his hands got rid of the minimal clothing from your upper body. “First time?”, he asked as he moved away leaving you breathless yet craving for more.

“Why? You care?”, you blurted out stepping out of your dress. Xavier eyed you from up and down. You did not flinch but rather smiled as you noticed his astonished face. You had nothing on but just the underwear. 

“I do.”, one of his eyebrows jumped as he knelt near you. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”, he murmured grabbing your calf muscles and kissing your femininity over the cloth. He took a glance before tucking the hem of the panty in between his fingers and undid it. Your hand reflexively went over his head as he kissed your entrance, lapping over your pussy lips that made you suck in a sharp breath. He sucked on your skin, followed by a feeble bite into your inner thighs. 

“AH!”, you winced pausing his ministrations. “Don’t you taste divine?”, he whispered kissing your lips, wetting them with the blend of his saliva and your slick. He was too dressed. You cocked an eyebrow at him and he took the hint. You co-operated as he became almost naked, and was back up even though you wanted him to continue.

“You won’t hurt me. worry for yourself.”, you said as you felt his hands palming your cheeks a little too long than they should. His hands traveled back to your entrance and you moaned under his slight touch.

“What? Never played with yourself?”, he added that surely turning the cogs in your head. You pushed him onto the bed, sitting on him struggling to take his cock in and he was not even helping. All he did was watch you let out whimpers of frustration as you lazily glided on his cock. He rested himself on his elbows saying, “Look at me.” And as you did, his fingers dig into your plush ass cheeks slowly adjusting you at a proper angle and stretching you. You kissed him so break the eye contact that made you feel naked, even though you were. Both of you jolted as you could feel his cock inside you.

His hands clamped around your waist as you bobbed on him, with greater force and broader strokes but slow. With each sloppy hit you felt his cock twitch inside you; your hands desperately roamed all over your body, heat bubbling as you could feel your body tensing, picking up the pace he was setting you in, and the orgasm lurking underneath. You can tell; a few more strokes and you would cum so easily. 

He can feel it too. Xavier winced as he felt you clenching around his cock. His legs folded to support your back while your hands flew to his shoulder blades, his knuckles turning white, his grip growing stronger around your waist and you came right away, back arching and your wings flapping open involuntarily, eyes rolling white relishing the high as your thighs squeezed in.

With your breathing rash and heavy, you felt all mushy in the head and so was he. Xavier could have sworn that he has not seen anything more beautiful than this, than you sitting on him with his cock buried inside you; your skin glistening in sweat with your gorgeous wings at the display. 

As soon as Xavier’s breath relaxed a bit he pulled you into his embrace for a kiss. He could not help it, you were too beautiful to look at. Besides, he was not done, not yet.

—

by @blueparadis

[anotherlifelesshawksloverplshelp]

Need

Another little Yan!Keigo post because I've been all up in my ish recently~<3

He only ever wants to take care of you. To provide you with everything you need, to prove that he's all you'll ever need. He wants you hooked on him, and he'll do anything to show that to you.

💖LITTLE NOTE sorry if it's poorly written im running on like 2 hours. if you think i should re-do it just let me know<3

TW:Yan!Keigoxf/afab reader! Dubious consent (technically noncon depending on your perspective :[ ), masturbation, penetration, cunnilingus, crying, sorta comfort. Just Yandere stuff, yk..

You had always been a good girl for him. Well, for the most part.

But he did his best to make sure it never crossed your pretty little mind of being unhappy or leaving. He loved you, after all. What more was there to life than that? You didn't need anything out there in the world, you needed him, and he did everything to keep it that way. To show that to you. To prove it to you.

He'd keep the bed just how you liked it, to show he did it best.

He'd bring you your favorite foods, knowing no one else ever would. You'd never need to get anything yourself or need someone to help when he'd do it for you. He'd make sure you were happy, well rested, well fed, and most importantly, well fucked.

He concentrated on the latter as if it was just as necessary in everyday life as everything else.

He wanted you hooked.

He made sure that he had satisfied you multiple times a day, no matter what. Whether you were in the mood or not, he viewed it like your appetite. Just because you weren't hungry didn't mean you shouldn't eat, right? After all, you had that terrible habit of denying what was good for you. What you needed. Love, food, sleep, him.

This was surely no different, just you being foolish. What a cute little fool that he loved, no? If only you understood that this was all for you. You being here with him was for you. His attention was for you. All for you.

So when you're sweating, panting, begging that you had enough, pleading with that pretty little voice of yours "please please please Kei, no more.." with every glittering tear that spilled from those eyes that he'd adore, he'd kiss them away as he'd continue to abuse your poor, aching pussy.

If only youd stop crying. He hated when you cried. If only youd understand you needed this.

He'd let you cry though. He'd be patient, there to wipe every tear away as your sore, overstimulated self whimpered as he curled his fingers against your sore walls, gently tapped and lapped away at your swollen clit, being sure that you've had your fill before he even thought about diving into you.

Only the best.

"It's okay Dove, it's alright" He'd coo and calm you as you shook from overstimulation, letting himself drown in the sight of you, a wreck for him, knowing no one else would ever have you like this, or in any other way.

"Shhh, now now, you know i don't like it when you cry.." he'd reassure you, his movements slow whether he had his fingers in you or was balls deep, carefully rocking his hips against you, listening to your gentle cries. He watch as you'd grip the pillows, pull things over your face, dig your nails into his arms, and he didn't mind. He'd just loosen your grip, remove any obstacle to seeing your tear stained face, eyes grazing over the pink that flooded your skin like ink in water. Everyone made bad decisions here and there, and he was convinced you'd learn to stop evading him, trying to hide or avoid his love. If not, he would fix it all the same. No problem to him, he thought.

After all, it was always all for you.

And afterwards, he'd clean you up and coddle you. He'd take you to the bath if you'd like, gently rinsing away whatever mess you had, whether that be from the tears that stained your face to the one he made on your stomach. He'd use the water and a warm rag to sooth whatever ache or soreness you felt from your "medicine", pressing kisses to your face, your skin, everywhere, praising you for doing so well, for understanding, for letting him love you.

He'd take you back to the bed, wrapping you in the softest blankets amongst the mounds of pillows, holding you close to him as he spoke whatever sweet words he had to offer depending on how the day went.

If you were good, he'd tell you how he loved you, how good you were for him, what he'd get you to treat you.

On days you may have been not so good, he'd ask if you understood. Understood that he loved you, that you'd know someday, that you had to understand...

But he'd hold you close, rocking you against his chest all the same, regardless of the conversation, gently running fingers along your skin, through your hair, pressing featherlight kisses whether you were marked or unmarked that day, his wings making a lovely crimson wall around the two of you, which proved to be both a threat and a promise. A symbolism of his love and his protection, but showed the cage you were in, the inability to escape... and whether you still had that annoying little voice telling you it wasn't right or not, you'd comply. You'd curl against him, you'd accept his embrace, his love, the comfort.

It was all for you, after all. You needed it.

[saint--claire]

When I was a little child, there was a particular library book I checked out week after week, endlessly renewing it as much as I was able. The book, How to Raise and Keep a Dragon by John Topsell was a quasi-nonfiction guide to, as you guessed, rearing different species of dragons. I loved it. Tiny-me had plans.

As an adult, I tried to buy it a few times. No dice. The book was so old that no mainstream bookseller stocked it. Even when I tried niche websites recommended by various booksellers and librarians, I still couldn't find it. It was sadly lost to time, apparently not popular enough to make it into the archives.

But.

My best friend had a copy of that book. We're going to call her G, for several reasons not relevant at the moment. I was discussing my search with G one day, for some reason I can't remember now. She got a funny look on her face, asked me a few questions about the cover, listened to me do a very poor job of explaining with my hands how the hardcover copy had included a real gemstone in the dragon's forehead, and then went off to fish it out of her bookcase.

I was Gobsmacked.

I should not have been, given that the history of shared childhood books between us both would have made a circle with ragged edges, more so than a venn diagram, but I digress. The book came home to live in my house for a few months, and I was delighted by the chance to read it again.

Do people remember those type of books? Dragonology, Egyptology, The Stone Age - a way of introducing children to non fiction. They very earnestly spoke about the responsibilities needed to raise dragons, the practicalities involved. There was a record of registration you could fill out, if you had carefully considered the information to your self and felt you were responsible enough to to go through with adopting a dragon.

I vaguely remember filling out some of the riddle and puzzle questions in the Dragonology books. I would never have written in John Topsell's book, it was a library book.

But.

When I re-read G's copy at home, smiling over the familiar artwork, I was surprised to turn the page and find the painstaking, somewhat-wonky handwriting staring back at at me. Baby G, with her name spelled out in freshly-joined but still-not-quite-got-the-hang-of-this-yet cursive lettering. Baby G had filled the registration out in her best handwriting, in glittery green gel pen to denote the importance of the document. This was compared to the earlier, less important checklists done in plain black ink.

I read the registration certificate. Smiled. Smiled some more at the names listed for G's dragon, her dam, and her sire - Eragon was also a great book. Go off, Christopher Paolini.

Breed; standard Western Dragon. The box 'miniture' was ticked, to show that G's dragon was of the minature specic variety, rather than a full size dragon. This was, as she would later explain to me, chosen on the basis that baby-G felt it was the more financially responsible choice. Also so she could keep her dragon in her house with her, but we're not there yet.

I looked at that certificate. Looked at it again. Looked at the calendar, and then looked at the sewing machine I had just been given for Christmas.

G celebrates her birthday in January.

The template came first. I studied the different images of the standard western dragon through the book, picked my favourite, and re-drew it to a significantly larger scale.

Inking the design to the fabric, four times over probably took the longest.

I very subtly asked G the next time she was over (after hurling all dragon-related materials in a panic into the depths of my wardrobe) what type of colour dragon she would have, should it come up. As G later said, that type of question from me truly did not register as anything other than a question asked from theoretical interest. I transitioned the topic as discreetly as I could after she answered, and delightfully, my sneakiness went in one ear, out the other, and she forgot I had ever asked until several weeks later.

I enjoyed painting them.

Don't ask me how many mistakes I made through this process. So many. I do already know how to sew, but it's been a long time. I'd been meaning to get back into it for a while.

Given that various aunts and grandmothers and my mother had a knack for calling when I was up to my elbows in either paint or pins, it became a family affair. Each of them peered at the project through face time and offered their advice.

Some of the advice I took, some I didn't. No regrets about sewing it in pink thread. Considerable regrets about accidentally slicing one of the feet in half and having to fix that.

In the end though, she was finished.

I carefully pinned on her name tag, with the name baby-G had chosen with a little blue ribbon. A collar was unacceptable, this is a dragon, people, come on. Dragon's don't wear collars.

I put the book in the box, open to the registration certificate, and put the dragon on top. Wrapped the whole thing up with a bow and then refused to touch it before I sent myself mad trying to fix details that didn't really need to be fixed.

A bit late for her birthday, sure, but there we are. We'd gone for a trip off to nowhere for a weekend, to go try wine made out of blueberries and hike up a waterfall. (And climb on it. And swim in it. It was a very good waterfall).

I gave her the box, informed her she wasn't allowed to keep the box, just the contents (it was the only thing I had that was big enough for me to keep all of my A3 portfolios in, it had only been temporarily-repurposed as dragon housing), and then left the next bit up to the gods.

A surprise, sitting un-awaited for some 15 years in amber, to catch up to baby G and adult G together.

Happy Birthday, baby and adult G.

[1800titz]

COME TOUCH ME TOO | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 11.2K on patreon

second part to LIQUID SMOOTH

You’d catch him over the sink sometimes. Or the stove. At the dinette, shirtless. Big bear, you thought, still only half-awake (starving), staring at his skin, swathed in ink that traversed limb, to torso, to limb. You’d catch the smattering of dark hair pooling over his sternum, and the hair beneath his navel, darker, more wiry, seeping into the band of his pajama pants. And later, you’d wonder if it was the substructure— torn out from you— that you were chasing (the surfeited rift between your ages, the sage wisdom you lacked), or if it was just the shape of him, the way he fit into your life, the subtle domesticity of a morning. The pantomime of a distant daydream. (Pretending this was your life you were living, and not taking a page from someone else’s.)

preview

The bar you’re at feels congested. Sticky, shoulders brushing shoulders, feet bumping feet, and the music is loud enough that you feel it droning along the skin of your bones. Past max-capacity; something you anticipated. Accepted on a Friday night— no sort of discomfort that couldn’t be waterlogged into an unconcerned bliss with enough alcohol. 

And that’s what it started as. 

One shot to ease the restless hypervigilance (when you shuffled in, sliding between clusters of bodies), that burned at the back of your throat, heat flaring across your crinkling sinuses. Then, a second, that radiated warmth along your chest, under your skin, that settled as a weightless feeling beneath the soles of your feet. Loosened the arc of your shoulders. 

(You never buy your own drinks.)

A third, cupped from a stranger’s fingers, with bright, powder blue eyes that lingered on your throat, the line of your jaw when you tipped your head back. Inkpools stuck to your tongue when you smeared it out across your lips, the bridge of your nose rucking. He gave you a wolfish, glimmering grin and told you what a pretty thing you are.

(And you think, staring up at him through the misting crest of intoxicant smog, he’s too young. Feels like a boy— one you can’t re-mold even in the haze of alcohol— in the absence of crows’ feet and shallow smile lines, the glinting, tawdry rhinestone stuck to his incisor. Skin speckled with ink that resembles zealous impulse rather than an aged, carefully-crafted tapestry. You doubt there’s any worthwhile story behind the dice in the nook of his elbow; RICH across the front, C and H tipped perfectly on their southern edges to show the S and K that could fill the word out, instead.)

(You can’t even pretend.)

You seldom find regret in the sea of a familiar gyre (the world spinning, and you, finally, spinning with it), but the spindrift crashes across in a misty fog of discomfort. The riptide lures you out to swallow you whole. You’re not sure when the euphoria mutates into anxiety— maybe somewhere along the fourth and the fifth— but it coagulates in your esophagus, in your stomach. Cakes in the warm, soft spot under your ribcage, until your bones feel like they’re wobbling with the pulse of your heart. Vibrating.

You showed up with a coworker. Admittedly, one you didn’t know too well, to a bar you haven’t been to before. But going out is going out, and a bar is a bar. You don’t need a babysitter, you don’t need to know her well, and you don’t need to scope the the pub, but—

Last you saw her, she was propped against the corner of the bar, and now, as you sweep your bleary gaze over the mass, she’s nowhere in sight. You’re alone. You’re alone, and the world is spinning, screaming, chattering over the pulsing base, and you feel like you can’t keep up. 

When you swallow, it lodges in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe, nearly tripping over your own feet, brushing between tangled musculature, limbs like gnarled, warm roots for you stumble over. And you feel like you’re trying to part the sea to make room for your clumsy steps. Like you’re trying to move mountains. 

By the time you make it outside, your lungs are aching, and your shoulders are quaking. You don’t know where it’s coming from— what it is— but it feels like a flame licking its way up under your dermis, and you want to shed your skin off the bone. The gulp of air you take is welcome. Cold. Wet. 

It’s raining. 

Pouring. The gust drenches your bare legs in spittle off the sky, even under the awning. Helplessly, you pat around for your phone. 

And you don’t know what possesses you. You don’t know if it’s a clumsy swipe of your thumb across the glowing screen, or a cruel form of divine intervention, when you scroll and stutter along his contact. It’s a number you should’ve deleted. Haven’t pressed in months. 

You flung yourself out of orbit, and seeing his name feels like you’re a piece of star-shed that’s slipped too close— a hair from homecoming. It feels like the inevitable, crushing weight of gravity snagging you into the miserable ouroboros you’ve spent every evening running from. A tidal wave, reborn, swallowing you whole. 

And you know the repercussions— the potential there. The consequences of sticking wet fingers into electrical sockets, but you tell yourself, he won’t pick up. It’s too late. You’re too late. Too—

Your finger lingers. 

You don’t know what would be worse. Abandonment in another shape, or hearing his voice on the other end of the line. 

You call him. 

You regret it a split-second too late, staring down at the screen dialing. When you press the phone to your ear, with the rain spitting, the thrum of the bass behind the door— your heart rattling in your ears, your head spinning—

You barely hear the three rings before the line clicks. It’s quiet. 

And then—

“Hello?”

You suck in a gust of air. You expected his voice to hurt. To ache— you anticipated, maybe, a lot of things, with variegated hypotheticals spelled out in misty shapes through hours spent staring at your ceiling. 

But every chimera crumbles when the words stick to the back of your throat. Part of it is the slurry in your veins, the hard liquor, the way it’s all kicked in, all at once. And part of it is the realization that, despite the biramous conjectures you’ve crafted— the what if’s— it’s the heavy thought that all roads lead to this.

He sounds hoarse. Mean with sleep.

“Um. Hi.” The words sound garbled, like you’re underwater. Tinny, wet, strained. 

Eager in the shape of unrequited pining; a mangled fruition of all the nights you’d spent, thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he’d pick up on the other end of the line, stockpiling the heap of broken wishes. The ones you cradled in your hands like jagged fractures of your rib bones, cracked from how hard your heart was pounding. 

(If only he could see the lovelorn tar in your marrow, leaking out in a rotting treacle and pooling in the crevice of your love-line; tragic, broken down a long gap right under the wedge between your pinky and ring finger.) 

The awning does a poor job of covering your toes, and they soak in the torrent that spumes from the midnight aether, shimmering against the wet asphalt. Silly, little girl— woman, nowadays— one ear corked with your forefinger to stifle the downpour spitting from the same sky you’d crane your neck and spill orisons at, the other fisting at your phone like a lifeline. Dangling onto the thread off this unspooled hope. 

You sound ditzy. Soporific. Lost. You wonder if he picks up on it on the other end of the line. “Are you, um. Are you busy?” 

The speaker crackles.

Finally, he rasps from the other end of the line— a thunderclap, like a gunshot, “You’re not callin’ me at one in the morning to ask me if I’m busy.” 

“I—“ the words stick to the back of your throat. 

Something seals up in your lungs with the breath you try to take. 

Bitter recrudesce, a reminder when it wakes back up in the slotted teeth of your heart— an ache, alleviated in his absence after time, that throbs at the sound of his voice. Your jaw quakes on what you want to confess, snarled in your throat. I love you— Please— I’ve loved you since—

Your lip wobbles. Teeth clack, staring at the wet asphalt. “Uh. Sorry.”

You settle for a middle ground— some compromise in the clouded welter of your docket— something you’ve been meaning to say for months.

(Sorry for being a silly, little girl that fell in love with you.)

You’re met with a beat of silence that eats into your marrow. Has your guts twisting, chest tight. Then, (solace) a sigh— surly— oozes across the crackling speaker. 

“Where are you?” 

The question reminds you why you called in the first place. That you’re sopping up dirty rainwater with your boots on the outskirts of town, outside some seedy bar you came to, to drown your demons (him) in burnt amber. A thunderbolt ripples across the pitch aether, zagging electric chalky across the swollen plumes. All at once, you…

Crumble. 

“I’m, um. Ah…” your chin quivers. You nod, “I’m here. At a, um. At a bar. Outside a bar.”

“Which bar? Who are you with?” 

The slew of questions nearly makes you laugh. 

The concern, there, throttles you and the tension in your shoulders like you expected anything less. You did. And you would laugh if hearing his voice, for the first time in months, wasn’t a sobering maelstrom on your psyche. Despite the way your tongue feels sticky, and useless, like it's caught on the roof of your mouth, you clear your throat.

“Um. It’s called, ah— Southbound,” your eyes slip shut. The wobble at your feet clicks in your knees. “I came with a— with a coworker. But I can’t find her. And I just— sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I got, um. I’m… sorry.”

You set your teeth and stare down at the rainwater speckling the toes of your boots. Gusting against your bare legs, and you don’t realize you’ve been hanging onto the phone with both hands cupped, like a lifeline, until his voice comes through.

“Y’alright?”

He sounds a little more awake. No doubt at the quiver in your tone. The way you can’t cohesively suture the words together. You roll forward on your toes. It’s a miscalculated motion on your part, because you nearly topple forward. 

“No. Yeah. M’really— um. I’m a little, um. Drunk. I think. So—“ you slur. Take a breath. “No. I don’t—“

The words come out small. Tired. There’s a crack in your voice, like you’re on the edge of keeling over the precipice. You feel it in the burn at the back of your eyes, raw in your sinuses, when you admit, softly, “…I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take another breath, and feel it against the enamel of your teeth. Expect the sear of ice. Your fingers feel strained on your phone. Crushing. Taut. You think about his next words before he says them. Before the surly crackle from the other end of the line hits you, imagine it— call an uber. 

I’ll call you an uber, at best. At worst…

You swallow. The line crackles again.

“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

[megdchristopher]

Inks! I made some adjustments from the pencils - the cat king was already represented by the lily and I didn’t like the composition on the cat, so I swapped the cat for a crow. I also changed Charles’s pose to be less stiff and oafish. I’m thinking about adding Crystal’s memory orbs somewhere. We’ll see what comes up when I fill in the background.

Thanks for all the love on the pencil sketch! I’ll drop a high res version of this on my Ko-Fi page for anyone who wants to try their hand at coloring it for fun. Hopefully it won’t take me a month to do my version.

[randomtable]

a table of odd magic items that may or may not be useful

“…the GM will only tell you something interesting—it’s on you to make it useful.” — Dungeon World

1d20 Magical Items of Mild Utility

A doorknob that can be easily affixed to any door by simply holding it on for about thirty seconds. Once affixed, it permanently transforms into an ordinary doorknob and lock, to which you have the key.

The Shaker of Infinite Salt

A pencil that significantly improves the user’s penmanship when writing with it.

An orb containing a very small pocket dimension, into which one can transfer their familiar so that it may safely rest.

A palm-sized stone figurine of a shark, which will bite any fingers that come near its mouth.

Self-Fluffing Pillow

Watch that shows you what time it was the last time you looked at the watch, instead of what time it is now.

Piece of string that, when tied around your finger, actually helps you remember to do that thing.

Temporary Scissors: They can only cut the normal things you’d expect from a pair of scissors, but if you hold the cut pieces together tightly they will magically re-form into a whole, as though they’d never been cut.

Robes that make the wearer an inch or so taller.

Magic Eraser (erases pencil, ink and crayon!)

Hand-sized stone that, when thrown, always lands 5 feet in front of your intended target—whether your aim is perfect or abysmal.

A bucket that transforms any liquid poured into it into seawater.

A bar of soap that temporarily changes the color of anything washed with it. The color is random, and changes each time the bar is used (1d6: 1: Red, 2: Orange, 3: Yellow, 4: Green, 5: Blue, 6: Purple). The color lasts one day.

Goggles of Shrimp-Color Vision

A ring with a single very round stone. When you say the magic word the stone pops out and transforms into a bowling ball. It turns back into a small stone after 2d4 hours and must be manually returned to the ring before it can be used again.

Boots that produce an animal sound of your choice when you jump up and do a jaunty little bell-kick while wearing them.

A small glass bottle that, when filled with water, appears instead to be full of a swirling, shimmering potion.

A quiet trumpet.

A knife that can only cut sandwiches. It is up to the GM’s discretion what does and does not count as a sandwich for this enchantment, but the rules are consistent.

[chesirecatsmile]

brainrot inspired by the one video of daniel in the static bike

!

the morning light streams in through the windows, drilling into the throbbing pain in max’s temples as it pulls him away from sleep. he’s way too hot and face down on the pillows and oh god, he might throw up if he attempts to get up.

he opens one eye and only sees a side table, his own phone plugged in and a clock showing 10:30. if he tries hard enough he can hear the faint sound of music and someone else’s steady breathing.

his eyebrows furrow as he tries to turn around without puking his brains out. once he’s flat on his back he opens an eye slowly and then the other. it takes less than a second to notice someone, a man, on a static bike in front of the bed.

“the fuck?” he says, his throat fucked up and sticky. “where am i?” he coughs and closes his eyes again, head falling back into the pillows.

the man doesn't answer, max hears the static bike turn on, digging into his temples. he squeezes his eyes shut and begs for it to stop, groaning when it only speeds up.

“morning,” he hears.

his eyes snap open in a gasp. he looks forward and actually looks at the man, shirtless in a static bike and holding two tennis balls. his silhouette is artistic against the sunlight as max barely makes out a smile from his face.

max coughs before he speaks, “hello?” he angles his head up a bit to get a look at the guy's face.

much of last night is a bit of a blur, but the longer he’s conscious, the more he remembers. he didn't intend to take anyone home, just needed a party, loud music, a chance to feel free in a city that he doesn't belong to.

he briefly remembers running into a guy with an absolutely gorgeous face in the hallway to the bathroom, which immediately turned to making out with him, first in the hallway, then on the dance floor, then in the cab, and finally– the details are pretty fuzzy, but he doesn't remember anything being unpleasant, and he isn’t sore or in pain in any ways that matter, anyway.

he looks at the guy, he’s all smooth lines and colourful ink, big smiles and curly hair. he takes his headphones out and puts them in their case, licking his lips as he looks at max, and he wants to gloat and how good of a job he did.

fucking score, he thinks in congratulations. usually the people he brings home from the club look great through tequila daze in the saturated neon lights, but aren’t too good in the morning sun. if anything though, this guy might be even cuter in the daylight. amazing.

“you feel okay?” he says, playing with the tennis balls in his hand, making something stir in max’s belly.

“yeah,” max groans. he rubs his temples with his eyes closed. “i think i forgot your name.”

the guy laughs, gets off the bike and stretches, his whole body twisting in a delicious way max is way too hungover to even think about. “that hurts my feelings, man.” he says, pads over to his kitchen, which is only a few feet from the bed. “it’s daniel.”

oh, max remembers now. remembers being wrapped around him and moaning his name. “yeah, sorry.”

daniel smiles at him again. “coffee?” he’s set to work and getting the pot ready as max sits up, nearly losing the blanket as it slips from him.

daniel’s all toned, gorgeous tan skin, a face that’s like max’s wettest dreams. even a bit ragged from the hangover, he’s still floored and he feels himself blush. his only saving grace is that daniel is also turning eight shades of red as he looks at him.

“i– i don't really…” he scrunches his mouth and rubs his hands on his face as he struggles to think, “i don’t like coffee, do you have anything else?”

daniel doesn’t miss a beat. “i have tea, if you'd prefer. green or black. does your head hurt?” he presses down on the french press and sets on re-filling the kettle.

“black is fine if– if i can have ice with it?” max bites his bottom lip and watches daniel’s back as he rummages through a cupboard to find two mugs and a teabag for max.

max looks around to find his clothes, his eyes betraying him again and staring at daniel shirtless instead.

“i hope i’m not too much of a disappointment in the light of day.” daniel says, turning around to face max, his eyes fixated on max’s chest as he struggles to cover himself.

max knows damn well daniel doesn’t mean that. that man is like a dream come true, all smiles and big eyes, sex hair and shorts riding down his hips. his words land just as he intends though. max locks eyes with him and rakes them over his body again. he really wants to stand up and put daniel against the countertop but he holds himself back.

“you’re great, i just….” he makes a sound in the back of his throat, hand flying to his face. he peeks between his fingers at daniel. “it’s the first time i– with a guy…” daniel stands a bit straighter as his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“oh wow,” daniel says, smiling, “you seemed to know what you were doing.”

max laughs, his face hot and he knows it’s spreading down his chest. it seems to pull daniel into it as well. his laugh is even better than what max had expected, so contagious and genuine. max wonders if it was the laugh that drew him in to begin with.

“really?” their eyes met for a moment, the silence spreading out between them with an almost magnetic energy. just then the kettle shakes in its pot, yanking max out of the dreamy instant.

daniel turns it off and pour the steaming water over the tea bag for max. his eyes follow as max stands up, revealing his entire naked body as he hurries to put his underwear on over his hips. max can’t stand the heat of daniel’s eyes so he looks away as he puts his jans on and when he looks back daniel is bent over the freezer looking for some ice cubes.

he wonders how he got that lucky as he watches daniel place two ice cubes in his tea and then stir it one last time. “hope this is okay.” he says, motioning max to a barstool. “come here.”

he pads to the kitchen, he’s nearly the same height as daniel, though he’s broader. daniel passes him the overfull mug, and they fill the space of the little kitchen comfortably. their fingertips brush as the cup is transferred and somehow, it feels more intimate than the sex they had last night. daniel’s smile is so bright, his cheeks dipping into cute dimples. max hates to say it, but he’s very charmed.

“it’s totally fine if you regret this. hell, it’s the first time i get on with a straight guy,” daniel says, max can’t tell if he’s serious or not. they stare at each other for a long second and max can feel himself blushing under daniel’s eyes again.

“oh, i–” he says, drinking from his cup. “i’m not straight… i just have never…” he gestures between the two of them and daniel snickers. “i only regret not remembering everything.” he takes a deep breath, “i remember the kissing, and– and the car…”

the car. memory floods into max’s mind, still hazy and watered down, but he now remembers being all over daniel in the backseat, more hands than seemed possible for just two people. he remembers pulling daniel free of his jeans and sinking his mouth over him...yeah, it had been a good car ride. the problem is all the shots they had before, and after. and in between.

“and then… i don't know.” max bites his bottom lip and avoids daniel’s eyes. he can hear daniel’s smile before he sees it.

“it was great. you have nothing to be ashamed of.” he says and max’s eyes dart up again when they focus on daniel’s chest for too long.

“thank god,” he takes a sip from his drink. watching daniel’s face as he looks like he’s thinking hard.

“listen, you don't have to stay. we both know how these things go. you’re welcome to, but if you want to escape, i accept any excuse. we had a great time. you owe me nothing.” he lets out at once and sits down his coffee mug and leans back against the counter.

max’s eyes take a second to focus back from daniel’s body. daniel’s kicking him out. and he knows it’s a one night stand and he shouldn't feel weird about it, barely knowing him. but it’s there.

“daniel,” his voice is tentative, his head low and shoulders down, “do you want me to go?” daniel’s eyes flicker up, and for the first time max notices that they are almost golden in the sunlight.

“no.” daniel says softly, and max doesn't think twice as he sets his own mug down and slides closer to daniel with newfound confidence. making his breath hitch.

“then, maybe I can stay? and maybe, if you feel like it..." his fingertips brush against daniel’s arm and almost without blinking, daniel places his hand on his neck, sliding it back and up through his hair. “we could fill in some of those gaps?”

as daniel’s chest presses against his, noses brushing against one another, max smiles, a fluttering in his chest making it all the way to his toes. daniel’s even gorgeous from up close.

“sounds like a plan,” daniel kisses him then, softly, as if he’s trying to savour his mouth, and his hand cups max’s cheek sweetly. it’s far better than any fiery, lustful kiss max remembers they shared during the night. it says more than max can even comprehend.

when max pulls back, he takes in daniel’s face for a moment, a smile pulling beautifully at his lips. max feels his blush climb again and he tries to looks away, but daniel is holding his head in place.

“looks like you’re mine for the day.” daniel says, leaning forward to smile against max’s mouth.

my ao3!

[genderqueerdykes]

Ditch Etsy for Good: A Disabled Etsy Seller's Experience

i started my Etsy store in August of 2022. I was in desperate need of income at the time, as I am disabled, and waiting for my full disability payments to come through. I currently make $245/month off of a general assistance program that's meant to "help" while you're waiting for those payments.

I needed, at the time, $900/month for my studio apartment, because I was on a month-to-month lease, and could not re-new it, as I was the secondary renter, and my abusive ex whom I could not contact was the primary renter. They needed his signature to renew the lease, or else I was on month-to-month status, which meant they could increase my rent to whatever price they saw fit at any point.

I was struggling to stay alive. I had a bunch of kandi supplies I had gathered over the years, pony beads, string, all that kind of stuff. So i accrued some extra supplies to make other types of necklaces and chokers. Keep in mind my level of poverty, and the level of inflation in 2022. I was having to accrue supplies secondhand, from thrift stores. Everything I bought and sold was upcycled, save for the few times I could afford things to fill in the gaps from craft stores.

After I gathered supplies, I went to work. I spent countless hours making all types of jewelry. Not really sleeping. Just countless hours of stringing beads, if I woke up in the middle of the night from a bad dream or stress about homelessness, I would go back to work. I've been homeless before. Several times. Never lived on the street or in a shelter, but I have lived in hotels, cars, crashed on couches and have run from getting kicked out for making little money endless times.

I drank a lot of coffee and ate very little. Eating consumed time, time that I didn't have. Once I was done making things, it was time to photograph every. single. item., then edit them, and upload them to Etsy. I had to create listings for each individual item, all of which cost $0.20 to create, and again to renew when it ran out in 3 months if not purchased. There was already a start-up cost.

Shipping made my life a nightmare. Etsy charged me for each and every single label. I tried free shipping at first, as it's a huge draw for customers, but labels were around $3.69 from my state to the mainland United States at the time, creeping ever closer to $4. For anywhere else it would easily come to $10 or more, international shipping was easily $20 - $40. Even if the customer paid for shipping I still had to go through the process of purchasing a label.

This didn't account for the fact that I had to purchase printer, ink and paper at some point to keep printing these labels. Ink is wildly expensive and your cartridges run out faster than they should. They are rigged to flag as empty when they're not. This also does not account for ink and paper lost when the printer does something in error, which is often. The office at my apartment complex was willing to print labels and packing slips for me for a while, but they cut me off after a few months.

The biggest kick in the teeth was the processing time for my payments. Because I shipped my first few orders without tracking labels. Etsy put a hold on my money for the next 3 months. They would take a random amount of time to process each payment. I could never figure out the schedule. My money would sometimes take days or weeks to arrive when I set Etsy to a "daily" payment schedule. It was torture. I was sweating over not having money constantly, and missing payment deadlines left and right.

I was getting orders at every hour of the day. I didn't "clock out" of this job. I had to change the notification sound of the Etsy Seller app on my phone because when I heard it, I would panic. I wasn't excited, I was filled with dread. It was never ending, and I was constantly stressed about getting orders out on time. I never had time to rest. I didn't get days off. I was on the job 24/7. Unless you completely uninstall the Etsy app and refuse to check it fora while, you can't really clock out of this job.

This isn't even touching the fact that Etsy also takes a cut out of every single sale you make, meaning you have to jack up your prices wildly either to make free shipping reasonable so you're not losing money on each sale, or you have to play a dance of figuring out what the best balance between shipping and item costs are, which is time consuming. It's a lot of math and comparing against your niche's market.

Etsy has an ads feature, which you must again pay for, where they will run ads for your products in random banner ads and whatnot. You are charged if one customer clicks the ad, not purchases something, meaning this is a complete fucking scam. The minimum is $1/day and you are forced to subscribe monthly. You can cancel at any point, but sometimes it takes a full day for this to cancellation to go through. The Etsy Ads feature sucks ass. I received exactly 2 orders through their service and kept it on for a few weeks here and there. It's horrid. You do not receive a significant enough boost in traffic to make the investment worth it. Also consider how many people use adblockers these days. This isn't hard to see.

The amount of time you have to spend promoting and boosting your own shop, buying supplies, creating and photographic products, uploading them to the website, and everything else in between is not worth the amount of money you make. You do not turn a profit unless you are selling very high end products like fine jewelry and antiques. Anyone else in the bottom rungs loses money through one avenue or another, Etsy finds ways to make the entire process draining and expensive for the seller.

The also will not provide you a 1099 document to file your taxes for your earned income unless you have made over $25,000 in one year on Etsy, which is literally impossible unless you make, as I said, fine jewelry. The average Etsy seller does not make this much in one year. We do not make a liveable wage, yet Etsy pretends like we do.

I didn't realize how draining it was to run this store until I put it in vacation mode. I'm shutting it down as soon as I'm able to. I could not handle the pressure of orders coming in in the middle of the night. I could not handle the pressure of not being able to remember which bracelets I could wear, and which ones were up on the store. Or which ones I could give to friends freely without having to issue someone a refund because I made a mistake. The worry of sending the wrong customer the wrong product was constantly on my mind. Every review that came in made me scared I had fucked up or provided an inferior product. I was distraught, broken and scared.

Now I'm much more free. The piddly jackshit amount of income I made was not worth it at all. I don't think I made back the cost of supplies and I definitely was never compensated for the sheer amount of labor I put into my products and orders. Etsy just kept kicking me while I was down and now that they have made it so that you are unable to file a class action lawsuit against them, they are only becoming more tyrannical.

Etsy does not care about their small sellers. They only care about the big cash cows who bring in big views and line Etsy's pockets with the Etsy Ads program. If you're too poor too keep up they'll chew you up and spit you out. Fuck Etsy. Fuck the lack of respect for their sellers. Fuck them for holding my money randomly for 3 months because I didn't know tracking labels were REQUIRED in their eyes. Fuck Etsy for never letting me know when I was getting paid, and for paying me on such an irregular schedule. Fuck Etsy for the fucked up fees and expensive shipping labels.

Fuck Etsy for everything. Let them go. Cut the cord. Navigate to Ko-Fi or somewhere else. Let this horrid site fucking die.

[mrpenguinpants]

Telling genshin boys about Orpheus and Eurydice and asking them if they’d look back

My Faint Magnolia

— He wonders how many times he's heard you tell this story, and how many more he'll force you to recite.

— Dottore / Zandik

White magnolia flowers symbolize purity and perfection. [Masterlist]

I read one Wiki page so don't yell at me if I got anything wrong. Tbh, I don't really like how this fic turned out but it's been sitting in my drafts for years.

"The musician and prophet Orpheus fell in love with the beautiful Eurydice, only for her to die shortly after. Thus, he journeyed into the Underworld to plead with Hades to bring his beloved back. His wish was granted - but on the condition that he must not look back at Eurydice until they were both back in the land of the living. But Orpheus couldn't resist one glance, and Eurydice was lost to him forever."

"Fascinating. The seventh retelling adds to the suspense."

"Boo, you're no fun. Minus ten points," he hears you whine. The sounds of a book being tossed carelessly aside as ink-stained papers filled with formulas slide forward and brush against the sleeves of his arm. All are pushed away to allow you to sprawl your upper body over the desk so you can mope and continue to avoid doing any actual work. He can feel your gaze on him, patiently waiting for him to look up from his notes and give you attention, yet he continues to write making you huff in annoyance.

You're both supposed to be working on your assignments, so he has excellent reason to keep ignoring you to focus on his work. If anything, he should be annoyed at you, and he is, but it's a testament to how much he's come to tolerate you that he doesn't immediately get up and leave. Or deal with you in another, less unsavory way. Instead, he flips back through the pages of his notebook. A list of collected components of spare parts of a vast machine and smaller notes of their possible working principles and manufacturing processes. Diagrams and sketches of their possible construction and engines filled with footnotes and annotations. Not all of them are in his writing. He wouldn't dare use that atrocious shade of yellow that you seem to love so much.

"Can't we do anything else? I'm bored out of my minddd," you stretch the words out, effectively cutting his concentration in half with nothing but the sound of your voice. He can feel his eye twitch and his pencil's wood creaking from the pressure he's slowly exerting onto it. Your voice is muffled, which means you haven't picked yourself off the table yet, probably hunched over with your cheek against the table that will take another hour for you to pry yourself back up again. He can't wait for his future headache with your complaints about back problems, even though you're killing your own spine and his head. The sound of a pencil rolling back and forth fills the silence, and that's the last of his patience. He slams his notebook down, the pencil bouncing and dropping onto the floor, and the clattering of wood causes his frown to etch deeper. He re-opens his notebook to the page of the Khaenri'ahn machines found in Devantaka Mountain. There's an annoying doodle of a Ruin Hunter in the corner mocking him right back.

"Work."

His clipped voice has you quiet down. It's a good thing you have some sense of preservation and know that even though he indulges you frequently, there are only so many distractions he will let slip through. But the resounding sound of a chair scraping against the floor, papers being shuffled, and your footsteps tell him you're equally frustrated. He thinks he hears you mutter "rigid oaf" under your breath as your footsteps grow fainter. The silence should put him at ease, but it only serves to irate him further since you're the one who's causing him trouble when he just wants to work in peace and quiet. The worst thing about this situation is that he knows you'll refuse to talk to him unless he apologizes first for something he hasn't done wrong. But alas.

He lets out a deep sigh that sounds twice his age. Puspa Café should still be open at this time. If he leaves now, he can still catch up to you. With a sweep of the arm, he quickly gathers his papers haphazardly but still slides them into their rightful places between the meticulous sections of his notebook.

"Would you look back?"

He pauses when your voice sounds behind him unexpectedly. You sound a mixture of cheeky and skeptical, but the drumming of your fingertips against the back of his chair tells him that you are genuinely curious about his response. Maybe even a bit nervous to ask him such a ridiculous question too.

"The fatal flaw of Orpheus is he never stopped to consider the psychological cost of Hade's offer. To think "Do not look back" is an impossible sentence to think without simultaneously speaking the opposite. Every time you repeat, "I must not look back," you are forced to say: "Look back." But that is the weakness of the human mind," is the answer he supplies. He thumbs at the edges of his notebook, worn from all the years he's opened it but still in pristine condition. He doesn't like his things to be dirty. It makes his skin crawl.

"What? Are you above the human mind now? So you wouldn't be tempted at all?" you say with a hint of dumbfoundedness. He's sure you think that he won't give you an actual answer.

"No."

His answer is short but firm. He won't look back. He won't be Orpheus and lose his Eurydice so easily to temptation. His finger moves and tips the cover open, papers flipping until they stop in the middle of the book. Frantic scribbles of ink of his research on the rare disease of Elezar. He thumbs the page's corner until it creases.

"Hey, look at me."

The next page is on segments.

"Why won't you look at me."

The final page is on dreams.

""Please look at me Zandik."

He closes the notebook.

"I thought Orpheus couldn't hear Eurdicye."

He hears you laugh at his unempathetic reply. It's a hallow imitation. Then silence. It always ends like this. His mind dangling what he needs most only to take it away, making him question if you are even still there behind him. Just one look. Just one look to confirm what's behind him but he won't. He won't be a fool like Orpheus. Not until he's finished. So he does what he always has, removes any option he hates, and creates his own means.

+

He blinks awake slowly. The white ceiling of his laboratory stares at him back and the first thing his mind registers is that it's cold. His hand automatically moves to his side only to meet air. That's right, you're not here anymore. You haven't been here for years. The manifestation of the withering caused dark hardened scales to grow across your limbs. Slowly numbing the affected areas until you couldn't walk anymore, which progressed into fatigue and progressive nerve damage. Your last days were spent asleep in a coma surrounded by as many Nilotpala Lotuses as he could find. He closes his eyes again, but the sound of the heavy steel door grates against his nerves before he has the time to truly relax.

"You know you'll never succeed. You know why. Even if this one doesn't die, it won't be the same."

The voice isn't right. Another failure.

Dottore lifts his head to see your segment standing in front of him. That's correct. He can already see the beginnings of scales on the segment's arms. It's funny. He is capable of creating physical carbon copy segments of himself from different stages of his life and yet you, the outlier, it's never the same. A body is made, and a piece of his memories of you acts as the brain, but it's never the same. He knows why. It's because his memories of you are dying. His dreams are getting shorter, and fuzzier around the edges. He used to dream of seeing you, holding you, and he knows the next time he dreams of you, he may not hear your voice anymore. His own segment thoughts echo in his mind. Don't you think this is a waste of materials and time? It's time to give up. They don't understand, they can't dream.

He won't look back because he knows that as soon as he does, he will never dream of you again. Even if the next dream takes away your voice, the next takes away your presence, until he's left with a void of nothing. Even then, he won't look back. He has only dreamed of you every single night, regardless of anything. These are the only things he has left of you. Everything else was taken, stolen, or burnt. He isn't sure if the person he's constantly dreaming of now is actually you or a figment of his imagination that's begging to be free. But he won't let you go.

My doleful aria, tell me that story again tonight.